Moonbog, page 28
David leaned forward and gently slid open the kitchen window above the sink. A faint breeze blew in, gently ruffling the dingy lace curtains. He could hear the far-off sound of the peepers in the Bog.
“It’s just unbelievable!” David said, turning again to face Marshall. The cool breeze blew across the back of his neck, raising goosebumps on his arms. “I mean, how could he ever do something like that. How? Why?”
Marshall could only shrug his shoulders, but the fire of conviction still burned in his eyes.
“He’s married, for Christ’s sake! Got kids!” He slapped his open hands on his thighs. “Hell, he had to get married! He got Leah pregnant before graduation. He was one of the horniest guys in school.” He shook his head with frustration and then chuckled softly. “Hell, if I can believe Allison, he even made a pass at her in the bar yesterday.”
Marshall didn’t crack a smile.
David looked out into the night, his eyes unfocused. “Raping and killing little boys! It just doesn’t make sense that Les Rankin would do something like that!”
“Lots of things in this goddamn world don’t make sense,” Marshall said softly, “but I know goddamned right well what I saw out there in the Bog. It was Les Rankin!”
David continued almost as if he hadn’t heard Marshall. “The autopsies prove it, that they were raped—sodomized, and then cut up with a knife. I mean, there’s no denying it, but why?” He looked again at Marshall. “Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s as crazy as a shit-house rat, that’s why,” Marshall replied.
“I know that,” David said. “I mean, if he’s doing it, that’s pretty damn evident. There’s gotta’ be some kind of psychological reason.”
“That ain’t so much our concern as what we’re gonna’ do now that he knows that I know it’s him who’s doin’ it.”
Marshall stared at David and that frightened, pleading look came into his eyes.
“I know what he’s capable of because of what happened to them kids,” Marshall continued. “And now, after them phone calls, I—”
“Wait a second!” David said, snapping his fingers. “Wait just a goddamn second.” He approached his uncle and pointed a shaking finger at the old man. “I remember something.”
“Huh?” Marshall looked at him, confused.
“I remember something that I haven’t even thought about in years, but it just might have something to do with this. It just might explain things a bit.”
“What the hell you talkin’ ‘bout, boy?”
“Les and me, when we were kids,” David said softly, his eyes unfocused as the memories rose. “When we were kids, Les and I . . . well, hell, I’m not so sure I want to—”
“Davie, will you quit mumblin’ and speak out?”
“Well . . . uh. . . .” David looked down at the floor.
“You know how it is when you’re a kid and you’re . . . you’re just finding out about sex and all?”
Marshall nodded sagely.
“Well,” David went on, “there was a time . . . once, when—“ He suddenly broke off. His gaze had drifted back to the open window above the kitchen sink, and the distant sound of the spring peepers filtered into his memory, striking a deeper chord. He moved quickly to the window, pressing his face against the screen, breathing deeply and listening.
“By Jesus, yes. It was in the spring because I remember the sound of peepers!”
He turned back to Marshall, who looked at him with an expression of bewilderment. Perhaps he was wondering if David was in his right mind. “What in the hell are you talkin’ about? Speak plain!”
“In the springtime, I remember. We must have been, I don’t know, maybe twelve or thirteen. We—Les and I were outside in his backyard, behind the barn. That was when he was living out on Webb Road, before his father left for good and his mother moved back to town. We were—” David shifted uneasily but found it difficult to look away from Marshall. “We were, uh, playing with—you know, feeling each other.”
If Marshall was shocked in any way, he didn’t let it show. Finally, after a long moment of silence, Marshall said, “Go on, go on! Christ, it’s not like you was the first kids to play with yourselves. What the hell’s this got to do with anything?”
David shook his head solemnly from side to side as the memories returned and realization dawned. “No, hell, no. I know we weren’t . . . and we weren’t the first kids to get caught doing it, either. But not too many kids who got caught ever got a belting the way Les did.”
Marshall raised an eyebrow. “Who was it that caught yah?”
David shivered with the memory. “His father. I don’t know how much you knew about Les’ family life, but to put it bluntly, his father was a first-class shit. I remember that he spent more time away from home than he did at home. Les always had some excuse cooked up, about why his father wasn’t there, out in California panning for gold or whatever. You know how kids are, they’ll cook up some pretty tall tales and expect everyone to believe them. Anyway, the night we got caught just happened to be one of those times when his father was home.”
Marshall prodded him again, “So . . . what?”
“Well, Les’ father called for us. He was piss-ass drunk, we could tell by the way he slurred his words. Les shouted back that we’d be right there, figuring that the old man was too drunk to come looking for us. We were, well, we were kind of getting into it, and I guess Les didn’t want to stop. It was all pretty innocent, you know?”
“I know, for Christ’s sake. Quit apologizin’, will yah?”
“Yeah, well, I guess Les figured wrong, because we were just tugging up our pants when his father came barreling around the corner of the barn like a damn Mack truck. He saw us there, still getting our pants on, and I guess he figured out right away what we’d been doing. The first thing he did was give Les a cuff on the side of the head that sent him reeling. By the time Les regained his feet, his father had his belt off and was getting a good grip on the end.
“‘Bend over!’ he shouted, brandishing the belt like it was a bull whip. He spun Les around and forced him to drop his pants and lean against the fence railing. He twisted around, almost losing his balance he was so drunk, and smacked Les hard across the backsides.” David winced as he remembered the details. “It sounded like a damn rifle shot.
“All the time he was whipping Les, he was mumbling to himself. I couldn’t make out much of it, but I kept hearing the words ‘sinful’ and ‘unclean,’ that we were ‘corrupted.’”
“Sort of, ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ taken a bit too far, huh?” Marshall said.
David smiled sadly. “He didn’t just strap him, though. After he’d walloped him a good dozen times, he took the belt and held onto the end so the big belt buckle hung loose. He braced his feet wide and swung once. I remember that Les screamed as the belt wrapped around him. The buckle slapped into his stomach and gashed him. Real deep. It bled quite a bit. He showed it to me a few days after, and, Jesus, was that cut inflamed.”
“And you mean to tell me that you think this is what kinda’ twisted Les?” Marshall said. He stroked us cheeks in deep thought.
“Well, there was something else, too. I. . . .” He hook his head and grimaced. “I remember that Les told me, a long time after, that on that night when his father belted him, he had had his first orgasm.”
Marshall snuffed loudly. David looked out the window again and took a deep breath.
“You know, it’s not like we were seriously into it, playing with each other. That was the first and last time we did. God, we were too damned terrified to even think of it. At least I was.”
“What happened to you?” Marshall asked. “Did he give you a whoppin’ too?”
“I was too damned scared to turn and run, I’ll tell you that much. I stood there frozen, watching Les get the goddamned strapping of his life. He was screaming and crying the whole time, but I never knew he got that gash on his belly or that he had an orgasm until much later. But I guess Les’ father never called Pa and told him because he was probably too embarrassed to talk to him about it—to tell him what we were doing. Either that, or he just plain forgot once he sobered up.”
“Could be,” Marshall muttered, scratching his cheek. Suddenly he stiffened, and the edges of his mouth hardened. “But I’m still not as interested in what is making Les do these things as I am worried about what he’s gonna’ do about me suspectin’ him.”
“Suspecting!” David said sharply. “I thought you said you knew. That you were positive!”
“Well, I do know . . . kinda’. But. . . .” Marshall fidgeted and looked away from David. “One of the reasons I didn’t tell Shaw right away was because I couldn’t prove it. Sittin’ there in Shaw’s office, it would’ve been his word against mine.”
“And what’s so bad about that, providing you’re telling the truth?”
“I am telling the truth!” Marshall shouted, his anger suddenly flaring. He slammed his knobby fist on the table.
David lowered his voice. “But if you had said something . . . anything, it would have at least directed suspicion at Les.”
“How much do you think Shaw’s gonna’ take my word on something like that? Jesus, boy, Les Rankin’s a fine, upstanding member of this community, so far’s anyone knows. He may get a bit out of hand drinkin’ now and again, but he’s married, got kids, keeps a steady job. . . . Who’s gonna’ believe a wild story like that?”
David shrugged and began pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor.
“‘Sides,” Marshall added after a moment, “I was figurin’ that once we took that there polygraph test, I could say what I know and the machine would show I was tellin’ the truth.”
David snickered. “Yeah . . . sure . . . the lie detector will make everything OK. Is that what you were thinking?”
Marshall nodded dumbly.
“You know, those things aren’t entirely fool proof,” David said. “If you were the least bit hyped up, it could show a reaction that indicated you were lying. Or, on the other hand, if Les was just as cool as he could be, he could deny everything, and if he maintained his cool, the machine would indicate that he was telling the truth.”
“Really? I thought—”
“Especially if it really is Les and he’s, I don’t know the word for it, but dissociated or schizophrenic or whatever. Anyone who could kill kids like that—after raping them—and then so coolly dispose of the body . . . Christ, if he’s really that much of a wacko, who knows what that polygraph will show?”
David paused to let his uncle mull over what he had said, then he hit him with the heavy load. “Besides, like you said, the problem is what he might do before you take those tests. . . . Like those phone calls earlier.”
“Awww shit!” Marshall stood up, pushing his chair back with the backs of his knees. One chair leg scraped across the floor, making a sound like fingernails being raked across a chalk board. He walked ‘ver to the refrigerator and leaned his head against the cool enamel, listening to the steady rattling sound the motor made.
“That’s what’s got me so worked up,” he said softly, under his breath. “It’s not the first time I—” He caught himself short and turned, looking at David with a pale, watery stare.
“Not the first time—what?” David said, prodding.
“About . . . with the kids,” Marshall said, walking over to the table. He picked up the newspaper that was folded and spread it out on the table. Again, David scanned the headline:
BOG CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM
“Last summer,” Marshall said softly. “Last summer. Look at the date.” He jabbed the newspaper with his bony finger. “June 4, 1976,” he said thoughtfully, “Just about this time of year.”
“Christ!”
“It’s the same damn time of year as the murders this year!” Marshall said, his voice rising with intensity.
“Christ! And the same time of year that Les and I got caught . . . the same time Les got whipped so bad he was bleeding and . . . and. . . .” David’s voice faded away.
“That ain’t all,” Marshall said.
David turned. “What? What else do you know about it?”
Marshall sighed deeply, letting the memories rise. “It was the first of June, last year, ‘bout an hour or so after sunset. I’d had my supper and cleaned up, and had just sat down at the table here to read my paper.” He nodded at his vacant chair. “Because it was such a nice evenin’, I decided to sit out on my front steps . . . listen to the night sounds . . . get some fresh air before turning in.”
Marshall walked over to the table, picked up the newspaper, folded it twice, and slapped it against his open palm.
“I was sittin’ there, leanin’ against the top step, smokin’ my pipe ‘n strokin’ Alfie’s back. All of a sudden, I heard this terrible screechin’ sound. I jumped, almost dropped my pipe. Alfie skittered off into the darkness. At first I thought it was an animal or somethin’ been run over, or maybe a cat in heat. I listened real intent, but I didn’t hear anything like a car passin’ by. Nothin’!”
“It didn’t sound like a person?” David asked.
“Nope. Not the first one,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “I thought for sure it was an animal been hurt. I sat there listening real hard for a long time. I remember my pipe went out. I considered relightin’ it, but something inside me warned me not to make any noise.”
Marshall swallowed hard as he remembered that night a year ago.
“I waited, listening,” Marshall continued. His voice grew raspy. “Then I heard it again and, ‘cause I was listening for it, I got a better fix. It was loud, too. Close enough to make me jump. I wasn’t sure if it was a woman or a kid, but for damn sure I knew it was a person.”
“What did you do?”
Marshall swallowed and wiped his hand across his upper lip, which was glistening with perspiration. “I listened, ‘n then real slow, I got up and walked around the side of the house, in the direction of the Bog.”
“That’s where it was coming from?” David asked.
“No doubt about it,” Marshall replied. “And it sounded like it was close to the edge of my field. I couldn’t just sit there and listen, could I?”
David shrugged.
“The moon wasn’t up and ‘cause I know my land pretty well, I figured I had the advantage if I bumped into anyone. I was heading in what I thought was the right direction. But I’d no sooner entered the woods when I heard it again, way off to my left. I headed that way, followin’ the sound. ‘Help! Help me!’ the voice cried. It sounded weaker than before. I pushed through the brush, scared shitless.”
“What were you thinking of doing?” David asked. “Did you have anything for a weapon?”
“I cursed myself as soon as I started off for not goin’ into the house and gettin’ my walkin’ stick. I don’t know.” Marshall looked at David, who could tell that his uncle was agitated remembering the incident.
“Anyway,” Marshall went on, “I had no idea what I’d do if I found anyone. Actually, I wasn’t even sure what the problem was. For all I knew, it could have been someone stuck in the mud or something. It wasn’t until the next day—”
“When you saw this,” David said, pointing to the newspaper.
Marshall grunted. “Yeah. The next night I realized that it was the kid who was missing.”
“So you reported it to Shaw?”
Marshall looked down at the floor and shook his head. “I didn’t,” he said weakly.
“What?” David shouted, stunned.
“I never reported it. After that last yell, I didn’t hear anything but the peepers and my own heavy breathin’. I thrashed about in the brush for a while, but pretty soon I gave up and went back home.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t report it,” David said.
Marshall shrugged. “I can’t either,” he said, looking at David with eyes welling with tears. “I can’t, and I’ve never forgiven myself for it. I think once I got out of the Bog, I convinced myself that I hadn’t heard it; or that if I had, it was too far away. You know how sound can carry on a quiet night—’specially in the Bog.”
“But it was a person . . . a kid, for Christ’s sake, crying for help.”
“What the hell could I have done?” Marshall shouted. His lower lip trembled, and a line of drool ran down his chin. “I had no reason to suspect that it was . . . was murder. Nobody did ‘til you found that Wilson boy last week. Shaw ‘n everyone else assumed that the kid drowned in the Bog. ‘Sides, they were scouring the area with search parties, so I figured I didn’t need to report what I heard. In the dark and all, I had no goddamned idea where the yelling was coming from.”
“But you should have reported it,” David said, forcing himself not to shout at his uncle; he could see that the old man already was upset from the incident.
“You have to understand somethin’ else,” Marshall said. His voice had leveled out a bit, but there was still a sour twist of tension in it. “You have to understand that there’s a lot of talk around town. About me.”
David nodded, trying to understand.
“I know most of it’s harmless, just talk, but sometimes it gets pretty nasty about me livin’ out here by myself, near the Bog, never marryin’. I know. I’ve heard the kids call me the boogeyman when they think I can’t hear—or when they know I can hear and can’t do anything about it.”
David shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He remembered even when he was growing up how his uncle had quite a reputation as a crazy old coot. A spark of deep-felt sympathy for the old man began to grow. As he looked at Marshall, David saw for the first time that many of the lines in his uncle’s cracked and aging face were lines of deeply carved sadness. David tried to speak, but his voice choked off in his throat.
“I’m pretty much used to it,” Marshall went on. “At least I’ve learned to live with it.”
