Moonbog (19 page)

V

“I
can’t believe you haven’t settled it yet!” Harry Sumner said as he knuckled the top of the desk and leaned toward Sidney Latham, who sat tensely in his chair.

“I’ve been working on it as best I can,” he said in a clipped voice that almost sounded apologetic. “These Wills, if they aren’t in
perfect
order, take a little bit of time to iron out. Besides, I’ve been waiting.”

“You’ve been waiting!” Sumner shouted as he gave the desk a quick little bang. “
I’ve
been waiting. We’ve got to get Mr. Logan to sign off that property before we can buy it, right?”

Latham nodded, finding it difficult to stare down the angered man.

“I’ve already spoken with a company from Saco that’s very interested in digging out the spagnum that’s on the property. That in itself will probably pay us back for the land, but I’ve also got a couple of construction crews sitting idle, waiting to start building. I’d like to get at least two or three houses up before fall.”

Latham felt himself withering under Sumner’s attack, and he decided to gain the upper hand in this situation. The only way to do that, he figured, was to stay very calm. He slouched back in his chair, forcing is body to unwind, and reached for his pipe. Slowly, he filled the bowl with tobacco and tapped it down. He made a concentrated effort to keep his hands ready as he lit the bowl.

Sumner
always
had an intimidating manner about him. He was a large man who always spoke gruffly and commandingly. Even when he was being friendly, he put off many people by being over-bearing. Fortunately, Latham thought, Sumner was generally quite good-natured. The only time he wasn’t was when there was a chance to make money—big money—and the deal wasn’t yet in his pocket. Buying the family property from David Logan, mining the spagnum, and sub-dividing the higher ground into use lots looked like pretty big money.

“I’ve been holding back,” Latham said, puffing blue smoke from between his tight-set lips, “primarily because I don’t want to appear
too
anxious to buy the land. If David knows we’re interested in the place, he might—”

“From what you’ve been telling me, he’s anxious as hell to get rid of the damn property!” Sumner shouted, not caring if Latham’s secretary in the outer office heard or not. “I’ve got crews that need the work, and that company in Saco isn’t going to sit around waiting while you drag your ass! Christ, Sid!” Latham settled back in his chair to make himself comfortable. He took a few thoughtful puffs on his pipe. He’d be damned if he was going to let
anyone
—Harry Sumner included—push him around in his office. “Harry,” he said, firmly, as though speaking to a misbehaving child, “I don’t want it to look unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional!” Sumner yelled with exasperation. “Unprofessional. It’s not as though what we’re doing is illegal. There’s a piece of property that’s going to be for sale soon and we want it to develop. Is that unprofessional?”

“It is, in my opinion, if the land is
not yet
on the market and I’m the executor of the Will.” Latham felt himself getting angry and forced himself to stay seated, casually puffing on his pipe like a college professor. “I just don’t want it to appear that there are any conflicts of interest.”

“Well, I think we’ve dragged our asses around this for long enough. I’ve got nothing to lose but time and money. I hope you can appreciate that.”

“Just trust me, will you?”

“Sid, the Saco Company wants to get going as soon as possible. Any delays are dollars out the window.”

Latham bit down hard on the stem of his pipe. His teeth worked back and forth, making his jaw muscles clench. “I’ll settle this as quickly as I can,” he said calmly, although he made a mental note to enjoy, for Harry’s sake, any delays that might occur. “When the right time comes, I’ll spring our proposal on him. Like I told you, he may be so anxious to get rid of it that he’ll snap it right up.”

Sumner snorted loudly. “Just so long as your professional image remains untarnished, huh?”

“Jesus, Harry. I stand to make a pretty tidy sum of this deal too, you know? And not just from my lawyer’s fees. I’m as anxious as you are to wrap it up.”

“Just see that you do—” Both men started when the intercom buzzed. Latham held up a finger to Sumner as he switched the button.

“Yes, Alice.”

“Mr. Logan is here to see you,” a tinny voice said from the intercom.

“One minute.” Latham clicked off the intercom. He looked over at Sumner, who stood there staring at him intently. “Harry, I’ll do—”

“You just see that you do,” Sumner repeated, “and try to make it sometime before Christmas, if your reputation can handle the strain.”

Latham nodded at Sumner, who had started toward the door. “Send him in,” he said into the intercom. Sumner had the door open and was about to step out of the office when Latham halted him with a word. “Hey.”

Sumner turned around and then had to step aside to let David Logan walk past him into the office.

“Harry, one more word. Have you given any more thought to what I’m planning to say at the town meeting this Thursday?”

“‘Bout replacing Shaw?”

Latham nodded slightly and cast his eyes nervously at David, who had taken the chair beside the desk. ‘‘Umm.”

“I agree with you. I think it’s time we had someone new in there. Someone who might be a little more. . .
effective
.”

He put an emphasis on the last word, and Latham didn’t miss the implication.

“See what you can do,” Sumner said, then he stepped out of the office, closing the door firmly behind him.

VI

“S
o, who do you think it is, Leah?” Joyce Bailey asked intently.

Before Leah could reply, Marie D’Angelo piped in. “It’s turned me into a nervous wreck. I never thought I’d see the day when folks in Holland would be afraid to walk the streets at night.”

Unconsciously, Leah had placed her hand on Georgie’s head and was ruffling his hair as he drank his Fanta Root Beer. The noise of the laundromat, the spraying sounds of the washers and the rumbling of heavy-duty dryers, made it impossible for her to clear her mind and speak. She fumbled for words.

“What?” Joyce asked, pressing closer to her. “I can’t hear you, dear.” She cocked her ear toward Leah. The old woman’s face was flushed, and Leah found herself thinking that perhaps the woman’s red complexion was the result of working in the warm, damp laundromat all day, rather than the rumored drinking.

Leah looked at Joyce’s red-rimmed eyes and shrugged. “I haven’t got the faintest idea,” she said. The old woman nodded her head sagely.

“I just hope,” Leah continued, “that whoever it is, he gets caught and put away—forever.”

Marie agreed. “He’s a real sicko, whoever he is,” she said with widening eyes.

Leah looked at the tumbling mass of clothes she was waiting for and tried to concentrate. But beneath the roar and thumping sounds of the machinery, she heard—or thought she heard—another, deeper sound that hummed and hissed. It sounded like someone whispering in a dark room where he could say things he otherwise wouldn’t dare say. The sound made Leah feel as though there was a small ice cube in her stomach.

“Ouch!” Georgie said, suddenly twisting from under his mother’s grasp. “You hurt me.”

“I’m sorry hon’,” she said, almost automatically. She looked at him blankly and then, as though waking from a dream, said, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else.”

“You know who
I
think it is,” Joyce said importantly.

“No,” Leah replied, wishing, she would drop the subject.

Joyce paused for dramatic effect, and then gave her pronouncement. “I think it’s Old Man Logan,” she said, folding her flabby arms across her chest.

Marie, folding her laundry at one of the tables but still listening intently, gave a loud gasp. Leah remained silent.

“Yup,” Joyce said, with authority, “Old Man Logan. He lives right out there by the Bog. ‘N he sure as heck’s a strange old coot. I’ve known him all my life, seems like he’s
always
been an old man. ‘N him, living out there in that old run-down house of his, never getting married, never even courting a lady when he was young, according to my mother.”

“You shouldn’t say such things,” Leah said, aghast. “Mr. Logan’s a fine old man.”

“How do you know?” Joyce snapped back. “Are you his close friend or something?”

“No, but . . . but. . . .”

“Never married, always keeps to himself like he’s got some deep dark secret. How do we know he ain’t got a liking for little boys?”

Leah gasped and glanced nervously at Georgie, who was reading contentedly.

“I tell you,” Joyce said, dropping her voice to the level one would use while telling a ghost story around a campfire. “He’s lived his whole life out there, right beside the Bog. God!” She shivered dramatically. “Anyone who’d live out there in that Godforsaken place would have to be a
little
bit weird.”

“You may be right,” Marie said tensely. She had been captivated by Joyce’s story and was standing there dumbly gripping a folded shirt.

“That’s horrible to say,” Leah said emphatically. “Mr. Logan’s more a part of this town than all of us put together.”

“That don’t mean he ain’t a weirdo.”

“Yeah,” Leah protested, “but it doesn’t mean he would do . . . do those things to little boys.”

“Then why didn’t he ever get married?” Joyce asked.

“I . . . I don’t know,” Leah stammered. “That’s his personal business, and I don’t think we have a right to pry into it. I don’t think you should be spreading nasty rumors about him, either.”

“I’m just saying that’s what I think,” Joyce replied defensively. Leah could hear the sarcasm in the woman’s voice.

“Well . . . I don’t know,” Leah said. “Say, would you mind folding my laundry for me, Joyce? I have to get going.” Leah tapped Georgie on the shoulder. He looked up and slowly got to his feet. “We’re, ummm, we’re going to Billy Wilson’s funeral,” she added solemnly.

Joyce reached out and caught Leah’s arm. “Give my best to the Wilsons, will you?”

Leah nodded quickly. “Come on, Georgie,” she said, and led him from the laundromat.

When Leah was gone, Joyce turned slowly to Marie, who had resumed folding her laundry. Marie looked up shyly and said, “I don’t know Joyce, I really think you might be right.”

Joyce shrugged her shoulders and bent to pull Leah’s laundry from the dryer. “Who knows?” she said softly, “Who knows? Chief Shaw and the state policemen are doing everything they can. I’m just saying what I think.” She dropped an armload of Leah’s clothes onto the tabletop and began sorting through them. “Gee,” she said, mostly to herself, “these didn’t get very clean. Look at the mud still on these socks.”

VII

A
bove the pulsing warning beep of the dump truck as it backed up, Les Rankin thought he heard someone whistle. He waved his arms over his head, motioning the driver back, and glanced over his shoulder. Through the swirling dust, he saw his boss, Jerry Wescott, striding toward him. A few paces behind him, like a goddamn dog on a leash, Les thought, walked Frank Schroder. Wescott waved his arms wildly, beckoning him.

“Stupid fucking shit,” he muttered, continuing to direct the truck back. When the tires of the truck were just on the edge of the road, Les whistled shrilly and dropped his arms. The truck lurched to a halt with a gasp of air brakes.

“Let ‘er rip,” Les shouted. With a scream of hydrolics, the back of the dump truck began to rise. The payload spilled beneath the dented tailgate, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Thick, almost orange soil began to mound up in a V-shaped heap. Les laughed to himself as he watched the pile grow, thinking that it looked like a big pile of shit. He looked back up at Wescott and Schroder, who were now standing still, watching the operation. “Too bad you jerk-offs aren’t underneath that pile of shit,” he mumbled softly enough so they didn’t hear.

When the back of the truck was almost empty, the driver jolted the truck forward a few times to loosen any dirt that might have stuck. The truck pulled away slowly as the dump dropped back into place. It left behind a blue haze of exhaust.

“Hey, Rankin,” Wescott shouted above the noise of the retreating truck. “Did you forget, or can’t you tell time? I told you that I wanted you in my office at noon.”

Les glanced at his watch and when he looked up, Wescott was already striding toward the travel trailer that served as his on-site office.

“Rankin, this ain’t no paid vacation, you know. Let’s get a move on.
Now!
” Schroder roared.

Gritting his teeth, Les followed Schroder to the trailer. He fixed his eyes on the other man’s back, wishing again that he dared to tell Schroder exactly what he thought of his strutting, show-off, bossy attitude. He took his red bandana from his back pocket and wiped it across his face. Dirt and sweat mixed, leaving a messy streak. When he reached the trailer door, he stuffed his bandana into his back pocket and came in a few steps behind Schroder.