"
"But we're talking about something else, Sheriff, another . . . another dimension ."
"I don't know about other dimensions, Loomis, but I do know that the harm being rendered by your so-called sweet innocent children tonight is more real to me than something perpetrated by a nut case fifteen years ago."
"An escaped nut case."
Loomis's distinction made a telling point on the sheriff. " Umm , that's true," he conceded reluctantly.
Loomis drove the point home. "Do you think this man has come here to soap people's windows?'' He rubbed his goatee heavily, until it sounded like a carpenter sandpapering a table.
Brackett shrugged. "I suppose it's worth a look, but I guarantee you're not going to find anything."
"That, Sheriff, is a guarantee I would too gladly accept."
Another squawk came over the radio. "Fire reported in meadow behind Kochner farm, route 167-A off Market Road," the voice droned.
"Kids will be kids," the sheriff laughed bitterly.
Loomis still wasn't sure Brackett had grasped the problem.
As Brackett nosed his car into the dark, cloudy night, he reviewed for Loomis everything he knew or had heard about the Myers case. Loomis listened attentively, though from his half-closed lids Brackett might have concluded the man was dozing off. Brackett said nothing Loomis didn't know, until something slipped out casually that made the psychiatrist's eyes widen and his back stiffen. "Would you mind repeating that, Sheriff?"
"I said, the kid's great-grandfather had done something similar."
"Tell me about it." Loomis was breathing harder. Brackett's casual remark had excited him as if he were a starving man that someone had dangled a piece of cake in front of.
"Well, I don't know much about it, and it was never brought out in the hearings, but Mrs. Myers, that night, was overheard saying, 'He's come back,' or maybe 'It's come back.' Over and over again. I didn't live here then, so this is all second-hand."
"Go On."
"So Ron Barstow, he was sheriff at the time, Ron asked her, 'Who's come back? What's come back?' And she mumbled something about the thing that had got inside her grandfather. I guess she meant taken possession."
Despite the coldness of the evening, Loomis had begun to perspire. His breath hissed noisily. "Did she explain, about the thing that had taken possession of her grandfather?"
"No, but Ron went to the records at town hall and checked out the newspaper clippings at the historical society."
"And?"
"It seems the man had gone Berserk back in the eighteen nineties."
Loomis was on the edge of his seat, his eyes bulging. "Berserk? How?"
"It was at a Grange dance, I think Ron said. The man just upped and pulled a revolver from his belt and blasted a dancing couple. They hanged him."
They drove silently for a moment, Loomis struggling to contain his excitement, almost savoring the next question. "When did this happen?"
"Eighteen ninety-eight, ninety-nine, something like that."
"No, no, I mean, what date?"
"How should I . . . ? Wait a minute. Of course I know! Ron remarked on it."
"Yes?"
"All Hallow Even. It was a harvest dance. Halloween!" Brackett's toe unconsciously depressed the gas pedal and the car accelerated into the dangerous night. "Jesus," the sheriff breathed.
"Why wasn't this mentioned at the hearlng?" Loomis demanded, slumping back into his seat, still panting.
"I think Ron said it was because the defense attorney thought it was either irrelevant or damaging to the kid's case."
"Irrelevant? Damaging?" Loomis chuckled drily, a laugh totally devoid of humor, like a rattle. "Tell me, did your friend tell you anything more about this great-grandfather?"
"I'm thinking." The seconds ticked ponderously around the clock on the dashboard. "Voices."
"Voices?"
"The man heard voices, voices telling him to kill these two."
"Kill those two specifically. In other words, he didn't fire into a crowd at random? He knew the victims?"
Brackett scratched his ear. "I'm a little confused about
"But we're talking about something else, Sheriff, another . . . another dimension ."
"I don't know about other dimensions, Loomis, but I do know that the harm being rendered by your so-called sweet innocent children tonight is more real to me than something perpetrated by a nut case fifteen years ago."
"An escaped nut case."
Loomis's distinction made a telling point on the sheriff. " Umm , that's true," he conceded reluctantly.
Loomis drove the point home. "Do you think this man has come here to soap people's windows?'' He rubbed his goatee heavily, until it sounded like a carpenter sandpapering a table.
Brackett shrugged. "I suppose it's worth a look, but I guarantee you're not going to find anything."
"That, Sheriff, is a guarantee I would too gladly accept."
Another squawk came over the radio. "Fire reported in meadow behind Kochner farm, route 167-A off Market Road," the voice droned.
"Kids will be kids," the sheriff laughed bitterly.
Loomis still wasn't sure Brackett had grasped the problem.
As Brackett nosed his car into the dark, cloudy night, he reviewed for Loomis everything he knew or had heard about the Myers case. Loomis listened attentively, though from his half-closed lids Brackett might have concluded the man was dozing off. Brackett said nothing Loomis didn't know, until something slipped out casually that made the psychiatrist's eyes widen and his back stiffen. "Would you mind repeating that, Sheriff?"
"I said, the kid's great-grandfather had done something similar."
"Tell me about it." Loomis was breathing harder. Brackett's casual remark had excited him as if he were a starving man that someone had dangled a piece of cake in front of.
"Well, I don't know much about it, and it was never brought out in the hearings, but Mrs. Myers, that night, was overheard saying, 'He's come back,' or maybe 'It's come back.' Over and over again. I didn't live here then, so this is all second-hand."
"Go On."
"So Ron Barstow, he was sheriff at the time, Ron asked her, 'Who's come back? What's come back?' And she mumbled something about the thing that had got inside her grandfather. I guess she meant taken possession."
Despite the coldness of the evening, Loomis had begun to perspire. His breath hissed noisily. "Did she explain, about the thing that had taken possession of her grandfather?"
"No, but Ron went to the records at town hall and checked out the newspaper clippings at the historical society."
"And?"
"It seems the man had gone Berserk back in the eighteen nineties."
Loomis was on the edge of his seat, his eyes bulging. "Berserk? How?"
"It was at a Grange dance, I think Ron said. The man just upped and pulled a revolver from his belt and blasted a dancing couple. They hanged him."
They drove silently for a moment, Loomis struggling to contain his excitement, almost savoring the next question. "When did this happen?"
"Eighteen ninety-eight, ninety-nine, something like that."
"No, no, I mean, what date?"
"How should I . . . ? Wait a minute. Of course I know! Ron remarked on it."
"Yes?"
"All Hallow Even. It was a harvest dance. Halloween!" Brackett's toe unconsciously depressed the gas pedal and the car accelerated into the dangerous night. "Jesus," the sheriff breathed.
"Why wasn't this mentioned at the hearlng?" Loomis demanded, slumping back into his seat, still panting.
"I think Ron said it was because the defense attorney thought it was either irrelevant or damaging to the kid's case."
"Irrelevant? Damaging?" Loomis chuckled drily, a laugh totally devoid of humor, like a rattle. "Tell me, did your friend tell you anything more about this great-grandfather?"
"I'm thinking." The seconds ticked ponderously around the clock on the dashboard. "Voices."
"Voices?"
"The man heard voices, voices telling him to kill these two."
"Kill those two specifically. In other words, he didn't fire into a crowd at random? He knew the victims?"
Brackett scratched his ear. "I'm a little confused about
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