Moonbog (46 page)

“You think,” Marshall said snidely. “I hope you’re right about that. When I came home today and saw Alfie . . . saw Alfie like that—” His voice choked off and David, embarrassed, found that he had to busy himself with unloading the groceries so he wouldn’t have to look at Marshall.

After a moment, David said, “We probably don’t want to mess things up too much, do we?” He looked at the thick layer of dust on the counter and appliances. He drew a squiggly design on the countertop, then wrote his initials.

The power was shut off, of course, so the pump didn’t bring any water up from the well. The gas to the stove had long ago been disconnected. David twisted the stove dials futilely. “Shit, real good thinking. I brought some instant coffee.”

Marshall laughed aloud.

“Oh, well, at least we have some milk. Do you want a peanut butter sandwich?”

Marshall nodded, and David opened the loaf of Wonder Bread and the jar of Skippy. Leaning against the counter, they ate their sandwiches and drank their milk in silence. When they were through, David wiped the knife blade clean and put everything back into the bag. He patted his shirt pocket and took out his cigarettes.

“You ain’t planning to stink up the place with them cigarettes now, are you?” Marshall asked sharply.

“I
had
thought to,” he said, putting one in his mouth and holding the tip over the oil lamp chimney. After a few vigorous puffs, he pulled back and exhaled a thick blue cloud.

“Well, gimme’ one of them too,” Marshall said. David looked at him, surprised. “I left the house in such a hurry, and I was so worked up about Alfie, that I forgot to bring my pipe.”

David shook another cigarette from the pack and handed it to Marshall. He lit it the way David had lit his. With a satisfied exhale, he leaned his back against the counter.

“God, this is weird, isn’t it?” David said. He looked around the kitchen where the light from the lamps pushed the darkness up into the cobwebbed corners. “It’s like it isn’t real, like it’s a dream and I’m going to wake up in my apartment in New York. It’s so weird being back in this old place.”

Marshall grunted and exhaled smoke that hung suspended over his head in the still air of the house.

David sighed. “A lot of living went on in this kitchen, in this house. God, the memories.”

“A lot of dying, too,” Marshall said distantly.

“It’s an old house. It’s seen a lot through the years. Imagine the stories this kitchen has to tell.” He inhaled deeply, trying to remember how the kitchen smelled when he was young.

“You wouldn’t want to hear ‘em all,” Marshall said, “and if this here’s a dream you’re having, I’d have to say it’s one helluva nightmare.”

Suddenly sobered, David looked at Marshall and smiled weakly. Suddenly, Marshall tensed, staring at the blank panes of the kitchen window.

“What, what is it?” David asked. “Did you hear something?”

Marshall stood for a moment longer, tensed, then unwound slowly. “No . . . I guess not. Just my imagination actin’ up, I guess.”

“I think we’re both a bit too worked up,” David said. “Christ, we’re acting like someone’s got us by the throat.”

Marshall’s face eased a bit, and he said, “We used to call it, ‘getting caught by the short hairs’.” They both laughed, and to David the glow of the lamp seemed just a bit warmer.

After they had finished their cigarettes, David picked up one of the lamps. “Let’s take a little tour of the old place. How long’s it been since you’ve been here?”

Marshall shook his head slowly. “Look, Davie, this house ain’t yours and it ain’t mine. You signed it over today, and I just don’t think we should mess the place up.

“It was just a binder I signed, so the house is still mine for now.”

“Still,” Marshall said, walking over to David, “I don’t think we should go pokin’ around, you know?

Let’s just make sure the kitchen’s clean, ‘n then get settled in the living room, get the sleeping bags spread out for the night.”

“We aren’t going to use the bedrooms?” David asked.

“I don’t think it’d be a good idea to mess the place up. We can sleep downstairs.”

“I’ll bet you’re going to let me sleep on the floor while you take the couch, too, right?”

“Sure,” Marshall answered, “age does have its advantages.”

David wanted to disagree with Marshall, but he knew that if he was determined to sleep downstairs, he wouldn’t budge on that for anything. And the thought of sleeping upstairs alone made David feel uncomfortable. He finally decided that it would be best not to stir up any dust or memories.

“Let’s get settled,” David said finally. They each took a lamp and a sleeping bag and walked into the living room.

The living room was just as it had been left eight years ago, after the death of David’s grandmother —just as he had left it when he had come out to look the place over. The sheet-covered furniture smelled musty, and David saw the wrinkles on the couch where just a few days ago he had fallen asleep. Marshall saw the messed up sheet too and pointed it out to David. David explained to him what had happened last Saturday.

“You mean to tell me,” Marshall said, sounding surprised, “that you actually have fond memories about this place?”

David shrugged his shoulders. “Sure. Why not?” He looked around the living room, sweeping the oil lamp in a wide arc that sent the shadows of the furniture reeling wildly. The effect was dizzying. “It’s where I grew up, and it’s kind of nice to come back and and think about everything that happened.”

He paused and looked at Marshall’s deep frown.

“Why do you talk about this house like—Christ, like it’s haunted or has a curse or something?”

Marshall said nothing. He placed his lamp down on one of the end tables, then dropped his sleeping bag onto the couch before sitting down. David placed his lamp on the mantle. He took out another cigarette and lit it with the lamp. Then he sat down on the couch next to Marshall.

“Really, though, Uncle Marshall,” he said, staring into the black rectangle of the fireplace like it was a television, “why do you? Ever since I came back to Holland, you’ve been talking about this house like it was hell living here.”

Marshall snorted and stared ahead unblinking.

“Sure, things weren’t perfect here. I remember how you and my father never got along that well. And Grammy, I know she ran the family like it was bootcamp or something. Hell—” he exhaled with a whistle “every family’s got its problems, but it wasn’t all
that
bad.”

“For you, maybe it wasn’t,” Marshall said. There was a far-away look in his eyes, but suddenly he shook his head as though waking up. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He made a rumbling noise clearing his throat. “That cigarette just ‘bout killed me. I’ll take my pipe any day.”

David stood up and walked over to the fireplace, scooching down in front of it. “Do you think we ought to light a fire tonight? It might get pretty cold.”

“Naw. We’ll be all right. ‘Sides, a fire—smoke comin’ out of the chimney would draw some attention. It might look a bit strange if someone was passin’ by.”

David nodded. “Yeah, especially with the search going on.”

Marshall’s head snapped up, fixing David with a stare. “Search? What search you talkin’ ‘bout, boy?”

“Well,” David said, standing up and leaning his elbow on the mantle. He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the fireplace. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but I guess I might as well. This afternoon, after we talked to Latham, I went over to see Les.”

“What?” Marshall was stunned.

“I visited Les at his house,” David replied evenly. “Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying he wasn’t out at your house sometime today to . . . to do what he did to Alfie. I wasn’t there long, but I wanted to talk to him; you know, feel him out if he acted guilty or nervous or something.”

Marshall’s hands in his lap clenched and unclenched as his tension rose. “And. . . .”

“And,” David continued, “while I was there, his oldest boy, Robbie, came in and said that he thought his younger brother Sammy might be missing . . . like those other kids.”

“Jesus H.”

David nodded his head. “They went swimming right after school, and Sammy said he was heading right home—only he never made it.”

“Missing? . . . Like the others?” Marshall muttered. He looked blankly at David, his jaw working as he thought over what that could mean.

“That puts, as Shaw said to me, a pretty big hole in your theory.”

Marshall sat there on the couch, silently thinking. David began pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

Suddenly Marshall shouted, “Wait a minute! That don’t change a damn thing. No-sir-ee. It’s still possible that Les did it. He might have—”

“
Possible
, sure,” David interrupted. “It’s possible. That’s exactly what I said to Shaw. But if Les was going to do something like that—kill his own kid to shift suspicion away from him—he would have to have done it just about the time I got there. When I got to his house, he looked pretty relaxed. He’d been sitting on the back porch and, from the looks of things, he’d been drinking all afternoon.”

“So Shaw thinks I’m wrong, that it was someone else who killed them other kids, right?”

David nodded. “I hate to admit it, but
I’m
Les’ alibi.”

“So Shaw and Porter must think I’m wacko.” Marshall said and whistled through his teeth as he shook his head.

“He never said that,” David said kindly.

“Yeah, right.” Marshall snickered. “Christ, he’s probably got
my
name right there at the top of his list of suspects. Do you think that’s possible?”

“It’s just as possible as Les being the prime suspect.”

“Listen to me, boy,” Marshall shouted, suddenly angry. “I know what I seen. I may be old, but I sure as shit ain’t blind or stupid!”

“I never said you were,” David said calmly. He came over and sat down on the couch beside Marshall. Marshall pulled away from him slightly. They sat quietly for a while, each staring at the cold fireplace, lost in private thought.

“You still believe me, don’t you?” Marshall asked.

Instead of answering, David put his finger to his lips for silence and twisted his head around to look at the living room windows.

“What?” Marshall whispered.

They both listened tensely for several seconds. Then, faintly, the sound David thought he had heard was repeated. It was a dull thump that seemed to come from outside.

Keeping in a crouch, David ran to the windows. He kept low and then slowly raised his head up over the edge of the sill.

“Anything?” Marshall whispered hoarsely.

David hushed him with a quick wave of his hand. He eased the yellow stained curtains apart carefully, making just enough of a slit for him to see outside. He could see part of the front lawn and just a corner of the driveway. The yard was dark, silent—nothing moved out there. But the quiet was ominous to David, and a primitive sense of threat made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

“Anything?” Marshall repeated.

“I can’t see anything,” David said. Keeping low, he skittered over to another window and peered outside.

“I’ll bet you a good piece of money that it’s that bastard Les,” Marshall said.

David grunted and nodded, easing the curtains open just a bit more. Still, he couldn’t see anyone outside, but then again, if it was Les, he wouldn’t be standing right out in the open.

“Probably a mouse in the wall or a branch hitting the roof or something,” David said. To prove he was unconcerned, he stood up in front of the window, but even to him his voice sounded unconvincing.

“Or a rat wearing combat boots,” Marshall said.

“Naw, there’s no one out there,” he said finally. He shut the curtains, but not before taking one last quick glance outside. He came over to the couch. “Just a branch or something. I’m not worried,” he said, but he spoke unnaturally loud, like a frightened child challenging the pressing darkness.

“You don’t have to worry. He ain’t after you.”

“If I’m with you,” David said, “then I’d have to guess he’d be after me, too.”

“Do you think we ought to take turns staying awake tonight to keep watch?” Marshall asked.

“That might not be such a bad idea,” David said. He regarded the flameless fireplace, wishing earnestly that he could calm his uncle’s fears; but he found that he shared them—he wasn’t convinced that they were safe by a long shot.

After a moment, David looked over at Marshall. The man seemed to have aged years in the past two days. Maybe it was just the light of the oil lamps, but his face looked pasty, cracked, worn. David felt with a sudden, deep shock that Marshall was dead already—his face looked so drained of life, so skeletal.

“What is it, Davie?” Marshall asked, turning toward him suddenly.

“Huh?” David was startled, caught off guard.

“You’re lookin’ at me funny.”

“No, uhh, no, I was . . . just thinking, that’s all,” David replied with embarrassment.

“Seein’ the family resemblance, huh?” Marshall said.