Moonbog (34 page)

“So who do you think it is?” Schroder said, pressing.

“I ain’t got the foggiest goddamned idea, but it sure as hell ain’t Logan or anyone else from around here. It’s gotta’ be some pervert from . . . from someplace else,” Wescott answered. His voice trailed away with lessening conviction.

“Like maybe Logan,” Schroder said sharply. “He’s from New York, right?”

Wescott shrugged.

“What do you think, Les?” Schroder asked suddenly.

The question surprised Les. He spilled some beer when he turned and looked at Schroder. “I . . . I dunno’.”

“You knew David when you were kids. You and he were buddies in high school. You think he could be the one?”

“Beats my ass,” Les replied casually. His stomach was churning and he felt as though someone were choking him.

“Well,
I
think it’s him,” Schroder insisted. “And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if his uncle—old man Logan—
was
in on it with him. No sir-ee. That whole family always
was
kinda’ strange.”

“Frank,” Wescott said in a calm, fatherly tone, “why don’t you just get yourself another drink, sit down, and try to calm down just a bit, huh? I think your imagination’s in high gear; you oughtta’ downshift.”

Schroder turned away, disgruntled.

“Hey, come on, Les. Drink up!” Wescott said, slapping him roughly on the back.

Les took a large gulp of beer, then slipped the half-full glass onto the bar. He covered his mouth with his hand and belched softly, then finished the glass with four huge gulps.

“Lemme buy you another,” Wescott said. He took his wallet from his pocket and slapped a fiver on the bar.

“Naw. I gotta’ get goin’,” Les said. He straightened up and tugged at his belt. Beneath his shirt and jacket, he felt the cool pressure of the revolver against his side.

“You mean to tell me that you’re gonna’ leave here after only two beers?” Wescott’s voice rose with amazement. “Am I talkin’ to the
real
Les Rankin, for Christ’s sake? Come on! Hey! Over here. Another beer!”

“Shit, man, I gotta’ get goin’,” Les said.

“Not until you have another drink,” Wescott said, forcing Les back to his position at the bar-rail.

“Yeah, well, I guess one more won’t hurt. But then I gotta’ get goin’. It’s almost dark.”

VII

T
he sun had set, and the western sky was deepening to purple as Les drove down the Little River Road. He had stayed at the Sawmill for three “last” beers, and the alcohol was beating on his head with soft hammer blows. The car window was open, and the cool evening air rushed over him, refreshing him and just taking the edge off his drunkenness. He knew that any other night he would have been blind drunk by now.

Reaching down to his waistband, he felt the bulge of his pistol and patted it. That reassured him slightly and forced him to keep his mind on what he had to do.

All afternoon he had been plagued by one dominant thought —

—How much does that fucking old man know?

How much does he know, and what the Christ is he gonna’ tell Shaw at that lie detector test?

If Marshall had seen him uncover the Hollis boy’s body, there was no doubt that he would have said something to Shaw then and there in the office.

Why the hell didn’t he say something?

Of course, it was possible that Marshall hadn’t seen anything until he had the body out on the path. Still, Les had to admit to himself, only a fool would have thought he was not trying to hide the body.

So why hadn’t he said anything there in the office?

If the old fucker didn’t know, he must at least
suspect
the truth. By all rights, Les knew Shaw should at least suspect him of something, but old man Logan couldn’t have said too much . . . not yet, anyway.

“That may be why he’s waiting until the lie detector tests,” Les muttered, punctuating with a loud burp.

It was possible, Les allowed, that Marshall didn’t know or suspect the truth. That was a possibility, but with even the slightest chance that the old fucker was going to talk, well. . . .

Les patted the revolver again and let a thin smile twist the corners of his mouth upward. He felt content, knowing that tonight he would find out—for sure exactly what that old geezer knew.

When Les came to the driveway of the old Logan homestead, he slowed the car to a bare crawl. He considered dousing his headlights, but then thought that if he
did
meet anyone on the road, it would look too suspicious. Around the next bend in the road was Marshall’s driveway. He took the turn, dropped the car into neutral, and coasted to a stop just at the foot of the driveway. He leaned forward, scanned the sloping land that went up to the old man’s house.

For several minutes, he sat there, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and peering up at the dark slash of the roof—it was all that he could see of the house from the road. He debated driving right up to the house but considered that if Marshall did have an “accident,” he wouldn’t want to chance having his car seen up there. He put the car into gear and drove slowly down the road until he came to a rutted, dirt turn-off. He pulled in behind a row of trees that would screen his car from the road, cut the motors and lights, and then stepped out.

He stood beside the car, aware that he was breathing rapidly and his heart was racing. He calmed himself, trying to feel secure that, after tonight, he would no longer have the threat of the old man to bother him.

Off in the Bog, the spring peeper chorus swelled in the darkness. What at first sounded like distant jingle bells, slowly rose in intensity, filling the night. The sound began to work on Les’ already overwrought nerves, and he imagined that he heard another sound. This sound seemed to compete with the peepers song as it grew steadily, braiding in and out of the darkness. It swelled and rose until it joined with the song of the peepers, fusing the night sounds into one long, pulsating scream.

A whimper escaped from Les as he turned, leaned his forehead against the still warm car hood, and jammed his fingers into his ears to stop the sound that grew to maddening intensity. With his ears blocked he could still hear the peepers’ song, but it dulled it enough to give him a moment to regain his composure. The screaming sound receded into the night.

He lost sense of time as he leaned there, pressing his ears closed, fighting the panic that rose and fell in washing waves, whirring with dentist-drill intensity.

This is no goddamn time to fall apart, for Christ’s sake!
he shouted in his mind, trying to force the sound of the peepers further back.
Hang on! Hang on!

His eyes focused on the dull reflection of the night sky on the hood of his car. His breath misted over the metal with small droplets. His heart was still racing with heavy, sledge-hammer beats, but he felt the tide of fear—or whatever—slowly recede.

He slowly removed his fingers from his ears, keeping them poised, ready to jam them back if he heard that bone-chilling scream. He gritted his teeth, waiting to see if he could listen to the night sounds without hearing . . . something else.

A shallow, ragged expulsion of breath shook his shoulders as he stood up and looked around. The night pressed closely like a thin veil. Straightening up, he hitched his pants and then patted the hidden revolver. That brought back a small measure of reassurance, but in the corner of his mind, Les feared that the sounds of the Bog could at any moment turn on him. He grunted once, piglike, and then started down the road toward Marshall’s house.

As he came up the driveway, he saw that there was just one light on in the old man’s house. The gravel of the dirt driveway crunched underfoot so he walked on the thin grass to muffle his approach.

The house stood out starkly against the night sky. Les allowed himself the childish impression that it was a haunted house—the home of the boogeyman. He tingled with the excitement of a ten-year-old as he challenged himself to go boldly—right up to the house.

As he got nearer to Marshall’s house, Les was grateful that the old man didn’t have a dog to warn of his coming. The old fucker just had a flea-bitten old cat that everyone said he talked to like it was his goddamned wife or something.

At the foot of the walkway Les paused, watching the one lit window with intensity, waiting to see if Marshall was home or had just left a light burning. The yellow rectangle of light seemed warm, almost comforting, and Les was a bit angry that it removed the haunted house atmosphere that helped spur him on.

Suddenly, a vague shadow passed by the window. Les dropped to the ground and slid the revolver from his waistband. He flattened himself, as close to the ground as he could while still keeping his eyes on the window. The shape didn’t reappear again, but it had been enough to let Les know that Marshall was home.

“Time you had a bit of an accident, old man,” he whispered as he got onto his hands and knees and made his way across the lawn to the front door.

He crouched on the doorstep, his breath rapid now as he considered what to do next. He knew he didn’t want to burst in on the old man and just waste him—that would be the quickest, but Les wanted to make sure the old fucker had plenty of time to realize he was being hunted. Hell, if he got so scared and died of a heart attack, all the better; there was no way a heart attack could be traced through ballistics. The revolver was Les’ last option, not his first.

Pressing his ear against the door, Les listened for sounds of activity in the house. Faintly, he could hear the garbled sound of Marshall talking. At first, Les thought he might be on the telephone, but then he figured he was probably just talking to his cat. He couldn’t make out any of what Marshall was saying.

Suddenly, a loud crash from within made Les jump. He hopped off the front steps and pressed his back flat against the wall. His revolver was pointed at the front door.

“Alf! For Christ’s sake! What in the hell did yah do that for?”

There was the sound of heavy footsteps inside. “Come on! . . . Come on!”

The outside light snapped on. As the front door started to swing open, Les dashed around the corner of the house and ducked behind the woodpile beside the barn. He peered up over the split wood and watched as Marshall tossed the cat out into the night.

“You get on outside ‘n find a mouse or somethin’. Leave my damn supper alone!”

Marshall stood in the doorway a moment, watching the cat, who sat in the walkway calmly licking his paw to show that he was completely unruffled. The faint light behind Marshall made him look thin and frail almost ghostlike, Les thought, tightening his grip on his revolver. He pressed his chin against the splintery wood and whispered, “Only I’m gonna’ waste you away tonight! You ain’t gonna’ haunt
me
any more!”

“Go on!” Marshall shouted, waving his hands, “go find your own damn supper.”

Alfie waited one moment longer, then sauntered off into the field. Marshall went back inside, and the outside light winked off.

Les walked slowly from the woodpile to the side of the house. He forced himself to breathe small, shallow breaths, even though in his excitement he found that difficult. He edged his way along the side of the house, keeping his back against the wall until he was directly under the lighted window.

Inside, he could hear the sound of clattering dishes and silverware as Marshall apparently cleaned up the mess his cat had made. Les could hear the faucet running and the faint sound of Marshall talking to himself.

Once the clattering had stopped, Les decided to chance a peek inside to see what the old man was doing. Slowly, he turned to face the wall and straightened up until just the corner of one eye was above the windowsill. Les breathed a sigh of relief to see that Marshall was sitting at the kitchen table with his back to the window.

Marshall was eating, sopping up gravy with a crust of bread. Les chuckled to himself, thinking that Marshall had probably scraped the meal right off the floor and put it on his plate. For some reason, that made Les’ disgust with Marshall deepen, and he was thankful that tonight he would be getting rid of him for good.

Marshall ate quickly; it wasn’t long before he got up from the table and walked to the sink to rinse his dish. Les jerked his head down and listened to the sound of running water. Once it had stopped he cautiously looked in through the window again. Marshall had filled the tea kettle, put it over the blue gas flame of the stove, and resumed his seat at the table. Les noticed that he was reading the newspaper.

While Marshall leaned over the paper, Les noticed that the paper looked old, yellow and brittle. Maybe it was the dim lighting of the kitchen, he thought, but it looked as though Marshall was reading something other than today’s news. Another thing that struck Les as odd was that Marshall never turned the pages of the paper. He read for over three minutes and never turned from page one.

Whatever that old fucker’s reading, it sure must be interesting
, Les thought.

Even when the water in the kettle was boiling, blowing a plume of steam up at the ceiling, Marshall lingered over the front page of the newspaper. Finally, he glanced at the boiling water and walked over to the stove. He took the kettle from the stove and reached for his stained coffee mug on the sideboard.