There's Blood on the Moon Tonight (48 page)

Realizing she had his number Bud could only shake his head. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to see how the Center fit in to all this.”

Josie put her hand on the back of his head, wondering how she was going to break the news to him about Oscar Wilson. What would it do to Bud’s already fragile psyche? “I’m sorry for going off on you like that, love. I know your intentions are good. You had no way of knowing the Center would insist on such drastic steps—”

“Are you
sure
you heard Bidwell say that, Josie? To quarantine any and
all
witnesses?”

 
              “I was close enough to spit on him! That’s why we’ve got to get to Rusty before the sheriff does! Remember what you said in the diner? If anyone questioned us before you got back, we were to say we saw the dog in the Pines. Bud, If Rusty tells Rupert that…” 

             
Tubby looked up from the ground where he’d fallen to his knees. His face was an alarming shade of purple.
“Listen…ya’ll…go ahead… I’ll meet up…with you…later.”

Bud put his hand on Tubby’s heaving shoulder. The boy’s sweatshirt was sopping wet. “You sure, Ralph?”

Tubby nodded and waved them on ahead.

             
“Rusty…you must help…Rusty!”

             
                            *******

Rupert Henderson pulled his patrol car in front of the wax museum. As usual, finding a parking space in front of the enormous building was no trouble at all. As far as he was concerned, the museum was the biggest waste of space on the island. It never did any business to warrant so much square footage. Even so, he respected the owner Bill Brown, an ex-lawman himself. Maybe respected was the wrong word—
feared
was more like it. He’d seen the results of that man’s ill temper, and didn’t want any part of it.

             
He got out of his Crown Vic and ignored the parking meter in front of him. He’d only been in the wax museum one other time and was of the opinion it was the worst kind of trash. “Monsters, mayhem, and madness. All that horror shit rots the young ‘uns minds. Damn near bad as crack cocaine,” he said, pulling on the front door.

             
Not that Rupert Henderson had much experience with users of that narcotic. Before taking on the job here as sheriff, he’d been a deputy in a backwater Georgia town, where crystal meth was the illicit drug of choice. He’d always assumed he’d gotten the job as Moon Island’s Chief Constable due to his qualifications, but the fact was Rupert had been the only experienced lawman to even put in an application. Jesse and Ham Huggins had in fact begged Bill Brown to take the job, but Bilbo refused the long-term position. He of course had other plans. That left Deputy Dawg, as Rusty Huggins called the old man.

             
As Rupert entered the shadowy lobby, cold air hit him in the face, drying the sweat trickling down his forehead and back.  He lazily scanned the lobby, finding two kids to question. Rusty Huggins, behind the concession stand, and the little O’Hara boy, playing one of them damn
vidier
games. Fucking things rotted the young ‘uns minds.

             
He took out his notebook from his back pocket and flipped it open. He studied the names he’d written down earlier in his office, thirty minutes before coming down here
:
Bud Brown. Josie O’Hara. Rusty Huggins. Question: concerning gray mutt and Oscar Wilson. (Chimp?) Contact Bidwell if they’ve had
any
contact with either! Whereabouts today and yesterday afternoon. Note any injuries. (Bloodshot eyes??)

He saw the spooked look on Rusty’s face, and let the runt sweat it out some, refusing to acknowledge him just yet. It had been a strange couple of days on Moon. The strangest in fact since the fall of ’96, when Moon Island suffered its very first murder. Now the island had its
second
homicide under its belt—despite what those eggheads at the Center said to the contrary. He himself had discovered the corpse that very morning, after receiving the second anonymous call in as many days. That last call, though, had been about a dog behaving strangely, possibly rabies, not the dead man he’d practically stepped on out there!

It bothered him particularly that both calls involved the Pines. It was common knowledge on Moon that those delinquents who called themselve
s
Th
e
Creep
s
were the only people who hung out in them damn woods anymore.

             
“
Creep
s
,”
Henderson said, sucking at the gap in his false teeth. It sounded an awful lot like a
gang
name to him. Gangs, they rotted the young ‘uns minds. He took off his Smokey hat and wiped down the prickly gray stubble on his head with a red bandana he kept tucked in the crown. He was getting long in the tooth, be sixty-one come January, and was counting down the months until he could retire next year. He scratched his dry scalp in thought. Dandruff floated down on his shoulders like scabby snow. Funny thing, that fire yesterday. Old lady Purcell told him it sounded like kids…two of ‘em…who had placed the 911. One of ‘em claimed to be Lester Noonan. Mighty suspicious since Rupert knew it to be a dang lie! He’d seen Noonan practically diddling that slut Tansy Wilky in front of Moon Island Treats, not thirty minutes before the call came in, his hand up under her short skirt, rootin’ around in her panties. No way had that punk set the fire. He didn’t have the time! Moreover, when Rupert had come out of the Pines, hadn’t he seen tha
t
Cree
p
Rusty Huggins standing around with a bunch of other gawking kids? Yes, sir! In fact, he’d been with that
fat
boy whose family had just moved to Moon. Tolson, he believed their name was.

Opened up that old drive-in, they did.

Another waste of space as far as Rupert was concerned.
There ain’t been a good movie made since John Wayne passed on from the cancer! Lord rest his soul.

Movies today rotted the young ‘uns minds.

He sauntered over to the concessions stand and took the Juicy Fruit he’d been jawing on since that morning and tossed it at a garbage can behind the counter, missing it. “How ‘bout pour me a Co’ cola,” he said, smiling sweetly at the short black kid. Son of the most influential man on Moon. Rupert’s mother might have raised herself a lazy good-for-nothing, but she hadn’t raised no idjits! He wasn’t near stupid enough to piss into
that
brown wind.

Henderson had himself a good thing going, and by gum he knew it too. The town only paid him a nominal salary; barely enough to keep him solvent, but goods and essentials were all on the house. Most of his groceries were free, as well as his small but well-appointed apartment over the jailhouse. All utilities gratis, including satellite service. Over 200 channels on his big screen TV, and four of ‘em porno! Doc Bidwell took care of his aches and pains at no charge—that in itself must have saved him about five grand a year. He had no expenses to speak of, and best of all, once his retirement kicked in, he’d have basically the same free ride on Moon for the rest of his life!

That wasn’t the best part of it, though.
No sirree!
The best part was when Dr. Clint Bidwell had come by to pay him a visit, early on in his first year as Sheriff.

An agreement was reached, sweaty palms were pressed, and Rupert’s bank account at the First National in Beaufort had grown by leaps and bounds ever since.

Except for two notable instances, once back in ’96, and again this very day, that nervous handshake with the doc had been the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Henderson took the cup of soda from Rusty and showed him his perspiring back.

“Sheriff, is there something else I can do for you?”

Henderson ignored Rusty and walked over to the little O’Hara kid, blasting away at those aliens as if his life was in the balance. Rupert had already made plans to question the so-calle
d
Creep
s
about the fire yesterday in the Pines, when an urgent visit from John Cutter made him forgo his afternoon nap to interrogate the kids straightaway. He drank the Coke down in one swallow and set the empty cup on top of the video game. When he discovered the nude body of Oscar Wilson, a low-level employee of the Center, laying just off the Old Oyster Trail in the Pines that morning, Henderson thought the shit was truly about to stack up. He’d made the call to Bidwell, and was more than a little shocked when the boss man actually sounded relieved to hear the news! The only time he’d raised his voice was when he demanded to know if anyone had touched the body—which was a big negatory. 

He’d told Bidwell:
‘Doc, that poor son of a bitch has all kinds of dried-up mucous caked around what’s left of his piehole. More than half of his face is gone, and something had been gnawing at his damn throat, too. I wouldn’t touch that fucker for all the beer in Milwaukee!’

Again, Bidwell had seemed relieved, and thirty minutes after the call, he and the Center’s boys had swooped down on the dead body like vultures in lab coats.

Bidwell and his men were still out there, Rupert supposed, beating the damn palmetto bushes for God knows what.  Even though the victim—a kennel manager Rupert had once met at a company picnic—was shot right between the peepers, Bidwell had asked (nay, he’d
demanded
) that the incident be categorized as an animal attack. Which wasn’t exactly a lie, now, was it? Something
inhuman
had surely been snacking on that fucker’s face.

Those injuries, however, were several hours older than the gunshot wound…the
real
cause of death. But it wasn’t as if Henderson was putting his job at risk by falsifying the report. After all, Dr. Bidwell was also Moon Island’s official coroner! An autopsy would be required, but once again, Clint Bidwell would be the man performing it. Except for maybe Ham Huggins, no one on Moon was as respected as the good doctor.
Shiiitt!
Bidwell could have stated that Wilson had been the victim of a falling meteor, and nobody would’ve blinked an eye!

Henderson had no qualms with any of this. In fact, it was a load off his lumbago. For a moment there, he’d thought the ghosts of 1996 were revisiting his life. 1996. Back when all hell had broken loose on Moon Island.

              The O’Hara boy didn’t even acknowledge his presence as Rupert loomed over him. Just kept
tap-tapping
that damn button. He wondered where the boy’s sister was. He’d seen the pretty little thing walking down Main Street with the same fucking losers for over seven years now.

             
Hhmmph! Three pitiful peas in a pod, that bunch.

             
Henderson had it in his head that Bud Brown had something to do with not only that fire yesterday, but the shooting as well. Bud had been a pimple on his ass since last year, when he’d nearly killed that asshole, Charlie Noonan. Not that that would have been any great loss. Still, it made Henderson look bad when he’d stood by and let the boy get away with nothing more than a sleepover at the Silly Factory. On that count, though, he’d been on his own, and he’d let that particular sleeping dog lie right where she was. No sense pissing off Bill Brown
and
Ham Huggins, the latter being a good friend of the Browns.

             
But things were different now! Now the all-mighty muscle of the Center, and those who supported her, backed him up!
By God, the US Army!
If Rupert got the information he needed, not even Ham Huggins could stand in his way! But as John Cutter had pointed out to him:
It has to be done by the Book!
And quietly!
The last thing they needed was to draw attention to themselves.

             
Especially from the mainland press.

             
On that count, Henderson agreed whole-heartedly.
Just fifteen months till I can retire with full benefits!

He reviewed his notes again: Miss Beasley made a call to the office last night around 10:00 p.m., from her apartment over the bookstore, saying she’d seen four kids running down the middle of Main Street. As if the devil was hot on their tails. She didn’t have her glasses on at the time, so she couldn’t swear to it, but to her it looked like Bud Brown out there, brandishing a firearm of all things. That call came in shortly after two other calls, reporting a gunshot in the vicinity of the Pines. Coincidence? Henderson didn’t believe in ‘em. And even though Rupert couldn’t charge Bud with the murder, or even yesterday’s arson (Cutter said that would be imprudent at this time), the Research Center had seen fit to thrown him a bone.

If he could get any of th
e
Creep
s
to admit to witnessing any of the following: Oscar Wilson, the gray bitch, or, of all things, a chimpanzee—today or yesterday in the Pines—then he was duty-bound to take them into custody. Whereupon the Center would jump in and place the kids into immediate and
indefinite
quarantine.