Chapter Sixteen
“I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Ben looked across the desk at Harris Finch. The police chief rubbed his eyes. He looked exhausted.
“I thought you guys brought Titus Durham in this morning,” said Ben.
“We did bring him in,” Finch replied. “In fact, he’s still here. But not for long now.”
Ben shook his head. “If he’s here, then who killed Steven Settles?”
“That’s what we’d like to know,” the officer said. He looked at Ben with a tired expression.
“What?” said Ben. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Mr. Hodge, what can you tell me about these?”
Finch pushed something across the desk to Ben. It was a large envelope. Ben took it and opened it, emptying the contents out onto the desk. It was a pile of newspaper clippings. Ben recognized them immediately.
“Where did you get these?” he asked in disbelief.
“Someone mailed them to the station,” Finch answered. “They arrived this afternoon.”
Ben stared at the clippings. It wasn’t possible that they were there. They were sitting in the shoebox in his bedroom. He was certain of it.
“Is it true that you and Mr. Middleman were—partners?” asked the officer.
Ben nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly.
Finch leaned forward. “One of my men said he spoke to you at the funeral of Paul Mickerley,” he said. “He said you asked him for directions to the old cemetery.”
“I just asked him where it was,” Ben said wearily.
The chief nodded. “That doesn’t explain why you were there in the first place,” he said. “You didn’t know the boy.”
Ben sighed. “I told you,” he said. “Titus told me to go to the funeral. No, I didn’t know Paul Mickerley.”
“You just went because this man you suspected of killing Wallace Blackwood told you to?” said the officer.
“I didn’t suspect him then,” Ben said defensively. “It wasn’t until after I saw the name on the gravestone.”
“Right,” Finch said. “The gravestone. I checked that out too. There’s no stone for anyone called Wallace Blackwood up there. The stone the Mickerley boy was found leaning against was too faded to read.”
“No,” Ben said. “I saw it. I read the name. It was Wallace Pyle Blackwood. I read it plain as day.”
The officer handed Ben another piece of paper.
“What’s this?” asked Ben, looking at it.
“The death certificate for Wallace Pyle Blackwood,” the chief informed him. “December 21, 1979. He died of congestive heart failure. He wasn’t murdered, by Mr. Durham or anyone else.”
Ben read over the certificate. It confirmed what Finch had just told him.
“Mr. Hodge, I’m going to ask you again, what do you know about the deaths of Paul Mickerley and Steven Settles?”
“Just what I already told you,” replied Ben.
Chief Finch looked at him for a long time, not speaking. Ben sat in his chair, staring at the pile of newspaper clippings and the death certificate for Wallace Blackwood.
“You know what I think?” the officer said finally.
Ben looked up. Finch was eyeing him coldly. “I think what happened to you and Mr. Middleman did something to you. I think you came here to run away from it, but instead of getting away you came face-to-face with your demons. Then I think you read Wallace Blackwood’s book and you got some funny ideas. That’s what I think.”
“I would never do something like that,” Ben said.
The chief nodded. “Sometimes we do things we never thought we would,” he said. “Especially when we’re not in our right minds.”
Ben looked at him and laughed. “You think I’m crazy?” he said.
“All I’m saying is that sometimes our minds do strange things to us,” answered Finch.
“I didn’t kill Paul Mickerley and Steven Settles,” Ben told him. “For Christ’s sake, I’m the one who helped find Steven.”
“I didn’t say you’re the one who did it,” the officer said. “I’m saying you seem to know an awful lot about it, and there are a lot of things that don’t make sense here.”
“I told you what happened,” said Ben. “Titus Durham is the one you should be talking to.”
“Maybe so,” Chief Finch said. “All the same, I’m going to keep you here tonight while we check a few details.”
“What?” Ben exclaimed. “You can’t just keep me here.”
“I could book you on suspicion of murder,” the officer told him. “But I’d prefer not to. Now, you can stay here voluntarily or we can do it the hard way. It’s up to you.”
Ben started to protest, then stopped. He knew that anything he said would just make him appear guilty. The best thing to do, he told himself, was to cooperate.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay.”
Finch nodded. “Thank you,” he said, standing up. “Why don’t you come with me.”
Ben stood up. The chief motioned for him to walk in front of him. He followed behind as Ben walked down a short hallway to another door. Finch took a key from the ring on his belt and slipped it into the lock. He turned the key and the door opened onto another hallway. This one contained cells, two on each side.
“It’s not the Hilton,” said Finch as he opened one of the cells, “but I think you’ll be all right for the night. I’ll be in to check on you later.”
Ben entered the cell and the officer slid the door shut again, locking it. When Finch had left, he turned and surveyed his accommodations for the night. The cell contained very little—a bed, a sink, and an exposed toilet. Ben went to the bed and sat down, the springs groaning wearily.
How had this happened? How had he ended up in jail when Titus was free? All he’d done was try to stop the killings. But now Steven was dead too. In the rush of the night’s events, that realization hadn’t even had time to sink in. Now he thought about the little boy, his head torn from his body. What kind of monster could do such a thing?
He began to cry. Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe somehow he was responsible for everything that was happening. Harris Finch had looked at him the way he would look at a wild animal that couldn’t help itself. Was that what he had become?
No, he told himself. No, it isn’t possible. He knew he hadn’t killed Paul Mickerley or Steven Settles. Someone else had. The same person who had sent the newspaper clippings to the police. Titus Durham. But how would Titus have known about the clippings to begin with?
He must have gotten into the house, Ben thought. The same way he got into the library and left the jar of bees on your desk. He’s trying to make you believe you’re losing your mind.
He stretched out on the bed. The mattress, thin and filled with hard lumps, did little to protect him from the springs poking into his back. He didn’t care, though. Despite his situation, he was tired. His mind ached with the effort of trying to find his way out of the maze he was wandering in. He just wanted to sleep, to forget about it all for a few hours.
That didn’t seem possible. Although he closed his eyes, his thoughts continued at breakneck speed, jumping from one thing to the next. In addition, the harsh flourescent light of the cell glowed relentlessly, shining even through the protection of his eyelids. He placed his hands over his face, trying to block it out. But he couldn’t block out the scenes playing over and over in his head: Steven Settles’s head falling from his body, the look of anguish that passed over his mother’s face when she ran to her boy, the officer asking him to come to the station for what he thought would be routine questioning. They rolled in an endless loop, taunting him until finally, worn out, Ben faded into a kind of half sleep.