Moonbog (26 page)

Les jumped with a start when he felt Allison grip his knee beneath the table. She locked his eyes with her gaze and, leaning forward some more, ran her hand slowly up his leg on the inside of his thigh.

“It’s too bad she’s home,” Allison said, her voice just above a whisper. “I’ve got an idea.”

Les glanced nervously over his shoulder at the rest of the barroom. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to them, and he relaxed slightly, but it was difficult when Allison’s hand was making slow progress up his leg. She was serious, he realized, and the combination of beers he had drunk and his intense horniness made him feel as though he was about to pass out.

“I . . . uh . . I . . . uh . . .“ he stammered, looking deeply into Allison’s eyes—they were wide with invitation. Her hand continued its progress up the inside of his leg. Les was sweating. He shifted forward in his seat, allowing his legs to spread open. Allison finally reached his crotch, and she gripped him tightly.

“Do
you
have any ideas?” she asked, her voice low and intense.

Les leaned his head back and moaned softly as Allison squeezed and rubbed him. Her fingers fumbled playfully with the tab of his fly zipper, then she grasped him harder, applying steadily increasing pressure.

“Awww, Jesus,” Les said sharply, as the pleasure he was feeling slowly began to turn into pain. The pressure of Allison’s fingers grew steadily, and a tight smile spread across her face.

Les tried to pull away, but Allison held him. The pain in his groin intensified. “Hey, for Christ’s sakes! Take it easy!”

She gave him a rough tug, and the pain swelled into his stomach. He braced his feet against the opposite seat and tried to push away, but that only made it worse. He thought fleetingly that he was like an animal in a trap, and trying to get away only made it worse.

“Let . . . let go, for Chrissakes!”

Allison continued to smile and continued to apply pressure.

“Let go! Christ!”

Allison let out a soft laugh and then released the pressure. She shifted in her seat and sat up straight.

“It
feels
like a cock,” she said in a sharp whisper, “
just
like a cock, only
smaller
.” And then she laughed out loud.

Les, wincing from the pain he still felt, twisted away, getting ready to stand up. His fists were balled up, and he was ready to smash her face in. “You lousy fuckin’ bitch!” he hissed. He stood up and leaned over toward her across the table. At first Allison cringed back, but then she sat up straight and smiled at him mockingly.

“What’s the matter, lover boy, can’t you take it?”

Les shook his fist in front of her face. “You’re just goddamn fuckin’ lucky we’re not alone. I’d make sure you never tried that kinda’ shit again.”

Allison snorted loudly and then, still smiling, said, “Well I
would
be interested—if you had anything down there.”

Les shook with fury. His knuckles whitened and his head was swirling with insult and injury. He picked up his empty beer mug and slammed it back down onto the table, shattering it into tiny shards. Allison squealed and jerked back, shielding her face as glass flew into the air.

“You’re just goddamn good and lucky I don’t ram this down your fuckin’ throat!” he said, threatening her with the broken handle. “Goddamn New York City slut! That’s all you are—just a lousy goddamn cunt!”

“Go on! Get out of here!” Allison said.

Les glanced over his shoulder and saw that everyone in the bar was watching. He tried to look strong, in control of the situation, but his face was flushed with red.

“You’re the one who don’t belong here,” he said with a shaking voice. He looked down at his hand and saw that he had cut it when he slammed the glass down. Blood was flowing freely, dropping onto the tabletop in large drops. He was squeezing the mug handle so tightly that it made the blood spurt.

Allison was still trying to put up a brave front. She sat erect, her jaw firmly set. “Get out of here, you pig.

Les let the mug handle drop to the table. It was smeared pink with blood. Allison breathed with slight relief, grateful that he hadn’t tried to cut her. Les stared at his bleeding hand. He flexed and unflexed the fingers, watching as the blood ran down his forearm. Suddenly, so fast that Allison barely had time to react, he reached forward and grabbed her with his other hand. Holding her tightly, he drew his bloody hand back and then slapped her across the face. The impact made a sharp, wet sound and knocked her back against the seat. The side of her head was splattered with blood.

“Now I’m gonna’ go clean myself up, and when I come back, if you’re still here, I’m gonna’ make sure they throw you outta’ here. You understand?”

Allison was still dazed. She sat there rubbing the side of her head. Her eyes were wide and watery. “You . . . I. . . .” Her eyes darted around the barroom, looking for someone to come to her assistance. Everyone sat perfectly still.

Allison shifted to stand, grabbing her cigarettes and lighter. A tense silence filled the barroom, broken only by the sounds Allison made as she readied herself to leave.

“You’re nothing but a lousy cock-sucker,” she whispered harshly as she started for the ladies room.

Les jerked his bloody hand back as though to hit her again, and Allison dodged back. A smile played across Les’ face when he realized that—now—she was afraid of him.

“You don’t pull that kind of shit with me,” he said.

“Lousy cock-sucker!” With that, Allison dashed off into the ladies room.

Once Allison was gone, Les eased himself down into the booth. In spite of everything, he felt good because he felt he had won—he had put her in her place for fucking around with him!

A waitress came over to the table and started sweeping up the broken glass. “That ain’t no way to treat a lady, lover-boy,” she said mockingly.

Les looked at her and sneared. “Fuck off!”

“Once she’s gone, lover-boy, why don’t you settle your bill and get out of here, too.”

Les didn’t reply. He was sitting there in a state of near shock, studying the cut on his hand. It had stopped bleeding, but after flexing it once or twice, the blood started flowing again.

The waitress had the glass swept up, but before she turned away, she shook Les on the shoulder. “Don’t you think you oughtta’ clean yourself up?”

Les nodded but did not move. He looked up suddenly when he heard the ladies room door open and Allison, looking as fresh and clean as when she first walked into the Wagon Wheel, strode toward the door. She made for the exit without a backward glance at Les or anyone else. The bartender, Herb standing behind the bar, made a motion as if to speak to Allison, to ask her to pay for her drinks, but he thought better of it and remained silent. As the door hissed shut behind her, Luke looked over at Les, hooked his thumb in the direction of the door, and mouthed the word: “Out.”

Les got up and ambled toward the door. The waitress followed behind him, the glass tinkling in her dustpan.

“And lover-boy,” she said softly to Les’ back, “maybe you oughtta’ think about not coming back until you learn some manners.”

Les could feel her smirking behind his back. At the door, he faced her, mumbled something she couldn’t make out, and then slapped his hand against the door to open it. He left a large, bloody palm print on the light colored wood.

IV

“I
can’t hear yah, Jerry, can you get up on a rise?” Shaw checked to make sure the antenna on his walkie-talkie was fully extended, then he twisted the squelch dial back and forth. The blast of static was undiminished. Jerry’s voice crackled and faded, but Shaw thought he heard him say he was already on top of a hill.

“Could you make out what the hell Wescott said?” Shaw asked, turning to his deputy, Del.

Del shrugged. “I thought I heard him say something about a sneaker.”

“Or a speaker?” Shaw added. “Maybe he was complaining about the speaker.” Shaw looked angrily at his walkie-talkie and shook it with frustration. “Damn! Things never work when you need ‘em. How can I conduct a search with these friggin’ toys?” He twisted the volume all the way up, pressed the talk button, and held it close to his mouth. “Repeat, Jerry, I didn’t copy. Repeat. Over.”

“Better,” came the reply after a moment or two of static.

“OK. Good. Now, what was it you said?”

Jerry Wescott’s voice crackled through the air. “I said that Lenny found a sneaker.”

“I was right,” Del said softly, mostly to himself.

“We think it might be the Hollis boy’s,” Wescott continued. “Is Bob nearby so we can meet up and get an I.D.?”

Shaw depressed the talk button. “Far as I know, he’s at home. You want me to go get him? We’re at the end of Briar Road. Over.”

“We’re ‘bout half mile from old man Logan’s place. We could cut through, along the edge of the Bog. Be there in about twenty minutes or so.”

Shaw felt a soft tapping on his shoulder. Del was standing close to him. “We could go pick George up and drive over. Meet him at the end of Little River Road, near Marshall’s.”

Shaw nodded. “Yeah, that’d probably be quicker.” He relayed the information to Wescott, telling him they would meet him at the dead end of the road in fifteen minutes.

Shaw and Del got into the cruiser and drove slowly down the road toward the Hollis’ house. “You know, Del,” Shaw said, heaving a heavy sigh, “the bitch of it is that I don’t know if I want it to be the boy’s sneaker or not. If it isn’t his, then we’re still in the damn dark as to where he is.” Shaw sighed again when the Hollis house came into view. “And if it is his sneaker, then we can pretty much assume that the boy is dead.”

“And maybe connect him with the Wilson case,” Del added flatly.

As the cruiser pulled into the driveway, both Bob and Linda Hollis came to the side door and looked out. Their faces were drawn and pale. Bob swung the door open and took a step onto the porch. “Anything?” he asked tensely.

Shaw started slowly up the walkway, stopping at the foot of the stairs. “Bob,” he said solemnly, “I’d like you to come along with us.”

Before he could say more, Linda Hollis let out a piercing screech, like a wounded animal. “
You found him? You found my baby? Is he all right? Where is he? Where is he?
” She pushed past her husband and raced down the steps. Running over to Shaw, she grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently.

“
Did you find him? Did you find my baby?
” she wailed. Her fingers dug into his jacket like claws, hard enough to make Shaw wince. She looked up at him, her face twisted with misery, eyes welling with tears. “
Did you find him? Is he all right?
”

Shaw gently raised his arms and broke the hold she had on him. He took both of her hands and gave them a firm, restraining squeeze. By this time, Bob had joined them, and he put his arm gently around his wife’s shoulders. He was calm, sensing that whatever news there was, it was not good.

“Chief?” he said simply.

Shaw took a breath and let it out slowly. “We haven’t found your son yet, Linda,” he said calmly. The tears in her eyes welled over, and she sank back into her husband’s embrace. Bob stood staunchly and looked evenly at Shaw.

For a few painful seconds no one spoke, and in that time Shaw found himself wishing he had taken his wife’s advice and quit the police force before all of this had started. This was the part of the job he couldn’t take, and he vowed that as soon as this incident was solved, he would retire; this was enough for one lifetime.

“We have . . . uhh . . . we have found what might be a clue—a sneaker. I’d like you to come along with me, Bob, and identify it if you could.”

Bob nodded and turned his wife around. “Sure, Chief. Hon’, why don’t you wait in the house. Call Jenny and ask her to come over.”

Linda Hollis nodded numbly, her glistening eyes made her look like she had been blinded. Suddenly, she stiffened. “No!” she said harshly. “No! I’m coming too!”

Bob hesitated. “Hon’ . . . I—”

“I’m not about to sit home, waiting to hear. Not knowing’s worse than knowing the worst! I’m coming too!”

Bob looked at Shaw, who subtly shrugged his shoulders to indicate that it was his decision. “OK,” Bob said. They all got into the cruiser silently. The only sound in the car during the drive through town was what came over on the radio and Linda Hollis’ sobbing.

Shaw drove grimly. Two days of searching had turned up nothing, and he was beginning to feel that, even if the sneaker proved not to belong to Jeffy Hollis, the chances that he was alive were steadily decreasing. If the sneaker was Jeffy’s, it would at least help him narrow down the search area. With the man-power available to him, he could use the location of the sneaker as the center point and then scour the surrounding Bog ten times over if he had to.

Shaw turned onto the Little River Road at the Tulsa station. The cruiser swayed smoothly along the twists and turns of the road. When he drove past the old Logan homestead, Shaw found himself staring up at the old, unoccupied place. He glanced over and saw that Del was looking up at the house, too.