Moonbog, page 12
“No one’s gonna’ know,” the man said menacingly.
How far could he get, Jeffy wondered. Naked and barefoot, running through the Bog in the pitch black, what would his chances be? Then again, the darkness would help him too, if he could just get far enough away.
He felt the last knot in the rope slip away and, unbelieving, flexed his free hands behind him. He tried to contain the excitement in his voice and he shifted forward silently and pleaded, “Please lemme’ go. I won’t tell a soul.”
His hands reached down to his ankles and began to work on the knots. The man was pacing back and forth in the darkness, and Jeffy was pretty sure he couldn’t tell what he was doing.
Jeffy decided on a new tactic . . . something, anything to keep the man talking for just a minute longer. “If you let me go, I’ll . . . I’ll let you do that to me again.”
The man in the darkness snorted and then chuckled softly. The knots around Jeffy’s ankles fell away under his fingers.
“No, really. Honest. I . . . I kinda’ liked it,” he said, wincing with the remembered pain. “I’ll let you do it to me again.”
“I’ll do it to you any time I fuckin’ well please, boy.”
“That’s what you think,” Jeffy yelled. The last knot fell away, and he kicked the rope from his feet and jumped up. Like a bolt, he took off down the path, swinging his hands out wildly in front of him to keep the brush from hitting him in the face.
It took the man a moment to realize what Jeffy had done; then, with a loud curse, he took off down the trail after him. “Boy, you better stop and come back here,” he bellowed. “You ain’t gonna’ like it when I catch you.”
Jeffy ran wildly at first, careless of where he was going, just grateful to be away from the man who had done those terrible things to him. He found it difficult to run too fast because of the pain that wracked his whole body. As the man’s voice behind him slowly faded, though, Jeffy realized that he would have to pick his trail carefully, figure out where he was in the Bog, and just how to get out—otherwise he’d be lost all night or, worse, found by the man again.
His captor following behind him was still yelling, but then, suddenly, the shouting ceased. When Jeffy noticed this, he stopped running. His breathing came hard, tearing into his lungs and burning them as badly as the rope had burned his wrists and ankles. He strained, trying to listen for the man’s pursuit, but the night was filled with the loud chorus of spring peepers.
A deeper, more gripping fear seized him as he realized that now he couldn’t tell how far or near the man was. If he wasn’t careful, he might run right around in a circle and bump into him. As he considered this, Jeffy thought that it would be better if he hit in the brush and waited for dawn, then he’d be able to figure out which way to go.
Suddenly, the sound of someone moving behind him made him jump and turn around. He stared, frozen along the path, but the darkness was too deep to see anything. Whimpering, he scuttled from the trail into the brush and lay flat against the cold, moist spagnum.
Blood pounding, lungs aching, Jeffy lay there for what seemed hours, waiting to hear the sound repeated. All he could hear was the sound of the peepers; all he could see was the thick, vibrating darkness.
Suddenly, a voice spoke, so close Jeffy jumped and let out a soft groan.
“I know you’re around here somewhere, boy,” the voice said in a low, rumbling growl that sounded like an old man. “When I find you, boy, you’re gonna’ be some sorry.”
Jeffy pressed his face against the ground, intensely aware of the thick, fertile smell of the soil.
“You better come out—Now!” the voice in the darkness snarled.
Jeffy was afraid he was going to faint. The darkness was spinning wildly, and his stomach twisted as the voice and the footbeats drew nearer.
“I know you’re right around here boy,” the voice said, closer still, filling the night, heavy footsteps squishing in the muck.
“I can just wait, you know. Sooner or later you’re gonna’ have to give yourself away. If worst comes to worst, I’ll just have to wait’ll it gets light. And then when I find you—” The darkness pressed in on Jeffy, completing the sentence.
“Don’t make it any harder on yourself than it’s gonna’ be, boy,” the voice boomed above the sound of the peepers.
Tears welled in Jeffy’s eyes. He bit down hard on his lower lip, making it bleed and filling his mouth with the salty taste of blood. He thought about what the man had already done to him, how much it had hurt, and he knew that what this man would do to him next would be worse; he might even kill him.
Finally, Jeffy could fight his terror no longer. His stomach revolted. Instinctively, he got up onto his hands and knees to vomit as he felt his stomach clench. He tried desperately not to make any noise, but he started to gag. Vomiting, he tried to crawl away, deeper into the brush, but he had barely moved before a steel-cold hand grabbed his shoulder and jerked him roughly to his feet.
“You shouldn’t run away from me like that,” the man said deeply. Jeffy was still choking and sputtering as he felt a coarse rope loop around his throat and pull tight.
“Now you got me real mad, boy, ‘n you’re gonna’ pay!”
HOLLAND, MAINE, MONDAY, JUNE 6, 1977 BOY MISSING. FOUL PLAY FEARED
HOLLAND—Jeffrey Hollis, age twelve, was reported missing last night by his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hollis of 30 Briar Road.
The youth was last seen while playing near his backyard. Immediate concern was raised because of the tragic murder last Friday of another local boy, close in age to Jeffery. Police Chief Virgil Shaw was quick to point out that, at this point, there is no apparent connection between the two cases.
“They are entirely separate incidents, as far as this department is concerned,” he said. Chief Shaw also asserted that any leads which may connect the cases would, of course, be followed.
The search for the missing boy has been going on all night. State and local personnel are asking for any available assistance, and all interested parties are asked to meet this morning, at eleven A.M. at Chief Shaw’s office.
Chapter Four
I
Six-thirty, Monday morning, and still Jeffy Hollis had neither come home nor been found. After spending the whole night tramping through woods and swamp and bog, Chief Shaw had just settled into his chair and hadn’t even taken one sip of his coffee before the phone rang. He snatched up the receiver in mid-ring and barked, “Yeah!”
“Hello, Chief Shaw?” the voice at the other end of the line said, sounding distant and formal.
“Yeah, this is Shaw,” he answered gruffly. Lack of sleep tended to make him cross, and a missing person along with an unsolved murder put him very much on edge.
“This is Lieutenant Brad Porter, State Police in Scarborough. I had a note to contact you as soon as possible.”
“Oh,” Shaw shifted forward in his seat and leaned his elbows on the desk. He took a quick swallow of coffee, adjusted his glasses, then said, “Yes, lieutenant, I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I understand that you now have a missing person,” Porter said.
“You got that right,” Shaw replied. There was something in the cold formality of Porter’s voice that irritated Shaw, and he decided that he would take a loose, conversational approach with him; he sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to work well with someone if he didn’t feel at ease.
“A twelve-year-old boy missing, correct?”
“Right.” Shaw briefly filled him in on the events of the previous evening. Porter listened patiently, no doubt taking notes, Shaw thought.
“Our real concern here,” Shaw continued, “is the possibility that these two events might be connected, that the same individual might be responsible. It would seem to make sense that—”
“There’s not really enough to go on,” Porter interrupted.
“Well,” Shaw said slowly, “you see, the Hollis boy was last seen near his family home on Briar Road. Now that ain’t too far from where the body of the Wilson boy was found last Friday night.”
Shaw heard a shuffling of paper, and then Porter said, “Mr. David Logan discovered the body, correct?”
“Yeah. Anyway, by the road it’s, oh, three—four miles between the two places, but if you go directly through the Bog, they ain’t no more than a mile and a half apart.”
“Mere proximity, Chief Shaw, is not enough to connect these two incidents. Although I must say that, circumstantially, there does seem to be some grounds for connecting the two.”
“That’s what we’re thinking.”
“Of course,” Porter continued, “I don’t think I want to draw too many conclusions. I would have to do a more thorough investigation before I could do that. Is there any clue as to the whereabouts of the missing boy?”
Shaw had to contain himself so he wouldn’t explode: Christ, if there was some idea as to the whereabouts, then the boy wouldn’t be Christly missing, would he? Shaw inhaled steadily and then said, “No, of course not. My deputy and I have been out all night. We couldn’t find a trace. ‘Course that was in the dark, and that Bog area has some pretty thick growth. We’ll be organizing a full search party this morning to comb the area.”
“Of course.”
“We can get the Boy Scouts, some fire department guys, and maybe some town workers later on. The Warden Service has sent up a scuba team that’s gonna’ drag the waterways. And probably by this afternoon we can rope the whole highway crew into helping out. They’ve done it before.”
“Before?” Porter sounded surprised, and Shaw was glad that he had cracked the lieutenant’s professional reserve.
“Yeah. Last summer there were three other missing-person incidents, two boys and a girl. You must remember that, it hit all the papers and television networks.”
“Yes, I remember,” Porter replied.
“I may be drawing an unwarranted connection between this missing Hollis boy and the murder last Friday, but there are folks in this town who are pulling those three disappearances last summer into this. Those three kids were all approximately the same age as this Hollis kid.”
“None of those kids were ever found, were they, Chief?”
“Not a trace. And the official position was that they were three separate drowning incidents. All of them were last seen either near the Bog or around Lovewell Pond. Of course, the Hollis home borders the Bog area, and after the Wilson boy was found the way he was—“
Porter’s voice broke in sharply. “Chief Shaw, I suggest that you, at least, refrain from jumping to too many conclusions. Other people in your town may; it’s not their responsibility to investigate these incidents. Primarily, you have two separate cases to follow, and right now, the search for the missing boy takes priority. If you spread yourself too thin, you just may come up empty-handed.”
“I was just suggesting that—”
“If, while investigating this Wilson case or while the search for Hollis is going on, we do turn up a substantial link with any other incidents, we may pursue them. Until then, you should concentrate on organizing the search parties and getting them moving.”
“Of course.” Shaw was flustered and at a loss for words. He was angry that Porter would take it upon himself to chastise him. As he groped for something to say, there was a rapid knock at his office door and then, without waiting, Del Montgomery, his deputy, walked in. The deputy smiled and nodded, then made a bee-line for the coffee pot. He looked just a bit more rested than Shaw.
“Well, uh, Lieutenant, when are you going to be comin’ on up here?”
Porter answered with a sharp clip to his voice. “I was heading out to the cruiser now, Chief. I should be able to meet you at your office by O-eight hundred, I should think.”
“Fine. See you then,” Shaw said, and quickly hung up. He was still stinging from Porter’s remarks; he hoped Del hadn’t picked up on it.
“You talk with Cameron and Wescott yet?” Del asked. He took a sip of coffee and wrinkled his nose, as he always did, no matter how good or bad the coffee was.
“Haven’t had a second to scratch my ass. I just finished with the statie from Scarborough. He’ll be up later this morning. Some other fellas from the D.A.’s office and Fish and Game will be by soon to help get the search parties organized.” Shaw looked at his cup of cold coffee, then ignored it.
“You ever meet this Porter fella’ before?” Del asked.
Shaw shrugged. “Naw. But from the sounds of him, he must be a smart-ass son-of-a-bitch.” He whistled and shook his head. “One of them hard-line, by-the-book guys.”
Del smiled and gave the chief a thumbs up. “Ten-four,” he said, smiling.
Shaw smiled weakly, removed his glasses and rubbed his face vigorously with the heels of his hands. He groaned softly and massaged his beard-stubbled cheeks. “I just hope that son-of-a-bitch is more help than hindrance.”
He cleared his throat, as though that brief pause was as good as a night’s sleep. “You take the phone in the outer office and give Wescott a call. I’ll dial Cameron and see if we can get those Boy Scouts outta’ school. I want to be beating the brush by”—he glanced at his watch—“by nine o’clock at the latest.”
Del left. Before Shaw picked up the receiver, he paused and looked out at the sunny morning, washing the street with warmth. “At least it ain’t raining,” he muttered as he started to dial. “Be one helluva bitch slopping around in the Bog if it was rainin’.”
II
“Goddamn-son-of-a-bitch,” Marshall muttered softly as he held the fingerprint smudged pane of glass up to the door. The broken glass had been cleaned out, the old, dry putty removed, and the wood scraped down, but still, no matter which way he twisted the new pane, it just would not fit. “Ain’t that a damn kicker, Aft? Huh?”
He looked down at Alfie, who sat quietly on the steps, totally unconcerned, blinking in the early morning sun.
“Either my eyesight’s gettin’ real bad, or they just don’t make rulers like they used to,” he snorted. “Which do you think it is?”
Alfie blinked again.
“Probably used the damn metric measurement,” he said as he turned back and tried to place the glass again. After a minute or two, though, he finally gave up and conceded that he would have to cut the glass down. Alfie darted away quickly as Marshall knelt down and placed the pane of glass on the steps.
“It’s a mistake-to use a ruler anyway. Eye’s always better.” He slipped a piece of newspaper under the glass and then ran the glass cutter along the long edge, scoring a line barely a quarter inch from the edge. He tapped the line in a few places, and the glass separated neatly. He grunted as he stood back up and held the pane where it was supposed to go, then pressed it into place.
“I told yah,” he said, addressing Alfie over his shoulder as the glass fit perfectly into place. “You always gotta’ trust your eyes.” He bent down and looked closely at the new window. He was so absorbed with inspecting his work that he didn’t hear the car drive up his driveway and stop. The first time he knew he had company was when the driver got out of the car and slammed the door shut. Marshall looked up, irritated.
“Good morning,” David called out, starting up the walkway.
Marshall nodded and, as he did, his hand slipped and the pane of glass started to fall out of place. With a jerk of his hand, Marshall grabbed at it, the jagged cut edge biting cleanly along the length of his forefinger.
“How are you?” David said tentatively.
Marshall looked at the bead of blood forming on the side of his finger and then grunted. “I’m gettin’ by,” he muttered, forcing himself to ignore the sting of the cut. He wiped the blood onto his pants leg and then turned to face David, who stood nervously at the foot of the steps.
“Well?” Marshall said, narrowing his eyes at David as though he were an encyclopedia salesman. “What brings you out here?”
David shuffled his feet, his determination to deal quickly and precisely with his uncle melting away. In spite of how he had prepared himself for his uncle’s lack of concern and manners, the reality of finally confronting the man after so many years threw him off guard. He suddenly felt, again, as though he was a ten-year-old boy who had been caught stealing apples.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” he asked, trying to sound sincere, although he had already reaffirmed his decision to deal with Marshall as quickly as possible and then leave.
“Not particularly,” Marshall said gruffly. He glanced at his cut finger again and then at the window pane, balanced in the door frame. “I got work to do around here, boy, so say what’s on your mind and then git.”
“Well, uh, I’ve been in town a few days. Come up from New York to settle Grammy’s—”
“I know’d you was in town,” Marshall snapped, “and I know’d why you was in town.” He turned to the window and continued with his chore. He started to work the top off the can of putty, using a rusty screwdriver. The top had apparently hardened on because it took quite a bit of effort to loosen. The cut on Marshall’s finger opened up, and blood smeared onto the screwdriver handle. When David saw it, he felt a wave of pity for the crusty old man.
When he finally got the cover off, Marshall took a putty knife from his back pocket and scooped out a dab of putty. David watched silently as the old man applied the putty to the window. His hands were stiff and shook slightly as he ran a line along the bottom of the pane. The line was much too thick, and it smeared the glass. Again, David felt sorry for his uncle, and he took a step forward.
“Here. Let me help you with that,” he said, holding out his hand. “You’re getting it all over the window.”
“I can handle it myself, boy,” Marshall snapped, pulling away.
David stepping back. “But you’re getting it all over the place,” he protested.
“It’ll clean up,” Marshall said, so close to the window that his breath fogged the glass.
For a while longer, David watched in silence as Marshall worked, but finally the quiet was too much for him to bear. “I suppose you’ve guessed what I’m going to do about the old place.”
