Moonbog, page 29
“But, Christ, you’ve lived here all your life—people know you—you could have gone to Shaw and reported what you heard.”
“Yeah,” Marshall nodded his head sadly, “yeah, Shaw might’ve believed me, ‘n some other folks too, but I guess I was mostly afraid of what stories would start spreadin’. People think that if they start spreadin’ stories about someone, that person will never hear ‘em. But that ain’t so!” Marshall’s voice almost broke, startling David, who saw tears welling in the old man’s eyes again.
“That ain’t so. I’ve heard enough things said about me to . . . to make me want to keep my mouth shut.”
“But we’re talking about murders!” David shouted, unable to hold himself back.
“We didn’t know that then! No one did!”
“But it was a little more serious than just some half-assed town gossip,” David said.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Marshall replied tensely, “‘n if I had said anything—anything, the mouths around town would have started blabbin’; and if a finger was pointed anywhere, it would’ve been pointed right at me. Believe me, Davie, I know! I know what loose tongues can do to a person!”
“But not if it isn’t true,” David said pleadingly. “Even if it ain’t true! Christ, Davie, don’t you remember what it did to your mother?”
The question stunned David, and the silence that followed it filled David’s head with a wooshing sound. He walked over to the table, picked up a cigarette, and lit it with trembling hands.
“Yeah,” he said, exhaling smoke, “I remember. People said she committed suicide.” He looked away toward the open window, unable to look at Marshall.
“I tell you something, boy,” Marshall said, pointing his bony forefinger at David, “you grew up in this town, but you sure as hell don’t seem to know a hell of a lot about the people who live here!”
“I—”David started to say, but Marshall cut him off with a quick chopping motion of his hand.
“You sure as hell didn’t know much about your old friend Les Rankin, did you?”
The comment cut him like a razor. David puffed rapidly on his cigarette, letting the ash grow long and drop to the floor without removing the butt from his mouth. “He’s out there now,” he whispered to the open window.
“Huh?” Marshall shouted. “Speak up, Davie.”
David turned to Marshall. “Les is our problem now, isn’t he?”
“My problem. Not yours.”
“Goddamnit, my problem too!” David shouted. He darted forward and slammed his fist onto the table. The mayonnaise jar lid full of cigarette butts spilled onto the floor. “I’m not like other people in this town, Goddamnit! I believe you! It had to have been Les sneaking outside your house tonight; I don’t know who else it could have been. But I drove up and scared him off after he shot at you—took a fucking shot at you! You can be goddamn sure he stuck around long enough to see who was driving up here to see you.”
Marshall sighed deeply, sounding as though life was just too much to carry.
“Chances are,” David said, “he knows it was me. Chances are also pretty damn good that he’ll figure you told me what you know. Why the hell else would he call and threaten you like that?”
Marshall nodded.
“So if he knows that you know and that I know, I think we can pretty well conclude that it’s also my problem!”
“‘Spoze so,” Marshall said distantly. “Sorry.”
“Yeah.” David leaned over his uncle, supporting himself with his fists on the table. “So now we both have a problem: how the hell are we going to stay alive long enough to make sure Les gets nailed?”
“I’m hopin’ that there lie detector test will do it,” Marshall said. David noticed the edge in his voice and knew that he wasn’t convinced.
“Even if it does,” David said, “that isn’t for another three or four days. Do you have any ideas how we can make sure we don’t get killed before then?”
“I dunno’,” Marshall said.
“Well then, tomorrow morning, first thing, let’s go tell Shaw everything we know. It’s two people now, maybe he’ll listen.”
“Maybe,” Marshall said, nodding, “maybe.”
“Well,” David said, finally noticing his fatigue after so many hours of intense discussion, “it’s getting pretty late. I guess I’ll head on back to the motel. I think we can be pretty sure Les won’t try anything tonight.” He picked up his pack of cigarettes from the table and pocketed them. Shuffling his feet, he started slowly toward the door.
“You know,” Marshall said finally, just as David was reaching for the door knob. “You know, if you’d like, you could sleep on the couch here.”
David turned, regarding his uncle, and saw that he honestly meant it.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I could.”
He was glad to see the smile that spread slowly across Marshall’s face.
XII
At eleven thirty, the Rankin house was silent; the kids were finally all asleep; Leah was lying in bed, staring at the dark rectangle of the ceiling; and Les was slouched in his easy chair. A string of drool hung from the corner of his mouth to his chest. When the telephone rang, he reached for it automatically. “Hello,” he grumbled into the receiver.
From upstairs, Leah called down softly, “Who is it, hon’?”
Covering the phone with his hand, Les shouted, “I got it. It’s okay.” Then, into the phone, he repeated, “Hello.” The brief nap had started to clear his head, but when he heard the voice on the other end of the line, he thought for a moment that he was dreaming.
“Hi, is this Les Rankin?” a woman’s voice said brightly.
“Yeah, who the fuck is this?” With the back of his hand, he wiped away the drool.
“Hi, Les.” There was a long pause, and then, “This is Allison.”
Shaking his head confusedly, Les sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. “What? What the Christ do you want?”
From upstairs, Leah called down, “Les, honey, is everything all right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he shouted. “Allison, you are—”
“Listen, Les, I need you to do a favor for me,” Allison said, and somehow, the smooth, honey-like voice cut through to Les, and his hurt pride began to heal.
“You want me to do you a favor?” he said gruffly. “What a joke.”
“I’m serious,” Allison went on. “Other than David, you’re the only person I know in this town.”
After a long pause, Les said, “Yeah, go on. I’m listening.”
With a sigh that could have melted the phone wires, Allison said, “Well, David and I had a bit of a falling out tonight.”
“Oh, really?” Les said with a snorting laugh. Serves her right, he thought; serves the bitch right.
“Well, you see,” Allison said, “we had kind of an argument, and, well, I walked out on him, planning to go back to New York. I called a cab, but the damn car had something go wrong. The cabbie said he couldn’t fix it until morning, so here I am, stuck in Holland.”
“Are you trying to break my heart or something?” Les asked, pleased by his wit.
“No, but look, Les, I can’t go back to the motel with David; I just can’t. I’m down at the Sawmill, and it’s almost closing time. I was wondering if you could either give me a ride to Portland or—”
“Portland?” Les shouted. “That’s a good hour drive, one way. I ain’t about to go driving down there just ‘cause you and Davie-boy can’t get along.”
“Well,” Allison said, stung but still not giving up, “maybe you know where there’s another motel nearby. I could—” she paused for just the briefest second—“I could pay you for the ride.”
“Umm, really?” Les asked, wary.
“I’m really desperate, Les. I wouldn’t bother you unless it was really necessary.”
“You said you’re at the Sawmill?” Les asked. He shifted his feet to the floor and scratched his crotch.
“Yes, I am. And it’s going to close soon, and I need a place to stay for the night. I can get a ride to the airport in the morning.”
His vision was still blurred, but Les glanced at the time on his wrist watch. “I can be there in . . . give me fifteen minutes,” he said, as an idea began to form in his mind. Maybe after all, there was a way he could even up the score with her. He smiled to himself as he stood up and reached to turn off the TV.
“I’ll be waiting for you out front,” Allison said, her sultry voice lowering.
“Sure thing.” Les hung up the phone and reached under the chair for his shoes. As he walked into the kitchen to get the truck keys, he heard Leah’s footsteps on the stairway.
“Les, is anything the matter?” she asked, from the doorway, her bathrobe held wrapped tightly around her.
Les shook his head and tried not to look directly at her. He knew he looked a mess and was trying hard to clear his mind so he wouldn’t blow this opportunity he’d been given. “Aww, it was that asshole, Schroder,” he said, shifting toward the door. “He’s got a flat out on 302 ‘n wants me to come get him.”
“Why’d he call you?” Leah asked. “Isn’t there an all-night station open?”
Les shrugged. “Dunno’.” He swung open the door and went outside into the warm night. Only faintly, in the distance, could he hear the spring peepers in the Bog. “I won’t be more’n an hour or so,” he said, climbing into the truck and starting it up.
Leah came to the door and stood there, framed in the warm yellow light of the kitchen. A faint breeze caught the back of her neck and made her shiver as she watched Les back the truck out into the street. She waved as he drove away, then went inside, back to the dark bedroom.
Les drove slowly through the downtown to the Sawmill. As he approached, he saw a shadowed figure step out into the light of the streetlight and wave to him. He knew by the curves that it was Allison.
“Hi Les. Gee, thanks a lot,” she said, as he reached over the seat and opened the door for her. “I wouldn’t have bothered you if it wasn’t an emergency.” She hoisted her suitcase into the back of the truck.
Les nodded and grunted. An odd mixture of hominess and anger stirred him.
Allison smoothed down her skirt and then slammed the door shut. Les glanced around to see if there was anyone else on the street who might have seen him pick her up. Main Street appeared to be deserted so, putting the truck into gear, he slowly pulled away from the curb.
“Boy,” Allison said as they drove the empty street to the end of town, “this place really folds up after dark, doesn’t it?”
Les shrugged and drove on in silence. At the Tulsa station, he took the turn onto Little River Road.
“Is this the way out to the highway?” Allison asked, almost immediately suspecting something when she saw that the road narrowed and that there were no street lights.
Les looked over at her and studied her face in the glow from the dashboard. A thin smile spread across his face. “Well,” he answered in a country drawl, “it’s the long way around, for sure, but I didn’t exactly want to drive past my own house this late at night with another woman in my truck. That wouldn’t be smart now, would it?”
Allison shook her head and tried to take what he said at face value, though something made her feel a growing nervousness.
“I mean, after all, you seem to think us hicks are a bunch of stupid jerks. I just wanted you to see that I ain’t as dumb as you think.”
Allison shifted and pressed her back against the door of the truck. By crossing her arms, she felt for the door handle without being detected.
They drove in silence past a few houses with lights on, past the old Logan homestead and then Marshall Logan’s driveway. After that, there was nothing on either side of the road except for the night-stained woods. Then, on the left, there was a view of the open Bog. Allison looked out at the misty, moon-lit expanse and shivered.
“Spooky out there, ain’t it?” Les said, leaning close to her and leering.
Allison would have pulled back further if she could.
“You know, there’s a lot of stories ‘bout what’s out there. ‘Bout who—or what—it might be that killed those kids.”
In a dark corner of her mind, the truth about what was happening in Holland began to stir. “I’m . . . I’m a city girl, myself,” she said tightly. “I never did care for the outdoors.”
“Well, maybe that’s why you just don’t understand us hicks. We love it out here.” Suddenly, Les downshifted and pulled over to the side of the road. Rolling his window down, he stuck his head outside and took a deep breath. The sound of the spring peepers was almost deafening.
“Just listen to that,” Les said. He looked at Allison’s moon-bleached face. With a sudden move he reached toward her. She squealed until she realized that he was merely rolling down her window. The night breeze blew into the truck, carrying with it the swampy aroma of decaying vegetation.
“You never hear anything like that in the city, do you?” Les asked. It gave him a warm sense of pleasure to see the way she shrank away from him.
Allison, biting her lower lip, shook her head and grunted a sound that meant no.
“There’s lots of things in the country you don’t know about.”
“I’ll bet,” Allison said stupidly.
Les snorted and again reached toward her. With a quick flick he pushed down the door lock, then grabbed Allison by the neck and pulled her face toward his.
She struggled, pulling away from the warm wash of his fetid breath, but he had her pinned just right so she couldn’t deliver a blow to his nuts.
Les leaned close, his eyes glowing with the faint moonlight. “There’s something you owe me, you lousy bitch.” He pulled her hair until her head leaned back exposing her slender throat. “You owe me a fuckin’ apology.”
Staring at the roof of the truck, Allison made thick sounds in her throat. Les reached for the row of buttons on her blouse and started to undo them carefully. When his fingers fumbled with the second button, he mumbled a curse and ripped the blouse open. Allison wasn’t wearing a bra, and her heavy breasts heaved temptingly.
“Don’t . . . don’t . . .” she gagged.
Les snorted as he closed one hand over her breast. Still keeping her head held back, he lunged for her neck and planted a thick, wet kiss just below her ear.
“Please,” she said as tears coursed down her face. “Please, let me go. I’m sorry for what I did to you in the bar.”
Again, Les snorted and gave her breast a vicious squeeze.
“Please let me go,” Allison said raggedly.
“Oh, I’ll let you go, all right, just as soon as this idiot country hick gives you a good old-fashioned country fucking!”
Allison squirmed and kicked but to no avail. The pressure of Les’ body weight and the pain of having her hair pulled made her want to scream, but she was unable to inhale enough air to fill her lungs.
Les pulled her forward, released her hair and, holding her down with one hand, began to work her skirt down. Sweat and tears stung her eyes, and she was filled with panic, but still, she could barely repress her laughter when Les worked his pants down and she saw that he was still not erect.
Huffing with the exertion, Les tried but was unable mount her. As he shifted his hips back and forth, Allison saw her chance and quickly jerked her knee up to his groin. With a grunt, Les doubled up. She frantically clawed at the door lock and got it up. Then, snapping the door latch, she crawled and tumbled out onto the gravel by the side of the road.
“You lousy bitch,” Les wailed as he inched his way across the seat toward the open door. Brushing the gravel from her shoulders, Allison stood, paused, and then slammed the door shut with a satisfying thump as it hit Les in the head and knocked him back. Without waiting, she jerked up her skirt, turned, and ran down the road.
Shouting, Les got out his door and started after her. The pain in his groin was like fire, and he crouched as he ran after her. After about a hundred yards, when he was closing the distance, Allison suddenly darted off the side of the road and into the bushes. Her only thought was to get away from Les, to report him and, hopefully, see him in jail on a rape charge.
“You lousy bitch!” Les shouted after her. He stood on the side of the road and listened to her as she crashed through the thick undergrowth. He considered running after her but from experience, he knew that a cautious stalking worked much better. Besides, he knew the Bog; she didn’t.
When the sound of her running receded into the distance, Les breathed deeply and took Allison’s suitcase from the truck—the first step, he thought, in removing all of the evidence.
Allison ran, unconscious of the branches and thorns that ripped her skirt and her exposed skin. Fear—blind panic—filled her as she crashed through the brush. She continually fell down as roots and rocks tripped her up; she was wet up to the knees, and thick stinking mud crusted her in splatters.
Behind her, faintly, she heard Les shouting, and a smile finally came to her face as she considered that she just might get away from the bastard. Her plan was to go as far into the Bog as she thought safe, then swing around and double back to the road. From her walk in the woods with David, she knew there was a path through the thick growth, but so far she hadn’t hit upon it.
After an hour or more—she wasn’t sure how long because, in her panic, she lost all sense of time—she began to admit to herself that she was lost. She continually paused and listened, trying to hear the sound of Les’ pursuit over the chorus of peepers, but there was nothing but the pulsating night sounds of the Bog.
After another hour of walking, Allison was filled with desperation. She knew she was lost and would have to stay in the Bog until morning, when she could find her way out. Her body tingled with fear, anxiety and humiliation. She knew that if it hadn’t been for her damn pride, she would never have ended up this situation. Still, as she even now thought about it, she knew she didn’t want to be back in the motel with David. In a way, she almost saw David and Les as the two equally undesirable paths her life could take.
