Moonbog, page 6
“I’ll get over it a lot sooner than the boy’s parents will,” he said softly. He looked at the manila folder on Latham’s desk. It had Logan written on the top. “Still, it’s quite a shock for the town.”
“Umm.” Latham flicked at the edge of the folder, making a snapping sound that began to irritate David. He looked as though he wanted to say something, and David raised his eyebrows in expectation. Latham puffed vigorously on his cigar and then cleared his throat. “Lot of folks are upset, no doubt. I can’t say as I blame them, though.”
“Well, I’m sure Shaw and the state police will do everything they can,” David said mildly.
His statement was exactly the bait Latham seemed to be looking for. He leaned forward across his desk and said, “Well you know, that’s part of what I’m a bit concerned about. I was over talking to Shaw this morning, and between you and me, I’m not really convinced he’ll do much of an investigation.”
David shrugged, sensing some kind of conflict, and hoped Latham would drop the subject and just get down to a discussion of the Will. The last thing he wanted to do was get involved in small town politics.
“‘Course, you must have heard about those disappearances last summer.”
David nodded.
Latham snorted. “Well, Shaw didn’t do a hell of a bang up job with those.”
“Those were disappearances. This is a murder. Quite different things,” David said, jumping to Shaw’s defense. “With a murder, you have a lot more solid ground to work with. There’s a sergeant from the state police coming up this afternoon, and a couple of detectives from Portland. With help from the A.G.’s office, they should be able to find the murderer.”
Latham shrugged, but his face showed that he still had his doubts. “Shaw’s been police chief in Holland for a long time. He’s never had anything like this before. ‘Til now, it’s been small-time things compared to this. Holland’s had its share of drownings, disappearances last summer, stolen cars, a couple of firebugs having a spree . . . never a murder. I just hope he gets moving a little faster than he was this morning.”
David wanted to let it drop, but he still felt obligated to come to Shaw’s defense. “There’s a lot of paperwork involved. They’ve got photos and casts. Once the state police get here—”
“Well,” Latham interrupted, “I don’t want to get you all involved. About this Will of yours.”
“My grandmother’s Will, not mine.”
“Right. Your grandmother’s. As I told you over the phone last week, we have most of the details ironed out.” He opened the folder, took out the legal document and slid it across the desk to David. “I’ve registered a certificate of death for your father with the county courthouse, so whether he’s alive or dead now, he’s considered legally dead.”
“So if he shows up a few years from now—?”
“The property’s still yours—legally. Actually, all we have to do now is take care of the back taxes and it’s yours.” Latham flicked the ash from his cigar into the ashtray to give his statement authority. “We can take care of everything in a day or two. The only real problem is getting time in my schedule to take care of it.”
“But it’ll be by the end of the week for sure?”
Latham nodded.
“Good. My girl friend and I were hoping to drive further north, since I’m on vacation. Maybe even get up to Quebec.”
“I don’t see why we won’t have it done by Wednesday at the latest.”
“And then I can sell it right away, if I want to?”
“Whatever you want,” Latham said as he sat back in his chair and leisurely puffed on his cigar. “Once the estate is closed, you can do whatever you want. However. . . .”
David paused, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, David clapped, his hands together and rubbed them. Standing up, he said, “I want to get that house sold as soon as possible. It’s been enough of a burden as it is.”
Latham stuck out his hand to shake. “It’s been good doing business with you,” he said as they shook hands firmly.
“I was thinking of driving out to the house later, maybe tomorrow. You know, take a little look around. You have the key, right?”
Latham opened the manila folder and withdrew a smaller manila envelope. “Right here.” He handed the key to David. “If you’d like, I could go out with you. We could walk the property line.”
“You’re forgetting, Mr. Latham, I grew up there. I know how much land there is with the house.”
“I had a surveyor go out there last fall and run a transit. I’d like to see if the stakes lasted the winter.”
“If you don’t mind,” David said flatly, “I’d like to go out on my own.”
“Sure . . . sure.” Latham leaned his knuckles on the desktop. “Well, it’s been good to see you after all these years. I’ll get to work, finish up these little details and get back to you, oh, probably Monday afternoon.”
“You have my number at the motel?”
Latham nodded. David started toward the door.
“You know,” Latham said. David turned. “If you’re going out there, you ought to be careful. After what happened, you never know. An old deserted house like that,” he shrugged, “maybe someone’s hiding out there. Be careful.”
“I’m not worried,” David replied, swinging the office door open. “Whoever he is, he seems to like them a little younger than me.” He paused, and when he thought that Latham might think he was being too flippant, he added, earnestly, “I’ll keep my eyes open.”
VII
The sun was just setting as Marshall worked the key into his front door lock and swung the door open. Just as he stepped inside, a streak of gray fur skittered between his feet and dashed into the kitchen.
“Whoa there, Alfie,” Marshall said, a smile widening on his face. “What’s the big hurry here? Didn’t you catch any nice fat mice this afternoon?”
Marshall walked into the kitchen and carefully placed the package containing a new pane of glass onto the counter. The cat began pacing back and forth at his feet, vigorously rubbing his arched back against the old man’s thin ankles. Marshall looked down at the plump gray cat and smiled.
“You just hold onto your tail there, boy. I’m movin’ as fast as I can.” He went over to the cupboard and took down a can of Nine-Lives. “Tuna ‘n egg. Your favorite,” he said, as he started to grind the can opener. Alfie looked at him and made a soft meow. Marshall scooped the can into a small bowl, placed it on the floor, and stood back smiling as he watched the cat eat eagerly. When half the food was gone, Marshall got some milk from the refrigerator, filled a bowl and placed it in front of the cat. Alfie immediately switched to the milk, lapping it steadily until it was gone, then he finished the tuna and egg.
“You eat like this all the time, you know, you’ll get fat ‘n lazy, won’t get them mice in the barn, you know?” He bent down and picked up both bowls, now empty. Alfie looked up at him with unblinking gold-disk eyes.
Marshall leaned against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “You know, Alfie, Davie’s back in Holland.”
Alfie meowed, then sat on his haunches and began to lick his paws.
“You never met him before, have yah? Stew’s and Louise’s boy.”
Alfie sneezed.
Marshall stroked the edge of his jaw with his thumb and forefinger. “You know, Alf, I just don’t like what I’m thinkin’. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, but there was something . . . something about just knowin’ he’s in town that, well, sorta’ makes me nervous.”
When Alfie didn’t respond, Marshall took it as a signal to continue. “Well, I mean, I knew he’d be comin’ back eventually. He had to. The Will just couldn’t be settled without him.” Marshall snorted loudly, and that made Alfie jump slightly.
“I don’t know what he’s figurin’ on doin’ about the old place. I can tell you one thing, though; I sure as hell hope he don’t decide to settle there.” Marshall knelt down and began stroking the cat’s back. Alfie arched his back and wiggled every time Marshall’s hand got to the base of his tail.
“You know, when he drove by me today, I didn’t think anything about it. I sure as hell didn’t want him to stop. I was glad he didn’t. But I got a . . . a real funny feelin’, like . . . like. . . .” He supressed a shiver. “Like something’s real wrong, or something’s gonna be real wrong.”
Alfie closed his eyes with pleasure and began to purr softly. “Yeah,” Marshall continued, “I know, I’m probably gettin’ carried away feelin’ . . . feelin’ hmmm, yeah.” He shook his head sadly and stood up. His left knee cracked loudly. He winced.
“Well, now that you’re fed, I guess I’ll fix myself something. You want to go outside, or you gonna keep me company? Who knows, there may be some left-overs.”
As if in answer, Alfie leaped up onto the counter in one fluid motion and then sat there silently, as Marshall opened the same cupboard door where he had gotten the cat’s food and reached down a can of baked beans. Opening the can, he spooned the contents into a small pan. The pan had a thin collar of burned-on food, but Marshall made no attempt to clean it off before heating up his supper. Just as he was placing the pan on the gas flame, the telephone rang.
“Who the hell . . . ?” Marshall muttered, as he started walking toward the phone in the anteway. He tensed as he reached for the receiver, thinking it was probably David.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. Logan. This is Bob Hollis.”
“Yeah?” Marshall replied.
“Jeffy’s father. I understand there was a bit of a . . . a problem out your way this afternoon.”
That was when Marshall knew who it was on the phone and why. He felt himself tense with anger. “Yeah, there was. Seems your boy and a friend of his decided to have a bit of fun . . . at my expense.”
“That’s not exactly what I heard, Mr. Logan,” Hollis interrupted. “From what Jeffy tells me, he and a friend of his were playing in the woods and on the way home, they happened to cross your yard. You came out and, at least from the looks of Jeffy’s shirt and the cut on his knee, it looks like you gave him a pretty good whipping.”
“Weren’t at all like that!” Marshall said firmly, his anger rising higher. “Your son and his buddy were soaping up my windows. I caught ‘em red-handed. They even broke my front door window.”
“But Jeffy—”
“And your son got part of what he deserves. If he was my son, I’d tan his hide but good! They was trespassin’ to begin with, and they was vandalizing my property.”
“Jeffy never said anything about that,” Hollis said tightly.
“‘Course not. He was at fault. And if I had caught a hold of his buddy there, I’d have wopped him too.”
“Well, Mr. Logan, I’m sure it was nothing too serious. I’m sure that was no reason to bloody his knee and tear his shirt. He almost had to have stitches.”
Marshall snorted.
“I would think, Mr. Logan, that you might have restrained yourself. There was really no need to—”
“If he was my son, Mr. Hollis, I’d make sure his backsides were so sore he’d have to sleep on his stomach for a week!” With that, Marshall slammed the phone down, making it ring once. He swore violently under his breath as he turned and went back into the kitchen. The beans, unattended, had started to burn on, and Marshall quickly turned off the flame and pushed the pan away. He swore loudly and slammed his fist on the countertop. Startled, Alfie jumped onto the floor and raced to the door.
“Sure, sure, you wanna’ go out,” Marshall said as he stomped over to the door. Alfie darted out the door as soon as it started to open. “Hope you catch a nice fat one,” Marshall said as he slammed the door shut and locked it.
Back in the kitchen, Marshall scooped the burned beans onto a disk. They steamed as he stirred them around with his fork, never taking a mouthful. The telephone call from Robert Hollis had made him lose his appetite quickly, causing a strange mixture of anger and guilt and, maybe, something else.
After staring at his plate of food for almost half an hour, Marshall got up stiffly, went over to the garbage can, and scraped everything into the trash. He left the dirty pan and dish on the counter and walked into the living room.
“They did get what they deserved,” he mumbled to himself, trying to convince himself of that fact. “There’s just no damn way they should get away with something like that!”
He looked over at the phone in the hallway by the door and considered calling Shaw. Maybe the best thing to do would be to formally complain, not really press charges, but at least let Shaw know his side of the story. From the sound of Hollis’ voice, it seemed likely he was going to call the police chief.
Marshall made a move to the phone, then stopped cold. No, he thought, it’d probably not be such a good idea. What with all Shaw was probably dealing with, the murder of the kid and all, the last thing Shaw needed was a piddling complaint like his. Marshall walked back into the living room and went over to the fireplace.
“What’s gonna’ happen?” he asked, picking up a gilt-framed photograph and holding it at arm’s length. It was a picture, slightly out of focus and fading, of a young woman sitting on a rock by a river.
Her legs were crossed, and her hands were folded primly on her lap. Her dress, long and full, allowed just the barest glimpse of her ankles. She was wearing a sun bonnet with the wide brim turned up, and the sun washed over her face, almost removing the details of her pale blue eyes and thin mouth. There was a picnic basket at her feet and the trailing edge of a blanket spread on the ground.
“You must know,” he said, looking from the picture to a spot on the ceiling and back to the picture. “If anyone does . . . if you’re . . . you’re. . . .” His voice caught and broke, and tears started to well up in his eyes. He sniffed loudly. “If you’re up there, maybe you can help me . . . figure this out.” Gently, he replaced the picture in its spot on the mantle.
“Why’d it have to be like this?” he shouted suddenly. “Why? Why?” His tears spilled over and ran down, following the cracks in his face. “Things should have been different! They should have been different!” He covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook violently as the emotion was released.
VIII
The man stood in the darkness beneath the trees that lined the road. Behind him, he could feel the presence of the Bog, and he grew dizzy as he tilted his head back and listened to the sound of the spring peepers. The sound rose in intensity until it blended with the night . . . until it became the night.
His breath came in short gulps, and as the darkness of the night swirled with sound, he felt himself tightening like a snake about to strike. Through the tatters of cloud overhead, he saw the moon rising in the east, over the Bog. With a sustained inhale, he started to walk.
The night pressed close around him, swelling and pulsating with the sound of the spring peepers. And beneath that sound, he heard something else. He stopped where he was and cocked his head to one side as he listened to what he thought he heard.
Was it a voice?
What was it saying to him?
Tension ripped through him as he stood, listening for a moment, then he swiftly left the side of the road and blended into the shadows under the trees.
For long, tense seconds he stood there, his ears burning as he listened for the sound beneath the song of the peepers. Had it been in his imagination, or had he really heard someone speaking?
A sheen of sweat soaked his face, and he peered along the road in both directions to see if anyone was there. Suddenly, two small shapes came out of the woods. The man could tell at this distance that they were boys, but he didn’t recognize them in the darkness. He crouched and listened. The boys were too far away for him to make out what they said, but finally, they parted and started down the road away from each other.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” the boy walking toward the hidden man shouted. His voice was muffled by the night.
“I won’t,” came the distant reply of the other. “See yah later, Eddie.”
The man watched as Eddie stood for a moment, observing his friend leave. Eddie cupped his hands to his mouth, about to yell something further then let them drop to his side. He knew he had to get back for supper fast, but he wanted to take his time until he came up with a good excuse to get him out of trouble in case Old Man Logan called his folks about the window soaping.
Once his friend had disappeared, Eddie turned and started home. It was a dark stretch from where he was to the housing development where he lived, and as he walked, he found himself wishing that the road had at least a few street lights.
The man waited in the darkness until Eddie had passed him. Then, his head spinning with exhilaration, he crept up to the road. Keeping to the shadows, he followed several paces behind Eddie. That little shit, he thought, he should know better than to be out in a place like this after dark. A soft laughter escaped him and, although the sound didn’t seem to carry far, Eddie suddenly stopped in the middle of the road and turned.
“Sammy?” ‘Sat you?” he said tightly.
The man froze in his tracks and hoped Eddie couldn’t see him where he stood.
Tension rose, he could almost feel it crackling like lightening between them as he waited and Eddie listened.
“Is anybody there?” Eddie said, his voice tighter still. The man remained immobile and almost laughed aloud as a thrill gripped his stomach.
Finally, Eddie started to walk toward home again, but the man could tell that he still didn’t feel safe because every now and then he would stop and look around behind him. A few times he called out softly for whoever might be there to reveal himself, but when his only answer was the chirring of the peepers, he started to walk faster and then, finally, broke out into an easy trot.
The man felt his anger rise when the boy started running; he knew that it would be difficult to continue following without getting caught too soon—before he could surprise his prey. Cursing under his breath, he started to jog along, pacing himself behind the boy, hoping he wouldn’t hear him coming up behind.
