Moonbog, page 14
“I’ve been holding back,” Latham said, puffing blue smoke from between his tight-set lips, “primarily because I don’t want to appear too anxious to buy the land. If David knows we’re interested in the place, he might—”
“From what you’ve been telling me, he’s anxious as hell to get rid of the damn property!” Sumner shouted, not caring if Latham’s secretary in the outer office heard or not. “I’ve got crews that need the work, and that company in Saco isn’t going to sit around waiting while you drag your ass! Christ, Sid!” Latham settled back in his chair to make himself comfortable. He took a few thoughtful puffs on his pipe. He’d be damned if he was going to let anyone—Harry Sumner included—push him around in his office. “Harry,” he said, firmly, as though speaking to a misbehaving child, “I don’t want it to look unprofessional.”
“Unprofessional!” Sumner yelled with exasperation. “Unprofessional. It’s not as though what we’re doing is illegal. There’s a piece of property that’s going to be for sale soon and we want it to develop. Is that unprofessional?”
“It is, in my opinion, if the land is not yet on the market and I’m the executor of the Will.” Latham felt himself getting angry and forced himself to stay seated, casually puffing on his pipe like a college professor. “I just don’t want it to appear that there are any conflicts of interest.”
“Well, I think we’ve dragged our asses around this for long enough. I’ve got nothing to lose but time and money. I hope you can appreciate that.”
“Just trust me, will you?”
“Sid, the Saco Company wants to get going as soon as possible. Any delays are dollars out the window.”
Latham bit down hard on the stem of his pipe. His teeth worked back and forth, making his jaw muscles clench. “I’ll settle this as quickly as I can,” he said calmly, although he made a mental note to enjoy, for Harry’s sake, any delays that might occur. “When the right time comes, I’ll spring our proposal on him. Like I told you, he may be so anxious to get rid of it that he’ll snap it right up.”
Sumner snorted loudly. “Just so long as your professional image remains untarnished, huh?”
“Jesus, Harry. I stand to make a pretty tidy sum of this deal too, you know? And not just from my lawyer’s fees. I’m as anxious as you are to wrap it up.”
“Just see that you do—” Both men started when the intercom buzzed. Latham held up a finger to Sumner as he switched the button.
“Yes, Alice.”
“Mr. Logan is here to see you,” a tinny voice said from the intercom.
“One minute.” Latham clicked off the intercom. He looked over at Sumner, who stood there staring at him intently. “Harry, I’ll do—”
“You just see that you do,” Sumner repeated, “and try to make it sometime before Christmas, if your reputation can handle the strain.”
Latham nodded at Sumner, who had started toward the door. “Send him in,” he said into the intercom. Sumner had the door open and was about to step out of the office when Latham halted him with a word. “Hey.”
Sumner turned around and then had to step aside to let David Logan walk past him into the office.
“Harry, one more word. Have you given any more thought to what I’m planning to say at the town meeting this Thursday?”
“‘Bout replacing Shaw?”
Latham nodded slightly and cast his eyes nervously at David, who had taken the chair beside the desk. ‘‘Umm.”
“I agree with you. I think it’s time we had someone new in there. Someone who might be a little more. . . effective.”
He put an emphasis on the last word, and Latham didn’t miss the implication.
“See what you can do,” Sumner said, then he stepped out of the office, closing the door firmly behind him.
VI
“So, who do you think it is, Leah?” Joyce Bailey asked intently.
Before Leah could reply, Marie D’Angelo piped in. “It’s turned me into a nervous wreck. I never thought I’d see the day when folks in Holland would be afraid to walk the streets at night.”
Unconsciously, Leah had placed her hand on Georgie’s head and was ruffling his hair as he drank his Fanta Root Beer. The noise of the laundromat, the spraying sounds of the washers and the rumbling of heavy-duty dryers, made it impossible for her to clear her mind and speak. She fumbled for words.
“What?” Joyce asked, pressing closer to her. “I can’t hear you, dear.” She cocked her ear toward Leah. The old woman’s face was flushed, and Leah found herself thinking that perhaps the woman’s red complexion was the result of working in the warm, damp laundromat all day, rather than the rumored drinking.
Leah looked at Joyce’s red-rimmed eyes and shrugged. “I haven’t got the faintest idea,” she said. The old woman nodded her head sagely.
“I just hope,” Leah continued, “that whoever it is, he gets caught and put away—forever.”
Marie agreed. “He’s a real sicko, whoever he is,” she said with widening eyes.
Leah looked at the tumbling mass of clothes she was waiting for and tried to concentrate. But beneath the roar and thumping sounds of the machinery, she heard—or thought she heard—another, deeper sound that hummed and hissed. It sounded like someone whispering in a dark room where he could say things he otherwise wouldn’t dare say. The sound made Leah feel as though there was a small ice cube in her stomach.
“Ouch!” Georgie said, suddenly twisting from under his mother’s grasp. “You hurt me.”
“I’m sorry hon’,” she said, almost automatically. She looked at him blankly and then, as though waking from a dream, said, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else.”
“You know who I think it is,” Joyce said importantly.
“No,” Leah replied, wishing, she would drop the subject.
Joyce paused for dramatic effect, and then gave her pronouncement. “I think it’s Old Man Logan,” she said, folding her flabby arms across her chest.
Marie, folding her laundry at one of the tables but still listening intently, gave a loud gasp. Leah remained silent.
“Yup,” Joyce said, with authority, “Old Man Logan. He lives right out there by the Bog. ‘N he sure as heck’s a strange old coot. I’ve known him all my life, seems like he’s always been an old man. ‘N him, living out there in that old run-down house of his, never getting married, never even courting a lady when he was young, according to my mother.”
“You shouldn’t say such things,” Leah said, aghast. “Mr. Logan’s a fine old man.”
“How do you know?” Joyce snapped back. “Are you his close friend or something?”
“No, but . . . but. . . .”
“Never married, always keeps to himself like he’s got some deep dark secret. How do we know he ain’t got a liking for little boys?”
Leah gasped and glanced nervously at Georgie, who was reading contentedly.
“I tell you,” Joyce said, dropping her voice to the level one would use while telling a ghost story around a campfire. “He’s lived his whole life out there, right beside the Bog. God!” She shivered dramatically. “Anyone who’d live out there in that Godforsaken place would have to be a little bit weird.”
“You may be right,” Marie said tensely. She had been captivated by Joyce’s story and was standing there dumbly gripping a folded shirt.
“That’s horrible to say,” Leah said emphatically. “Mr. Logan’s more a part of this town than all of us put together.”
“That don’t mean he ain’t a weirdo.”
“Yeah,” Leah protested, “but it doesn’t mean he would do . . . do those things to little boys.”
“Then why didn’t he ever get married?” Joyce asked.
“I . . . I don’t know,” Leah stammered. “That’s his personal business, and I don’t think we have a right to pry into it. I don’t think you should be spreading nasty rumors about him, either.”
“I’m just saying that’s what I think,” Joyce replied defensively. Leah could hear the sarcasm in the woman’s voice.
“Well . . . I don’t know,” Leah said. “Say, would you mind folding my laundry for me, Joyce? I have to get going.” Leah tapped Georgie on the shoulder. He looked up and slowly got to his feet. “We’re, ummm, we’re going to Billy Wilson’s funeral,” she added solemnly.
Joyce reached out and caught Leah’s arm. “Give my best to the Wilsons, will you?”
Leah nodded quickly. “Come on, Georgie,” she said, and led him from the laundromat.
When Leah was gone, Joyce turned slowly to Marie, who had resumed folding her laundry. Marie looked up shyly and said, “I don’t know Joyce, I really think you might be right.”
Joyce shrugged her shoulders and bent to pull Leah’s laundry from the dryer. “Who knows?” she said softly, “Who knows? Chief Shaw and the state policemen are doing everything they can. I’m just saying what I think.” She dropped an armload of Leah’s clothes onto the tabletop and began sorting through them. “Gee,” she said, mostly to herself, “these didn’t get very clean. Look at the mud still on these socks.”
VII
Above the pulsing warning beep of the dump truck as it backed up, Les Rankin thought he heard someone whistle. He waved his arms over his head, motioning the driver back, and glanced over his shoulder. Through the swirling dust, he saw his boss, Jerry Wescott, striding toward him. A few paces behind him, like a goddamn dog on a leash, Les thought, walked Frank Schroder. Wescott waved his arms wildly, beckoning him.
“Stupid fucking shit,” he muttered, continuing to direct the truck back. When the tires of the truck were just on the edge of the road, Les whistled shrilly and dropped his arms. The truck lurched to a halt with a gasp of air brakes.
“Let ‘er rip,” Les shouted. With a scream of hydrolics, the back of the dump truck began to rise. The payload spilled beneath the dented tailgate, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Thick, almost orange soil began to mound up in a V-shaped heap. Les laughed to himself as he watched the pile grow, thinking that it looked like a big pile of shit. He looked back up at Wescott and Schroder, who were now standing still, watching the operation. “Too bad you jerk-offs aren’t underneath that pile of shit,” he mumbled softly enough so they didn’t hear.
When the back of the truck was almost empty, the driver jolted the truck forward a few times to loosen any dirt that might have stuck. The truck pulled away slowly as the dump dropped back into place. It left behind a blue haze of exhaust.
“Hey, Rankin,” Wescott shouted above the noise of the retreating truck. “Did you forget, or can’t you tell time? I told you that I wanted you in my office at noon.”
Les glanced at his watch and when he looked up, Wescott was already striding toward the travel trailer that served as his on-site office.
“Rankin, this ain’t no paid vacation, you know. Let’s get a move on. Now!” Schroder roared.
Gritting his teeth, Les followed Schroder to the trailer. He fixed his eyes on the other man’s back, wishing again that he dared to tell Schroder exactly what he thought of his strutting, show-off, bossy attitude. He took his red bandana from his back pocket and wiped it across his face. Dirt and sweat mixed, leaving a messy streak. When he reached the trailer door, he stuffed his bandana into his back pocket and came in a few steps behind Schroder.
“‘Bout time,” Wescott said, flashing a quick look at Les.
“Couldn’t keep the truck waiting,” Les said softly. He stood in the corner beside a large filing cabinet. He took off his green felt hat and held it loosely in his hand as he surveyed the other men in the room. There were a lot of guys crammed into the small office trailer. After a moment, Les put his hat back on, pulling it down to shade his eyes.
“I suppose you all realize why I called this meeting,” Wescott began testily.
“Yeah,” Floyd Sturgis said, with a dumb schoolboy enthusiasm, “it’s ‘cause of the Hollis boy, huh?”
Wescott cast a menacing glare at Sturgis, then answered, “Yes. It’s because of the Hollis boy.” He walked over to his desk and sat down on it, hooking one leg over the edge.
“You probably all know that I spent a good part of the morning down at Shaw’s office. He asked if I’d be willing to let you fellas help him beat the brush.” Wescott paused. “You’ll notice that I said, let you help him. That’s the first thing I want to emphasize. This is volunteer work. Nobody has to go. But . . . his voice trailed off significantly,”. . . the work here is through for the day, and if you don’t go out and help with the search, you ain’t gonna’ get paid for the afternoon.”
There was an undercurrent of grumbling, but Wescott knew his men well enough to know that they only half meant it.
“I don’t want any bullshit from any of you, either,” he continued. “I know you all realize how serious this is. After what happened just outside of town here last Friday night, well, I don’t think I need to get into it. The point is, that something very serious is happening here in town, and we’ve all got to pull together to help solve it. The first step will be to find Jeffrey Hollis.”
“How do we know this kid is missing?” Sturgis asked. “I mean, who’s to say he didn’t run away or something?”
“We don’t,” Wescott snapped back. “But we’re assuming that he’s either lost or kidnapped. And the first place we’re gonna’ check is the area where he disappeared yesterday afternoon.
“Now, Shaw and me broke down the town into sections that are gonna’ be assigned to everyone helping. What we’re gonna’ do is start down by the old mill, fan out as we go, and follow the river up to Kitchen Cove. Then we’re gonna’ move east, toward the Hollis house.”
“Wait a minute,” one of the men at the front of the office said, “I thought you said we were gonna’ be looking near where the boy disappeared. The old mill and Kitchen Cove are a pretty damn site away from his house.”
“Of course, you know there have been other parties out all day,” Wescott said. “I haven’t talked with Shaw for a couple of hours, but as of noon, the boy ain’t been found. I suppose one of the reasons we got this section is because it’s pretty rough, lots of thick brush and plenty of swampy areas. Pretty dangerous, and Shaw didn’t want to lose any Boy Scouts out there.”
“I hope we don’t get lost,” Sturgis said, snickering.
“You know,” Wescott continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted, “the Wilson boy was found out by 302. Now that’s a long ways from the Hollis house, but if there’s a connection between these two incidents, the whole—”
“Who says there is?” Les said suddenly. All heads turned around to look at him, and he shrank back.
“What?” Wescott asked.
“Uhh, who says there’s a connection between these two?” Les repeated. “I mean, like Sturg says, how do we know he ain’t run away or something?”
Wescott frowned deeply. “No one’s saying there is a connection,” he said emphatically. “And no one’s trying to make a case for it, but then again, no one says they aren’t related.”
“It’s just that you’re assuming the worst, huh?” Les said.
Wescott nodded. “Yeah. Right. Until we know otherwise, we’re assuming the worst. It ain’t my job, and it sure as hell ain’t your job, Rankin, to question what Shaw and the staties are doing. You’re just another warm body with a pair of eyes that’s gonna’ be slogging through muddy water ‘til dark or later.”
“Sure,” Les said, retreating.
“Now, if there’s a connection,” Wescott went on, “then they happened pretty far apart.”
There was murmured agreement throughout the room.
“So, what I’m trying to say is, the Hollis boy could be absolutely anywhere. Shaw says that he’ll leave no stone unturned.” Wescott rubbed his hands together vigorously. “So, I want you all to head on home. Get boots, jackets—in case the night gets cold—and some food in your bellies. If you don’t have a good, high-power flashlight, Davis is gonna’ let us use some from the hardware store. I want to see you all down at the mill within”—he glanced at his watch—”within half an hour.”
“Yeah, right,” Sturgis said, scoffing.
Wescott stared at him angrily and said, “We’re starting out in half an hour. Whoever ain’t there, won’t get paid for the day.”
All the men in the trailer started for the door at once, pushing their way through the narrow door. Les was the last to leave, and just before he ducked out the door, he stopped and looked back at Wescott.
“Hey, boss, Les said softly, yet with an intensity that Wescott didn’t miss, “you think there’s a chance we’re gonna’ find this Hollis boy?”
Wescott looked at him, squinted, and said, “Not if we spend the rest of the day standing around here jawing, there ain’t.”
Les went through the door and headed for his car.
VIII
David put his foot onto the rusted barbed wire and stepped down, holding it to the ground as Allison carefully stepped over. The rotten fence posts sagged, threatening to give way with the pressure, but after David stepped over and took his foot away, the wire snapped back into place with a dull twang. They continued down the slope of the hill, toward the thick growth that marked the outer reaches of the Bog.
Suddenly, David latched onto Allison’s shoulder and pulled her to an abrupt stop. Allison spun around. “Wha’?!” she gasped, staring at him angrily.
“Remember you didn’t want to wear jeans?” he asked. A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Allison asked sharply.
David pointed down at her legs. “Looks like it was a good thing you took my advice.”
At first Allison didn’t know what he was talking about. Then she saw the small, brown spots—about ten or twelve of them—speckling her pants. At first she thought they were some kind of burrs; then she saw that they were moving. She screamed and beat wildly at her legs with a frail, brushing motion.
