As Gavin was shaking his head he heard a sudden crash in the outer office—the front doors had been flung open. This was followed by a half-bellowed scream for help.
Gavin and the chief leapt up, the board and its pieces scattering. A woman—Rose Buffum, Gavin instantly recognized—stood in the doorway, streaming wet, her sodden clothes clinging to her heavy body, her long gray hair plastered against her head, her eyes wide in terror.
“God help me!” she screeched, choking. “Help me!” She staggered toward Gavin.
“What is it?” Gavin grabbed one arm and the chief took the other. She was shaking violently. “Are you hurt?”
“My God, my God!” she wailed.
They eased her down in a chair. Gavin rushed to get her a cup of coffee.
“Call nine-one-one, get an ambulance,” said the chief. “There’s blood here.”
Buffum lay back in the chair, half swooning, eyes rolling in her head. Gavin put down the coffee and grabbed his radio. He quickly got the dispatcher in Newburyport and called in the 911. Meanwhile, the chief was wiping down Buffum’s face with a paper towel, dabbing here and there.
“Where are you hurt?” he asked.
The woman gasped. “It isn’t my blood!”
“Okay,” said the chief. “Have a sip of coffee and tell us what’s going on.”
Buffum ignored the coffee, let out another gasped wail. “The monster!”
“Monster?” Mourdock repeated in a skeptical tone.
“It won’t stop killing.” And then, as if seized with a sudden thought: “Oh, dear God, lock the doors!”
“We don’t lock the station doors,” said the chief.
“Get us in a cell, then. It’s coming!”
“What’s coming?”
“It’s a demon from hell, ripping people apart!”
Listening, Gavin felt a sudden freezing in his vitals. The monster. No. Impossible.
“Ripping people apart, and…!” At this the woman doubled over and, with a retching sound, lost her dinner all over the floor of the station.
The chief backed away with a disgusted expression. “We have an ambulance coming, Rose. Just hang in there.” He looked at Gavin. “What should we do?”
Gavin stared at him. There was no doubting the woman’s sincerity. Rose Buffum had all the imagination of a fencepost—she wasn’t the kind of person to be seeing things. The chief knew this, too. The skepticism was quickly draining from his face.
“We holster our service pieces and go out there,” Gavin answered.
“Don’t leave me!” Rose cried.
“Go out there?” Mourdock said uncertainly. “The two of us?”
“We’ve got to find out what’s going on.” Gavin had to see. It couldn’t be true…
“Put me in a cell, then,” Rose screamed. “Lock the door!”
“If that’ll make you feel better.” The chief escorted her into an adjacent cell and locked her in, giving her the keys. Then he turned. “All right, let’s see what’s going on.”
Gavin fetched his Glock and his holster, buckled it on.
“Check your flashlight,” the chief said.
Gavin checked the big flashlight hanging on his belt. Then he followed the chief out into the darkness and looked down Main Street. In the dim light of the houses, he could see two shapes lying in the street.
Bodies. So it was true. He felt a sickening lurch. And now he could hear, over the roar of the storm, a faint scream from halfway down the street; a sudden flare in a house window, the curtains leaping into flame, the glass shattering, the screams from within suddenly louder—and then abruptly cut off in a loud gargle.
“Oh, Christ Jesus,” the chief said, staring.
And now from out of the burning house leapt a figure, silhouetted in the firelight: a tall, pale, stringy thing with a massive overhanging jaw—and a tail.
46
Walt Adderly, proprietor of the Captain Hull Inn, sat at the bar of the Chart Room, listening to Benjamin Franklin Boyle regale the regulars—yet again—with the story of how he found the corpse of the historian. The normally taciturn Boyle was in an expansive mood, rolling his eyes theatrically, gesturing with his mug of beer, and in general putting on a good show. He’d had more than his usual pint, his skinflint habits thrown to the wind on this special day. Like many seafaring men, Boyle was an accomplished storyteller, and it seemed the crowd just couldn’t get enough. The power had gone out an hour before, which somehow only added to the festive mood. Candles had been brought out and set up along the bar, the patrons drinking and celebrating the bizarre end to the murder mystery. As the drinks and conversation flowed, there was a general feeling of relief that Exmouth had returned to normal. Naturally, most were shocked by the involvement of the Dunwoodys, although there was a minority that opined as to how they’d “never trusted that family.” Adderly himself had never had a problem with his longtime bartender, Joe Dunwoody, aside from the stealing of food. He even felt sorry for him in a way.