"Tell me about it." Loomis was breathing harder. Brackett's casual remark had excited him as if her 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 Grand 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 hearing?" 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?"
"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 that part. The way Ron explained it, the guy claimed he knew who he was shooting, but when they asked him to identify his victims, he called them some weird names he said he'd heard in his dreams."
Brackett pointed to his own skull and made a rotary motion with his finger. "Crazy."
"Perhaps. These names, Sheriff. Were they Celtic? Would you recognize them? Deirdre? Cuchulain?"
"Sorry, my friend, they don't ring a bell. Who are they?"
"Names of victims in Michael's dreams. If we could establish a continuity from the great-grandfather to the boy…" the psychiatrist mused.
