Moonbog (39 page)

Marshall nodded dumbly.

“You know, those things aren’t entirely fool proof,” David said. “If you were the least bit hyped up, it could show a reaction that indicated you were lying. Or, on the other hand, if Les was just as cool as he could be, he could deny everything, and if he maintained his cool, the machine would indicate that he was telling the truth.”

“Really? I thought—”

“Especially if it really is Les and he’s, I don’t know the word for it, but dissociated or schizophrenic or whatever. Anyone who could kill kids like that—after raping them—and then so coolly dispose of the body . . . Christ, if he’s really that much of a wacko, who knows what that polygraph will show?”

David paused to let his uncle mull over what he had said, then he hit him with the heavy load. “Besides, like you said, the problem is what he might do before you take those tests. . . . Like those phone calls earlier.”

“Awww shit!” Marshall stood up, pushing his chair back with the backs of his knees. One chair leg scraped across the floor, making a sound like fingernails being raked across a chalk board. He walked ‘ver to the refrigerator and leaned his head against the cool enamel, listening to the steady rattling sound the motor made.

“That’s what’s got me so worked up,” he said softly, under his breath. “It’s not the first time I—” He caught himself short and turned, looking at David with a pale, watery stare.

“Not the first time—what?” David said, prodding.

“About . . . with the kids,” Marshall said, walking over to the table. He picked up the newspaper that was folded and spread it out on the table. Again, David scanned the headline:

BOG CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM

“Last summer,” Marshall said softly. “Last summer. Look at the date.” He jabbed the newspaper with his bony finger. “June 4, 1976,” he said thoughtfully, “Just about this time of year.”

“Christ!”

“It’s the same damn time of year as the murders
this
year!” Marshall said, his voice rising with intensity.

“Christ! And the same time of year that Les and I got caught . . . the same time Les got whipped so bad he was bleeding and . . . and. . . .” David’s voice faded away.

“That ain’t all,” Marshall said.

David turned. “What? What else do you know about it?”

Marshall sighed deeply, letting the memories rise. “It was the first of June, last year, ‘bout an hour or so after sunset. I’d had my supper and cleaned up, and had just sat down at the table here to read my paper.” He nodded at his vacant chair. “Because it was such a nice evenin’, I decided to sit out on my front steps . . . listen to the night sounds . . . get some fresh air before turning in.”

Marshall walked over to the table, picked up the newspaper, folded it twice, and slapped it against his open palm.

“I was sittin’ there, leanin’ against the top step, smokin’ my pipe ‘n strokin’ Alfie’s back. All of a sudden, I heard this terrible screechin’ sound. I jumped, almost dropped my pipe. Alfie skittered off into the darkness. At first I thought it was an animal or somethin’ been run over, or maybe a cat in heat. I listened real intent, but I didn’t hear anything like a car passin’ by. Nothin’!”

“It didn’t sound like a person?” David asked.

“Nope. Not the first one,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “I thought for sure it was an animal been hurt. I sat there listening real hard for a long time. I remember my pipe went out. I considered relightin’ it, but something inside me warned me not to make any noise.”

Marshall swallowed hard as he remembered that night a year ago.

“I waited, listening,” Marshall continued. His voice grew raspy. “Then I heard it again and, ‘cause I was listening for it, I got a better fix. It was loud, too. Close enough to make me jump. I wasn’t sure if it was a woman or a kid, but for damn sure I knew it was a person.”

“What did you do?”

Marshall swallowed and wiped his hand across his upper lip, which was glistening with perspiration. “I listened, ‘n then real slow, I got up and walked around the side of the house, in the direction of the Bog.”

“That’s where it was coming from?” David asked.

“No doubt about it,” Marshall replied. “And it sounded like it was close to the edge of my field. I couldn’t just sit there and listen, could I?”

David shrugged.

“The moon wasn’t up and ‘cause I know my land pretty well, I figured I had the advantage if I bumped into anyone. I was heading in what I thought was the right direction. But I’d no sooner entered the woods when I heard it again, way off to my left. I headed that way, followin’ the sound. ‘Help! Help me!’ the voice cried. It sounded weaker than before. I pushed through the brush, scared shitless.”

“What were you thinking of doing?” David asked. “Did you have anything for a weapon?”

“I cursed myself as soon as I started off for not goin’ into the house and gettin’ my walkin’ stick. I don’t know.” Marshall looked at David, who could tell that his uncle was agitated remembering the incident.

“Anyway,” Marshall went on, “I had no idea what I’d do if I found anyone. Actually, I wasn’t even sure what the problem was. For all I knew, it could have been someone stuck in the mud or something. It wasn’t until the next day—”

“When you saw this,” David said, pointing to the newspaper.

Marshall grunted. “Yeah. The next night I realized that it was the kid who was missing.”

“So you reported it to Shaw?”

Marshall looked down at the floor and shook his head. “I didn’t,” he said weakly.

“What?” David shouted, stunned.

“I never reported it. After that last yell, I didn’t hear anything but the peepers and my own heavy breathin’. I thrashed about in the brush for a while, but pretty soon I gave up and went back home.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t report it,” David said.

Marshall shrugged. “I can’t either,” he said, looking at David with eyes welling with tears. “I can’t, and I’ve never forgiven myself for it. I think once I got out of the Bog, I convinced myself that I hadn’t heard it; or that if I had, it was too far away. You know how sound can carry on a quiet night—’specially in the Bog.”

“But it was a
person . . . a kid
, for Christ’s sake, crying for help.”

“What the hell could I have done?” Marshall shouted. His lower lip trembled, and a line of drool ran down his chin. “I had no reason to suspect that it was . . . was murder. Nobody did ‘til you found that Wilson boy last week. Shaw ‘n everyone else assumed that the kid drowned in the Bog. ‘Sides, they were scouring the area with search parties, so I figured I didn’t need to report what I heard. In the dark and all, I had no goddamned idea where the yelling was coming from.”

“But you should have reported it,” David said, forcing himself not to shout at his uncle; he could see that the old man already was upset from the incident.

“You have to understand somethin’ else,” Marshall said. His voice had leveled out a bit, but there was still a sour twist of tension in it. “You have to understand that there’s a lot of talk around town. About me.”

David nodded, trying to understand.

“I know most of it’s harmless, just talk, but sometimes it gets pretty nasty about me livin’ out here by myself, near the Bog, never marryin’. I know. I’ve heard the kids call me the boogeyman when they think I can’t hear—or when they know I can hear and can’t do anything about it.”

David shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He remembered even when he was growing up how his uncle had quite a reputation as a crazy old coot. A spark of deep-felt sympathy for the old man began to grow. As he looked at Marshall, David saw for the first time that many of the lines in his uncle’s cracked and aging face were lines of deeply carved sadness. David tried to speak, but his voice choked off in his throat.

“I’m pretty much used to it,” Marshall went on. “At least I’ve learned to live with it.”

“But, Christ, you’ve lived here all your life—people know you—you could have gone to Shaw and reported what you heard.”

“Yeah,” Marshall nodded his head sadly, “yeah, Shaw might’ve believed me, ‘n some other folks too, but I guess I was mostly afraid of what stories would start spreadin’. People think that if they start spreadin’ stories about someone, that person will never hear ‘em. But that ain’t so!” Marshall’s voice almost broke, startling David, who saw tears welling in the old man’s eyes again.

“That ain’t so. I’ve heard enough things said about me to . . . to make me want to keep my mouth shut.”

“But we’re talking about murders!” David shouted, unable to hold himself back.

“We didn’t know that then! No one did!”

“But it was a little more serious than just some half-assed town gossip,” David said.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Marshall replied tensely, “‘n if I had said anything—
anything
, the mouths around town would have started blabbin’; and if a finger was pointed anywhere, it would’ve been pointed right at me. Believe me, Davie, I know! I
know
what loose tongues can do to a person!”

“But not if it isn’t true,” David said pleadingly. “Even if it ain’t true! Christ, Davie, don’t you remember what it did to your mother?”

The question stunned David, and the silence that followed it filled David’s head with a wooshing sound. He walked over to the table, picked up a cigarette, and lit it with trembling hands.

“Yeah,” he said, exhaling smoke, “I remember. People said she committed suicide.” He looked away toward the open window, unable to look at Marshall.

“I tell you something, boy,” Marshall said, pointing his bony forefinger at David, “you grew up in this town, but you sure as hell don’t seem to know a hell of a lot about the people who live here!”

“I—”David started to say, but Marshall cut him off with a quick chopping motion of his hand.

“You sure as hell didn’t know much about your old friend Les Rankin, did you?”

The comment cut him like a razor. David puffed rapidly on his cigarette, letting the ash grow long and drop to the floor without removing the butt from his mouth. “He’s out there now,” he whispered to the open window.

“Huh?” Marshall shouted. “Speak up, Davie.”

David turned to Marshall. “Les is our problem now, isn’t he?”

“
My
problem. Not yours.”

“Goddamnit, my problem too!” David shouted. He darted forward and slammed his fist onto the table. The mayonnaise jar lid full of cigarette butts spilled onto the floor. “I’m not like other people in this town, Goddamnit! I believe you! It had to have been Les sneaking outside your house tonight; I don’t know who else it could have been. But I drove up and scared him off after he shot at you—took a fucking shot at you! You can be goddamn sure he stuck around long enough to see who was driving up here to see you.”

Marshall sighed deeply, sounding as though life was just too much to carry.

“Chances are,” David said, “he knows it was me. Chances are also pretty damn good that he’ll figure you told me what you know. Why the hell else would he call and threaten you like that?”

Marshall nodded.

“So if he knows that you know and that I know, I think we can pretty well conclude that it’s also my problem!”

“‘Spoze so,” Marshall said distantly. “Sorry.”

“Yeah.” David leaned over his uncle, supporting himself with his fists on the table. “So now we both have a problem: how the hell are we going to stay alive long enough to make sure Les gets nailed?”

“I’m hopin’ that there lie detector test will do it,” Marshall said. David noticed the edge in his voice and knew that he wasn’t convinced.

“Even if it does,” David said, “that isn’t for another three or four days. Do you have any ideas how we can make sure we don’t get killed before then?”

“I dunno’,” Marshall said.

“Well then, tomorrow morning, first thing, let’s go tell Shaw everything we know. It’s two people now, maybe he’ll listen.”

“Maybe,” Marshall said, nodding, “maybe.”

“Well,” David said, finally noticing his fatigue after so many hours of intense discussion, “it’s getting pretty late. I guess I’ll head on back to the motel. I think we can be pretty sure Les won’t try anything tonight.” He picked up his pack of cigarettes from the table and pocketed them. Shuffling his feet, he started slowly toward the door.

“You know,” Marshall said finally, just as David was reaching for the door knob. “You know, if you’d like, you could sleep on the couch here.”

David turned, regarding his uncle, and saw that he honestly meant it.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I could.”

He was glad to see the smile that spread slowly across Marshall’s face.

XII

A
t eleven thirty, the Rankin house was silent; the kids were finally all asleep; Leah was lying in bed, staring at the dark rectangle of the ceiling; and Les was slouched in his easy chair. A string of drool hung from the corner of his mouth to his chest. When the telephone rang, he reached for it automatically. “Hello,” he grumbled into the receiver.

From upstairs, Leah called down softly, “Who is it, hon’?”