There
was little doubt in Cramwell’s mind as to the identity of the kidnapper now; he
had mentioned “news.” That was careless of him, but then, how could he know
that Cramwell would solve it so quickly? He probably had no idea that Cramwell
was wise to his methods. No doubt he assumed Cramwell was still scared.
Cramwell had him fooled; but there was another matter that bothered him. He had
also mentioned “harm.” This took the kidnappings to another level; Cramwell had
frequently comforted himself with the idea of the victims all sitting together
in a dark attic or basement somewhere in town, frightened and disoriented but
otherwise unscathed. Would all this change now? Was he getting bored waiting
for Cramwell to pull himself together and do something? Cramwell set his jaw
grimly; he wouldn’t keep his adversary waiting. After all, he had said where he
would be and when. How would it be if Cramwell went to the rendezvous—but not
alone?
For
the second time that day, Cramwell did not go to the library. Instead, he
visited the police station of Precinct.
The
woman in the lobby was shocked to see him, for she knew Cramwell Fornberg as
well as anyone, and that was by sight alone.
“Can
I help you?” she asked dutifully.
Cramwell
fixed his strange blue eyes on her and laid the latest newspaper with Colby’s
picture and last known location on the desk in front of her.
“I
know who did it,” he stated confidently.
^^^^^^
Mr.
Mavis stood outside the grocery store and watched the library carefully. He
stood there until just before four o’clock, but for some reason, he never saw
Cramwell come out.
He
wanted to confront the man. Evidently Cramwell knew more than people realized;
his erratic behavior had not emerged before people started disappearing. Could
he have done something to cause the abductions? For even Mr. Mavis was
beginning to believe that a waitress or a young boy do not just run away; there
had to be a mastermind behind it. What if it was Cramwell Fornberg himself?
As
the clock struck four, Mr. Mavis decided to go into the store and wait for
Cramwell to come. He waited behind the high shelves of canned goods, because he
knew that Cramwell would come there for soup, as he always did.
Sure
enough, as soon as the last chime died down, the entrance bell beeped and
Cramwell Fornberg shuffled into the grocery store. Mr. Mavis waited patiently,
unmoving. At last, the cane appeared, followed by the man himself. Mr. Mavis
saw the queer blue eyes lock onto him.
“Mr.
Fornberg,” Mr. Mavis said in a low voice, “I need to ask you a few questions
concerning the recent abductions.”
Cramwell
did not respond. He selected his soups and moved toward the register. Mr. Mavis
followed him.
“Cramwell,
how much do you know?” Mr. Mavis asked bluntly.
Cramwell
stopped, turned to look Mr. Mavis full in the face, and informed him in no
uncertain terms, “I know everything.” He turned heel and strode out of the
establishment. Mr. Mavis still followed him.
“What
do you mean?” Mr. Mavis wanted to ask, but just then he found himself
surrounded by the Precinct Police force, and an officer pulled his hands behind
his back and stated, “Mr. Mavis, you are under arrest for the suspected abductions
of Clarissa Forquist and Colby McKee, et al, with intent to harm.”
“Intent
to what?”
“You
have the right to remain silent—“
“I
don’t understand, why are you—“
“Anything
you say may be used against you—“
“What
is the meaning of this?”
“You
have the right to an attorney…”
Cramwell
stood on the curb and did not watch as they took Mr. Mavis away. They would put
him in lockup until they either got a confession or something happened to prove
his innocence. Cramwell was fairly certain the latter would not happen, but he
wasn’t so sure that the former would, either. He climbed up Fornberg Hill with
a markedly lighter step. If he had assumed correctly, the third kidnapping
would not happen. Whoever the victim would have been, he had been the one to save
his or her life before Mavis had the chance to take it. And the victim would
probably never know of it.
^^^^^^
The
next morning, Cramwell looked forward to opening his paper and seeing that his
life had returned to normal. Sure enough, “MAVIS IS LEAD SUSPECT IN RECENT
KIDNAPPINGS” heralded the events that Cramwell Fornberg had instigated the
previous evening. The article never mentioned his name, just as he requested.
Cramwell resumed his old routine—though after spending nearly a week doing
things completely outside his habit out of fear, he found they were less
terrible and threatening than he had originally thought they would be, and he
didn’t mind behaving like a man who held his head up and glanced at the people
he walked by, instead of the morose turtle afraid to poke his head out of his
shell. Cramwell had rid the town of the one thing he feared most; the rest of
the world couldn’t hold such terror for him anymore.
He
strode down the Hill, head erect, but his demeanor was as defensive as ever. His
eyes discouraged anyone from speaking to him unless he spoke first, which he
certainly would not do. He walked in and sat at his booth in the café. Beth
took his order this time, and Cora brought his coffee. Cramwell watched the
people coming in and out of the café. There was Sheriff Zander; Jason Plattner
showed up and ordered a triple latte with a cinnamon roll. The Gardner family
showed up and ordered breakfast. Cramwell never realized he had overstayed
until he glanced out the window and saw that the clock above City Hall had
nearly reached ten o’clock. Something was missing, he knew it; but what?
Cramwell
stood, and suddenly he knew: Alivia, the woman with the red umbrella. She
usually came in around nine-thirty, when Cramwell was leaving. He had not seen
her today, he was sure of it. He would have remembered the umbrella. Had she
been—
Cramwell
shook his head; absolute nonsense! Mr. Mavis was in lockup, so if it wasn’t
him—why did every sort of disappearance have to be a kidnapping anymore? She
was probably ill or out of town—or something. Cramwell left for the library,
keeping an eye out for that red umbrella. The whole walk to the library, he
never saw it. He stopped in front of the library and shook his head again. What
was he doing looking for a red umbrella when the October sun shone high in the
sky? Cramwell sighed and shrugged. That umbrella was all he knew of Alivia
Rogner. She would be harder to spot without it. He would have to accept that
she might be somewhere else in town, without that umbrella.
Four-thirty
came, and Cramwell stepped out of the grocery store with a full basket, still
thinking about—no, worried now—Alivia. It upset him dreadfully when matters in
his life were not the way they had always been; one thing out of place, and it
felt like everything was out of control.
He tapped his cane in consternation and began walking across the square toward
Fornberg Hill.
A
flash of red caught his eye and he stopped in his tracks. Alivia’s umbrella!
There it was, next to the diner! Cramwell quickly moved to that spot—as quickly
as he could, that is, with his cane. Yes! It was certainly the same umbrella,
leaning against one of the black metal tables set outside the diner. Cramwell
picked it up and brought it inside. Was Alivia there?
Mrs.
Preston was shocked to see him, but she didn’t let on. “Hello again, Mr.
Fornberg!” she said as he walked in, “What brings you here?”
Cramwell
said nothing, but showed her the umbrella.
“What’s
this?” Mrs. Preston took the umbrella, “Alivia’s umbrella? Why, yes, she was
here about two o’clock. How strange! She never goes anywhere without this
umbrella, rain or shine! She uses it for a cane when she’s not walking in the
rain!” Mrs. Preston giggled, “Bless me! That rhymed! I certainly didn’t plan it
that way, you should know.”
“Have
you seen her since then?” Cramwell asked, knowing full well that this was
probably the first time in years Mrs. Preston had heard him speak.
He
noticed she took a long time to reply; she probably knew that, too. “Well, um,
no; but she is usually home for dinner. I’ll call her on the telephone.”
Mrs.
Preston rushed to the tiny office at the back of the diner and dialed a number.
After waiting for several minutes without speaking, she hung up the phone with
a frown. “That’s so very odd!” She
mumbled, “There’s no answer, not at her house, nor on her cell phone. Where
could Alivia be?”
Cramwell’s
stomach sank again; he knew good and well what the papers were going to say the
next day. He picked up the umbrella again. “Never mind,” he said, “I’ll take
this with me.”
“All
right, Mr. Fornberg,” Mrs. Preston replied, “Goodbye.”
Cramwell
stumbled out the door and onto the sidewalk. Alivia was gone! It had happened
again! Cramwell remembered Mr. Mavis, who was no doubt sitting in lockup this
very minute, because Cramwell himself had put him there. Did Mr. Mavis have a
man on the inside, or was he completely innocent? There could have been a
perfectly harmless explanation as to why the two notes—the request and the
threat—had been written with the same pen: it could have been because the pen
was on the counter at the diner. The two men didn’t have to even know each
other to use the same pen if the pen belonged to the same establishment visited
by them both. Cramwell set his hat and started off for the Police Station. He
would need to see Mr. Mavis, though what exactly he intended to do about the
situation was still a mystery to the man.
<<<>>>
Mr. Mavis sat on the cot in the small lockup cell
with his head in his hands, thinking furiously. There was not much else for him
to do. Why had Cramwell Fornberg played him like this? Was it because he was
guilty, or because he thought Mr. Mavis was guilty? If he was guilty, how could
Mr. Mavis prove it? If he wasn’t, then who was the real culprit?
These
questions and countless others had kept Mr. Mavis awake during the day. The
police had questioned him endlessly, and Mr. Mavis had answered each question
so fully there could be no doubt of his innocence, but since Cramwell Fornberg
had made the accusation, the police could not fully release Mr. Mavis until
Cramwell Fornberg dropped the charges. Mr. Mavis thought of his wife, and
Karthey and Derrik. The cops had let him call his wife shortly after arriving
at the station, but that was all. They knew he was arrested, they knew Cramwell
Fornberg was responsible, but they didn’t know why or when he would be
released. Mr. Mavis himself did not put much stock in the hope that he would be
released at any time in the near future. If he knew Cramwell Fornberg, and if
Cramwell Fornberg thought that the man who was behind the kidnappings of late
was safe behind bars, Cramwell would resume his normal daily routine, which
never carried him past the police station at all. Why would Cramwell—
“Cramwell
Fornberg to see you, Mavis,” Officer Hammer announced, and through the door
trudged the man himself!
Mr.
Mavis sprang to his feet. “Please, sir,” he said, remembering to maintain a
respectful tone with Precinct’s most powerful and volatile resident, “Please!
You have to drop the charges! You know I am innocent!”
Cramwell
stood across from Mr. Mavis, silent and unmoving. Officer Hammer watched this
man in awe. He looked across at Mr. Mavis, the slick journalist that more than
once had exposed Hammer’s mistakes, faux pas, and impulsive decisions when
writing articles on the officer’s various cases. Hammer resented this;
moreover, he saw an opportunity to elevate himself in the perception of
Cramwell Fornberg—whose perception, in turn, of the whole town no doubt came
from the papers that had been so unkind to Hammer—while meting retribution out
on his enemy. Hammer resolved to become the mouthpiece of Cramwell Fornberg.
He
leaned close to the cage, “How much do you know about the perpetrator, Mavis?”
Hammer growled, “How can you say you’re innocent, when just today we have
received word of another abduction?”
“Another
one? Who was it this time, officer?”
Hammer
glanced at the silent Cramwell and saw a glint of what he thought to be outrage
in his eyes as he watched the prisoner. Cramwell’s mouth was set in a fine
line.
“You
know good and well about Alivia’s disappearance, I think, Mavis!” Hammer
accused, “You’re not the sort of journalist to miss out on a good scoop, now,
are you? And the fact that the abductions have all run the first page—written
by you, sir!—well, that’s more than a coincidence, wouldn’t you say, Mr.
Fornberg?”
Mr.
Mavis clung to the bars of his cell and frantically begged his accuser,
“Please, Mr. Fornberg! I don’t know Alivia very well at all! I had no idea she
had disappeared! And if I have been in lockup all day, how could I have been
the one to arrange her disappearance?”
Hammer
was just warming up to his role as mediator. He stuck his face in between the
men now, continuing to beat Mavis back with questions. “Are you in league with
the man who took her? Do you have connections with the kidnapper who is
abducting the citizens of Precinct one by one?”
Mr.
Mavis shook his head, “Look, all I know about those kidnappings is everything I
printed in the articles. I’m not the guy who took them! I have nothing to hide!
Please let me return to my family!”
Cramwell
remained silent and unmoving as he reflected that he could allow him to return,
at a mere word; but he also knew that he had a reputation to maintain, one of a
hard, unforgiving, strange, masterful man. Obviously he held quite a bit of
power over these people, considering the way they all tender-footed their way
around him, and the respectful, pleading tone Mr. Mavis used even now. Cramwell
held all the cards in this game; he might as well play them.
What
he hadn’t counted on was Hammer’s apparent quarrel against Mavis. The man was
absolutely relentless in his onslaught of the journalist.
“Why
are you so concerned with Mr. Fornberg, then, Mr. Mavis?” he demanded, “You
arrange a meeting in the place and time you knew he would be, yet all you
seemed to want to know is how much information he had on the kidnappings. Why
wouldn’t you ask more about him if you didn’t already know everything about
him? And if you know all about him, then what is preventing you from pinning
suspicion on Mr. Fornberg, merely because you are the only one in town who
fancies himself familiar with a man like him?” Officer Hammer glanced back at
the stony, well-dressed man before threatening, “I don’t know but that he might
think you better off as a permanent resident in his house till we get this
whole mystery straightened out, just to keep an eye on you.”
Mavis
frowned at Officer Hammer, “Since when were you so close to Mr. Fornberg that
you knew how he thought?” he responded.
Hammer
considered this as he looked back at Cramwell’s face; the expression had not
changed, or, if it had, changed for the worse. Cramwell frowned slightly now,
as if disliking the idea of anyone coming into his domain (really, Cramwell was
pondering the wisdom of Officer Hammer’s suggestion; perhaps at his house, he
could win the confidence of the journalist, and the two of them could solve the
mysteries together).
Officer
Hammer sighed, enjoying the total despair on his enemy’s face. “Well, you’re
right, I suppose, Mavis; perhaps it is better for you to stay here in lockup
for the duration of the—
“Release
him.”
Both
Hammer and Mavis jumped at the sound of the voice. They looked over to the only
other person in the room—Cramwell Fornberg.
“Sir?”
Officer Hammer gasped shakily, not wanting to believe the clear, cutting voice
had come from The Cram himself.
Cramwell
gestured mildly toward Mr. Mavis. “Release this man; I’ve decided to drop the
charges. He is free to return home and bid farewell to his family, and then he
must report to my house by eight o’clock.” His words were short and cutting, as
if he was unused to speaking to another person. He turned and walked out of the
room without waiting. On his way, he heard the officer behind him unlock the
door and inform Mr. Mavis, “You’re free to go.”
Cramwell
kept his pace even as he walked out the door. Mr. Mavis ran up and caught his
arm as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.
“Thank
you, Mr. Fornberg,” he gasped.
Cramwell
didn’t trust himself to look at him, “Remember our deal, Mr. Mavis,” he
responded evenly.
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