Moonbog (48 page)

S
omewhere between Johnny’s opening monologue and the first guest, Leah nodded off. The tranquilizers the doctor had prescribed for her would have stopped a horse. She hadn’t wanted to sleep, but the strain of waiting to hear if Sammy had been found had worn her down; the tranquilizer had done the rest.

She slept fitfully, though, kicking her legs about as though she had a nervous disorder. The sudden blast of the town firehorn startled her to wakefulness. She jumped to her feet, banging her shins on the coffee table. Dashing over to the TV, she cut the volume down and patiently counted the horn blasts on her fingers.

“Ten-ten,” she whispered softly to herself. “Ten-ten local emergency.” She guessed that it was to alert everyone that the search was continuing.

Footsteps sounded upstairs, and Robbie called softly from the head of the stairs. “Mom? Is that a fire?”

“No . . . I don’t think so,” she answered. Her voice sounded distant, strangely dissociated to her. Probably the drugs, she concluded, aware that her mind was moving too slowly.

She listened for the sound of Robbie returning to bed but didn’t hear it. After a moment, he asked, “Mom? Is Sammy home yet?”

“No . . . no, he isn’t. You just get on back to bed. I’ll let you know when he does.”

“I can’t sleep, though. Can I come down?”

“Try . . . try to get some . . . sleep,” Leah answered.

“I want to wait downstairs with you.”

“No,” Leah said, more firmly. “Now get back to bed.”

“All right.” She listened to the sound of the floorboards creaking as he made his way back to the bedroom.

Leah turned the volume back up on the TV and sat back down on the couch. She picked up the bottle of pills Dr. Winslow had given her and read the label over and over again. She dropped them back down on the coffee table, then shifted her gaze back to the TV.

“Oh God . . . Oh God . . . please let him be all right,” she whispered. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision.

Muggins, the dog, sensed her emotions and got up from where he had been sleeping and came over to her. He placed his head heavily in her lap. Unthinkingly, Leah started stroking the dog’s head as she cried. “Good fella’,” she cooed, “good fella’.”

Muggins let out a low sigh, then sneezed. Leah started scratching his ears. Suddenly, she focused intently on the dog, holding him under the chin. “Why does it have to be like this, Mugs?” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Why? Can you tell me?”

Muggins, glad of the attention, wagged his tail.

“I want everything to be . . . to be all right,” she said. “I want to believe it will, but . . . but. . . .” She let her voice trail away, unable to say aloud what she thought—what she dreaded.

Muggins gloried in the attention and sat there almost smiling, but suddenly he started and looked around toward the front door.

“What is it, boy?” Leah asked when she heard the dog start a low growl in his chest. She caught her breath, covering her mouth with her hand. Muggins eased away from under her hand and stalked toward the door, sniffing as he went.

“Come on, boy. What is it?”

Muggins started pacing back and forth across the floor. His ears perked up, and his growl increased in intensity.

Leah had the sudden panicked feeling that the killer—the one who had killed Billy Wilson and Jeffy Hollis this year, and who probably killed those two boys last year, and who might have killed her own son—had now come for her. Fear flooded her as she thought that little Georgie’s
boogeyman
might be right outside. She wished violently that Les had stayed home with her, rather than going out with the search party.

She stood up but didn’t move from her spot as she wondered what to do.

“Is anyone out there?” she asked Muggins. The dog ignored her as he sniffed the air and continued pacing back and forth.

Was the door locked?
Leah wondered frantically. Was she safe, or had she been so concerned about Sammy that she forgot to lock the doors? And now
he
—whoever
he
was—was after her?

“Go on, boy!” she hissed. “Get ‘em! Get ‘em!”

Muggins continued pacing, and his growl slowly built up to a quavering howl. He continued, sniffing, keeping his eyes fixed on the door.

Leah realized that she had to protect herself. She didn’t know for sure, but she thought Les had a shotgun in the front hall closet. She tiptoed into the hallway and silently opened the door. She didn’t dare turn on the light for fear of alerting whoever was outside, so she reached around blindly, searching for the shotgun. Her groping hand found last winter’s sweaters, a broken lamp, and a couple of old pictures in frames, but no shotgun. She swore softly under her breath.

Leah peeked out toward the door. Muggins’ howl rose higher and higher. Frantically, Leah pulled everything down from the top shelf, but still, no shotgun. She figured Les must have it in his truck; it was the only other place he kept it.

Muggins starting clawing at the door, and when Leah looked over at him, she saw the door knob start to turn slowly. A whimper escaped her throat as she sank back against the wall. Muggins barked, jumping up at the door, but still the door knob turned, and then the door slowly opened.

Leah could see a strip of night through the opening door. Then, cautiously, a hand appeared around the corner. Muggins let out a sudden, startled yelp, and then his tail started to wag back and forth. He jumped up and started licking the hand. It was then that Leah heard a boy’s voice whisper, “Hey, Mugs. How yah doin’?”

Leah felt a flood of relief wash through her as the door swung open, revealing Sammy. He stood there on the doorstep, shoulders slouched. A twisted smile ran across his face as he scruffed Muggins’ neck and looked up at his mother. Behind Sammy stood Del Montgomery, Shaw’s deputy.

“Oh my God!” Leah shouted, running toward the boy. “Sammy! Sammy!” She knelt down and folded him in her arms, feeling both of their bodies shake with violent sobs.

“We found him out at the old sawmill,” Del said. He tilted his police hat and smiled.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Sammy said, sobbing. “I’m sorry. I was mad at Dad and I wanted to scare you guys. I’m real sorry.”

Tears streaming down her face, Leah pulled back and regarded her son—safe,
safe
and
alive!
“It’s OK, hon’,” she croaked, “It’s OK. Everything’s going to be OK.”

IX

M
arshall peeked out from around the couch and looked at David, asking with his eyes what he should do. David waved his hands, signaling for him to stay down. “Do you think he knows I’m here?” he whispered. He was cut short by another shattering blast that ripped a long furrow in the plastered ceiling. Fine, gritty powder sprinkled down on Marshall.

“Come on, you old fucker!” Les shouted outside. “Come on ‘n face it like a goddamned man.” He laughed aloud, a cackling sound that bordered on insanity. “I know it was you who been killin’ them kids. Playing with their little wee-wees before you cut ‘em open. Come on out and get what’s comin’ to yah!” Again, Les’ insane laughter filled the silence.

“If you make me come in there ‘n get yah if—I have to drag you outta’ there, I’m gonna’ make sure it takes you a long time to die. Real slow and painful.” More hysterical laughter. The barrel of the shotgun prodded through the tattered curtains like a hook looking for flesh to sink into.

“The longer you make me wait, the madder I’m gonna’ get—and the longer it’ll take for you to fuckin’
die!
”

Marshall and David waited tensely for Les to make a move. Holding his fingers to his lips, David signaled Marshall not to answer Les’ tauntings. “Be quiet,” he whispered, “let him think you’re dead already.”

Marshall nodded and slunk lower to the floor. Seconds stretched into minutes as the silence continued, broken only by the distant noise of the spring peepers. David wondered what Les was doing, whether he was just waiting there at the window, or maybe circling around the house for another way in. The only hope they had, he knew, was if Les figured Marshall was alone; if he knew they were both there, there would be a great headline on tomorrow’s papers about the mysterious double murder.

“I’m losin’ my fuckin’ patience, old man!” Les shouted. He was still outside the window as far as David could tell. “Do I have to come in there and get yah?”

Suddenly, the torn curtains separated. Using the butt of his gun, Les cleared away the broken glass and window frame. He swung the rifle wildly, smashing everything out of the window frame. He withdrew the rifle, and David heard several clicks; he knew that Les was reloading.

“OK, you miserable old fucker,” Les said, slamming the gun barrel shut. “I’m gonna’ have to come in ‘n get yah.”

“No!” Marshall yelled suddenly. He moved to stand. “No, I’ll come out.”

“Aww, shit,” David hissed. He clung close to the wall, casting an angry glance at Marshall.

“Too late, you old bastard,” Les shouted. “I’m comin’ in. And by Jesus, you’re gonna’ pay. I’m gonna’ blow your balls clean off and watch you squirm.”

Marshall, clinging close to the couch, signaled to David, hooking his thumb in the direction of the door. “Go outside and circle around,” he whispered.

“What you say, old fucker?” Les yelled. He gripped the window ledge with one hand and tried to boost himself up.

“Too risky,” David said, “I’d make too much noise.”

“Well, are you gonna’ let him find you and kill you, too?”

David shook his head emphatically.

“Go on, then. Get back to town and get Shaw!”

“I’m not leaving just to come back and find you dead,” David whispered. “We’ll get him.”

Saying this, David tiptoed into the deep darkness of the dining room. Just at the dining room window, there was another doorway connecting to the living room. Once Les was inside the living room, David figured, he could come on him from behind. It all depended, he knew, on whether Les would enter the house and shoot Marshall clean, or if he intended to play cat-and-mouse with him a bit before he killed him. Guessing Les’ mental state, David figured he was going to torment Marshall first.

From the darkened dining room, David had to guess what was going on. He heard a heavy clumping sound and guessed Les was climbing in through the window. Could he do that and hold onto the shotgun at the same time? Should he take the chance now and rush Les when he was halfway inside? David decided to wait until Les was inside before revealing himself. The hammering in his chest increased, and he repeatedly rubbed his sweating palms on his pant leg.

Les grunted and groaned as he made his way into the house. Finally, sitting on the smashed window ledge, he wiped the sweat off his forehead and laughed. “So, you old son-of-a-bitch, you want to make it rough on yourself?” With a heavy thud, his boots hit the floor, then he started walking toward where Marshall stood behind the couch. Broken glass crunched underfoot.

“You’re a goddamned fool, Les,” Marshall said. His voice wavered, but David was proud of him for standing up to Les. “When they find me here, they’ll see the broken window and all the buckshot blasts in the ceiling and walls. They’ll figure it out purty quick.”

“Bullshit they will,” Les said, a cackle in his voice. No fuckin’ way. This place has been empty for years. No one comes up here.”

“People’ll miss me,” Marshall said, firmer.

Les laughed sadistically. “Like shit they will.”

David decided to chance a peek around the door jamb into the living room. He tensed, holding his breath until his lungs began to ache. Slowly, he moved until he could just barely see the shattered window, then a stretch of the floor, then—he almost gasped—Les’ back, not three feet away from him. He ducked back, frantically afraid that his stomach would grumble or he would sneeze and reveal himself. He eased away from the wall to give himself some distance, then positioned himself so he could watch Les.

“No one’s ever gonna’ miss you, you old fucker,” Les hissed. “Not even your asshole nephew. It’ll be a week or longer before anyone realizes you ain’t been around. And by then, I’ll have an alibi so goddamned convincing they’ll never connect me to it.”

“The searchers . . . in the woods now, how do you know they didn’t hear your gun shots and are on their way up here right now?” Marshall asked, his nervous voice almost breaking.

For a brief second, Les tensed and glanced back at the broken window. David pulled back just in time.

“Somebody must be searchin’ in the Bog now. They might have heard you.”

“Just keep your fuckin’ mouth shut, old man,” Les snarled. “You’re really beginning to piss me off.” Les snorted and spat, then clicked his shotgun open and slowly, carefully inserted two new shells.

“They’re looking for your own kid, Les! For Christ’s sake! Why in the hell are you doing this?” Marshall screamed.

His voice ice-pick sharp, Les said, “‘Cause I just don’t like you, old man. You’re just a chicken-shit bastard who just might say the wrong thing at the wrong time.”

“Like what?” Marshall said hollowly.

“Like what you saw in the woods one day.”