Chapter 11
Eleven
May faded into June, and the tension in Granville was as thick as the humidity that settled like a wet blanket on the small town, making its annual announcement of summer’s return to northwestern Rhode Island.
Over picket fences, at the post office, in the shops along Main Street, at the counter at Miss Molly’s, and at the car dealership on the outskirts of town, people speculated nervously about who among them was the monster.
That chafing kept Michael Westbury awake at night, waiting to hear that one of the kids in his town had reached her limit, had gone out alone, and had been attacked by a predator who was waiting for the chafe to become unbearable.
With the investigation stalled, his officers, with backup from the state police and FBI, could only watch. And wait.
A court order had compelled Gleason’s to turn over its list of men who special-ordered larger-sized shoes.
The list had yielded four possible suspects, but each had been ruled out.
One was in his sixties and didn’t fit the profile.
Another had been out of the country when two of the rapes occurred.
The other two men had solid alibis. The few names Brian and Carly had given him from their yearbooks hadn’t panned out, either.
Most of them lived out of state, one had died, and another was crippled with multiple sclerosis.
Michael had officers patrolling everywhere kids gathered in the summertime—Columbia Park, the town common, the beach at the lake, the movie theater, and the bowling alley. If they saw a girl walking alone on a town road, they’d been instructed to offer her a ride home.
As the weeks passed, Michael noticed people losing the initial burst of interest that came with big news in a small town.
They’d talked a blue streak about it and had finally run out of steam on the subject.
He was concerned that the first wave of panic had abated, and folks had relaxed a bit.
He didn’t want them relaxed. He wanted them worried and afraid so they’d be vigilant.
If they were in fact dealing with an anniversary perp, he had six more months left in 2010.
He was probably high on the success of the first half of the year and enjoying the goose chase he was leading law enforcement on.
The task force believed he would strike again before the year was out.
So while others in his town relaxed, Michael didn’t.
The heat was stifling, the tension debilitating, the watching tedious. But the waiting . . . The waiting was hell.
Carly loved to clap. Joining in a round of applause gave her the feeling, even for the briefest of moments, that she was just like the other people in the bleachers expressing their approval of her niece Zoe’s strikeout.
Zoe’s ponytail of auburn curls—the same curls all the Holbrook women had—was pulled through the back of her ball cap, and her long legs looked even longer in white baseball pants as she prowled around the pitcher’s mound.
“I keep hoping she’ll start acting like a girl one of these days,” Carly’s sister Cate muttered as they watched Zoe strike out the side.
With a delighted wave to her family in the stands, Zoe pranced into the dugout full of boys.
“She’s all girl, and the boys love her,” Carly’s mother Carol said, defending her granddaughter.
“They love her fastball,” Cate said.
Carly smiled at the old debate. Zoe had insisted on joining Little League as a six-year-old and had played every year since without any regard for the fact that she was the only girl in the league. Now, at fourteen, she was a star in the summer Sandlot League.
With a huge smile on his face, Cate’s husband, Tom Murphy, climbed the bleachers to where they were sitting. “Did you see that? Struck out the side! That’s my girl.”
Embarrassed by his effusiveness, Cate tugged him down next to her and told him to hush. “Everyone’s looking at you,” she whispered.
“So what?”
Their exchange amused Carly. Tom was a big teddy bear of a man who loved his wife and kids passionately and didn’t care who knew it. Carly was struck with a familiar pang of envy over her sister’s happy marriage and beautiful family.
“Dad, can we go to the concession stand?” asked ten-year-old Steve.
“Sure, let’s go,” Tom said.
“No more soda,” Cate called after them. “And bring something for Lilly.”
Tom raised a hand to let his wife know he had heard her.
Six-year-old Lilly was curled up in one of her favorite places—Carly’s lap.
Carly tickled the girl and delighted in the belly laugh she was rewarded with.
“There’s Auntie Caren,” Lilly cried, dashing off to meet her cousins.
Looking frazzled, Caren made her way from the parking lot with four-year-old Justin and two-year-old Julia in tow.
Carly watched Lilly take Julia’s hand and lead her to the bleachers. Justin and Julia gunned for Carly’s lap, and she wrapped her arms around them.
Lilly ceded her coveted spot to her younger cousins and plopped down next to Carly with a long-suffering sigh.
Carly buried her nose in Julia’s fragrant blond curls, wallowing in the sweet scent of baby shampoo.
“What’s the score?” Caren asked.
“Six nothing, us,” Cate replied. “You just missed Zoe striking out the side.”
“Damn!” Caren said.
“Damn!” Julia repeated, and the adults cracked up.
“She’s like a parrot lately.” Caren poked her daughter’s ribs playfully. “She couldn’t decide what dress she wanted to wear, which is why we’re late.”
“Pretty dress,” Julia said.
“Very pretty,” Carol agreed, reaching for the child. “Tell Auntie Carly she has to share you with Grammy.”
Carly tightened her hold on Julia, and the girl’s peals of laughter delighted her as she handed Julia over to her grandmother.
“Look!” Justin cried. “Zoe’s up!”
“Come on, Zoe!” the others hollered.
Carly clapped Justin’s pudgy hands together while they watched Zoe patiently wait for her pitch.
She had worked the pitcher to a full count when she finally connected, sending the ball deep into left field.
Two runs scored as she rounded the bases and barreled into the second baseman, sliding in just ahead of the throw from left.
“Mother of God,” Cate groaned, hiding behind her hands.
With a huge smile on her face, Zoe leaped to her feet and shook a victorious fist at the dugout where her teammates were celebrating. The other team’s second baseman was still flat on his back in the dirt.
Watching Zoe, so tall and lovely, so full of life, filled Carly’s heart to overflowing, and for once, she was perfectly content.
Carly was walking with her mother to Cate’s house for a cookout after the game when her cell phone chimed to indicate a new text message.
A week earlier, she had finally caved in to pleas from Chief Westbury and her parents and had gotten the phone, which included a GPS device.
The thought that she might one day need to be located was terrifying, so she tried not to think about it.
She flipped it open to read the latest message from the chief.
“Where R U?” His use of teen message lingo never failed to amuse her.
“With my mama,” she replied.
“Just checking.”
“Relax,” she wrote back.
“Is that Michael?” Carol asked.
Carly rolled her eyes and nodded.
“He’s worried about you. We all are.”
Carly hooked her arm through her mother’s.
Carol stopped walking and turned to study her daughter. “You’re not sleeping well, are you? You look tired.”
Carly shrugged in reply.
“I haven’t been sleeping too well myself. Are you sure we can’t convince you to come home until this is over?”
With a smirk, Carly shook her head.
“I know, I know. We threatened to kick you out, and now we’re begging you to come home. I see the irony, don’t worry.”
The party was in full swing by the time they arrived at Cate’s house. Caren’s husband Neil had come straight from work and was pushing Justin and Julia on the swings. He waved hello when Carly and her mother came in through the back gate.
Carly’s dad joined them a short time later after playing golf with some friends.
With a cell phone pressed to her ear, Zoe came bursting through the sliding glass door that led to the deck.
She had showered and changed into a denim skirt and tank top.
Carly put her arm around her niece, pressed a kiss to her wet curls, and was startled to notice the mascara and eye shadow she was wearing.
Zoe closed her phone and caught Carly looking at her eyes.
“How does it look?” Zoe asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
Carly gave her a thumbs up.
Zoe kissed her aunt’s cheek and said, “Don’t tell my mom.” As Zoe raced off, Carly decided Cate would be thrilled to see her tomboy daughter wearing makeup.
They ate, played a cutthroat game of croquet with the kids, and were toasting marshmallows over the outdoor fireplace when a group of Zoe’s girlfriends came into the yard through the gate.
“Mom!” she called. “Can I go to the movies?”
“How’re you getting there?”
“Walking?”
“No way!” Tom bellowed. “I’ll drive you.”
“But Dad . . .”
“Nonnegotiable, Zoe Ann. We’ve talked about this.”
Zoe kicked at the grass. “Sucks. I’m a sophomore now, you know.”
“You’re not getting any help from us, baby girl,” Steve Holbrook said, kissing his granddaughter’s forehead. “We’re on your dad’s side.”
“It’s a conspiracy,” Zoe said with a good-natured grin. She never stayed mad for long.
“Let me get my keys,” Tom said. “You ladies tell your parents where you’re going and that I’m driving both ways.”
“Okay, Mr. Murphy,” they said in a girlish chorus.
After Tom left with the girls, Caren said, “I feel sorry for them.”
“We all do,” Carol said. “It’s a terrible way for everyone to have to live.”
“Even after this guy is caught, we’ll all be much more cautious than we used to be,” Caren’s husband Neil said. He had kicked off the boots he wore to work at the construction company he co-owned with his brothers. They had teased him earlier about his mid-shin tan line.
“Luckily the younger kids won’t know what they’re missing out on because they’ll never have the freedom Zoe’s had,” Cate said. “It’s been hard clipping her wings just as she was starting to spread them.”
“Whatever it takes to keep her safe,” Steve said.
Carly was saddened by the conversation. Until the killer was caught, her nieces and nephews wouldn’t know the simple pleasure of a walk on the beach in the moonlight or a kiss under the willow tree.
The man they were all afraid of had done much more than kill and terrorize young people.
He had forever altered Granville’s small-town fabric.