Moonbog (4 page)

“Oh my holy ole’ Jesus,” he said. The taste of vomit was thick in his mouth. There, lying on the ground, naked and face up, was a young boy. David’s mind instantly calculated that he looked about twelve years old. His features were frozen in a wide-mouthed death scream. Wet, dark hair was plastered against his forehead. His blank eyes were open, staring from his pale face and reflecting back the light of David’s flashlight with a dull, silvery gleam.

David moved closer, slowly shaking his head from side to side. The boy’s chest, arms, and legs were bruised and cut. Dried blood was caked in smears on the boy’s corpse, but what most nauseated David was the gaping red wound where the boy’s genitals had been cut away.

His stomach began to constrict again, and he tore his horrified gaze away and scrambled to his feet. He ran up the embankment to the car and fumbled the key into the ignition. He wondered if perhaps he was in too much shock to drive and, as he started up the car and jammed it into gear, he became aware that he muttered incoherently. He sat back in the car‘seat and pressed his trembling hands against his forehead. He felt as though he were choking. Then, with a deep breath, he popped the clutch. The car jolted onto the road with a screech of tires.

As he drove toward town, he was only vaguely aware of the twists and turns in the road, but he was glad that he knew exactly where he was going. He had to get the police out there—fast, while the tracks of whoever he had seen out there were still fresh.

With his emergency flashers blinking, David raced into downtown Holland at double the speed limit and pulled up in front of the police station.

II

H
alf an hour later, David leaned against the parked squad car, watching the flashing blue lights flicker across the Bog. He thought of when he was a kid growing up in Holland and he used to sit by his open bedroom window at night watching lightning flashes illuminate the woods. The sounds, the smells, the sights were exactly as he remembered them, but the knowledge of what lay down in the hollow gave the memory a bitter taste.

“This is Trooper Mouradian. I copy and I’m on my way. Over.” There was a loud click on the radio and then a burst of static. Police Chief Virgil Shaw snapped the microphone back into place and slowly got out of the cruiser. He walked over to where David was standing.

“It’s hard to believe something like this could happen in such a nice place as Holland, you know?” Shaw said, leaning next to David and folding his arms across his chest. “Goddamn!”

David turned to him to say something, but no words came.

“I think this is just one hell of a sorry home comin’ for you, Davie. I’m sorry.”

David shrugged.

“I hope you understand that I have to question you and your lady friend pretty thorough, you know? Gotta’ be thorough.”

“I understand.”

“‘Course you’ll have to come by the office tomorrow. There’s a lot I want to get down in writing, a signed statement ‘n all.”

“Sure.”

They were interrupted by a sudden blast on the radio. Shaw ducked back into the cruiser and snapped on the mike. “Shaw here. Come in.”

In the burst of static that followed, David was sure he heard a human voice, but he was damned if he could make out what it was saying.

Shaw apparently had understood and replied, “That’s correct Sergeant. We have a 10-49, unattended death, possible homicide ‘bout three miles out of town. Over.”

Possible homicide?
David thought.
Christ, what does he want, an autograph or something?

“Uh, that’s right. We’ve secured the area and expect the lab van from the A.G.’s office within an hour. Over.”

Another few seconds of static obscured the other person’s reply, then Shaw spoke again. “That’s a negative, Sergeant. I’ve spoken with the Doc, and he says that once we’ve got the photos and casts we’re to take the body to Maine Medical. He’ll do the autopsy tomorrow. Over. Roger. Over and out.”

Shaw came back over to David. “State Police and Attorney General’s boys are on their way. Christ!” He shook his head sadly.

David saw that Shaw’s forehead was glistening with sweat, even though the night was cool. He tried, but couldn’t repress a shiver.

“I know,” Shaw said, “that you’ve been over what happened more than enough already, but I want you to think about it tonight and see if your memory gets any clearer. Maybe some detail you might’ve forgotten. Lots of times we blank things out that don’t come back to us ‘til later, once we’ve had time to think a bit.”

He paused and, in an almost fatherly way, placed his hand on David’s shoulder. “I’m truly sorry this had to happen to you, Davie. There’s no sense in you staying out here. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Why don’t you go on back to the motel with your lady friend and try ‘n get some rest.”

“Yeah,” David mumbled, then turned and walked slowly back to his car. Driving down the road toward town, David kept his eyes fixed on the flashing blue lights reflected in his rearview mirror until they disappeared when he turned a corner.

III

T
hat night, as David drifted in a borderland of sleep, the memories did come back, but they were fragmentary and jumbled. The image of the dead boy he had found—his name was Billy Wilson and he had lived in town—became mixed with David’s image of himself. The darkness of the Bog coalesced in his dreams into a massive, hulking shape: the shape that he had seen the night he had become lost in the Bog. The darkness of the shape swelled and pulsed, and then, slowly, it began to take on a face; and, in his dream, David thought he recognized the face! It was . . . it was the face of someone he knew. Someone! Who?

He woke with a start as the black shape loomed over him and he heard the sharp crack of a breaking bone. But as he opened his eyes on the early-morning dull gray sky, the face in his dreams faded like wind-blown dust.

HOLLAND, MAINE, DAILY NEWS, SATURDAY, JUNE 4, 1977 BIZARRE MURDER. SUSPECT SOUGHT

HOLLAND—The body of Billy Wilson, a local boy, was discovered last night by a passing motorist. The body was found in an area known locally as the Bog.

Police Chief Virgil Shaw received word of the discovery at approximately 11:45 last night and went immediately to the scene. State police were notified and will assist in the investigation.

The driver, who wishes to remain unidentified, states that he was driving along the Lovewell Road when he noticed someone walking on the side of the road. As his car approached, the individual ran off into the woods. The driver got out to investigate and found the boy.

Anyone with any information is asked to call Chief Shaw.

Funeral services for Billy Wilson are scheduled for Monday. Local schools will be dismissed to attend.

I

S
haw looked like hell, David thought. If he had had any sleep at all, it hadn’t been more than an hour or two, and his eyes were red and rheumy. He sat at his desk, hunched over a typewriter, typing rapid-fire two-finger hunt-and-peck. He paused, pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, sat back, and took a sip of the cold coffee that waited beside his elbow.

“Sometimes seems as though police work is more paper work than footwork,” he said, smiling feebly. David nodded.

“There’s a lot to report, and just like the military, it seems as though everything has to be written in triplicate or more.” He turned back to his machine and, as he typed, David had plenty of time to observe him.

Actually, David was surprised at how much the police chief had aged. If he had thought about it at all, he figured things wouldn’t have changed that much in the time he had been away from Holland. Eight years ago he had returned home for his grandmother’s funeral; before that, he had been living in New York City for six years. When he stopped to think about it, fourteen years was quite a long time—at least, it showed on Chief Shaw.

David had always admired Shaw, ever since he could remember. The chief had always been an imposing figure in David’s childhood awareness, and even as David grew, the man always seemed to be larger than anyone else in town. The power of a man with a badge, David thought, shaking his head and smiling to himself. He was having quite a difficult time reconciling his exaggerated memory of the man with this bespectacled, thin, aged man sitting hunched over his typewriter.

“You didn’t happen to get a receipt at the toll booth in Portland, didya?” Shaw asked suddenly, turning around to face David.

Caught in his reminiscences, David jumped in his seat before stammering, “Uh . . . no, no I didn’t.”

“Aww.” Shaw shook his head. “Too bad. If you had, you know, like if you was gonna write this trip off as a business expense, you might’ve used a receipt.
That
would have made it pretty easy to figure your arrival in Holland, using average speeds.”

David grunted.

“Then, you see, we could use that time compared to the estimated time of death to—”

“Wait just a minute.” David leaned forward, shaking his finger at Shaw. “You’re making it sound like
I’m
under suspicion for this or something.”

Shaw fixed David with a steady gaze that made him uncomfortable.

“Well?” David said, his voice much toned down. “Am I?”

Shaw pushed himself away from his typewriter and stood up. He walked around to the front of the desk and sat down. Folding his arms across his chest, he sighed and looked up at the ceiling as he began to speak. “Now Davie, I know you. I’ve known your family all my life. Both of us have pretty strong roots here in Holland.” He fixed his gaze on David and continued. “But there’s been a murder here in town and, as police chief, I have to follow everything—
everything
that might be a lead.”

“But—” David started to say, but Shaw waved him silent.

“Now I personally don’t think you are the murderer.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that!”

“I mean, I don’t think
anybody
who’s committed a murder is gonna come wheelin’ into town the way you did last night ‘n report exactly where the body is.” Shaw forced a smile, but it was thin. “I mean, they’d have to be crazy.”

“For sure,” David agreed, nodding his head.

“Then again, when you think about what . . . that person did to that little boy . . . well, he pretty much for sure is crazy, right?” Shaw’s glasses had slipped down his nose, and he pushed them back-up.

“Uh-huh.” The relief David had been feeling just a second ago was beginning to disappear.

“Now, like I said,
I
sure as hell don’t think you did this. I knew you all the time you were growing up. I know you’re a decent sort of guy. But
you
were the first one to discover the body, and in any report, it’s gonna look kind of funny that you were out walking on the Bog that late at night.”

“I told you,” David interrupted, “I’d seen someone run out there after ducking something—that kid—in the brush. I got curious and decided to check.”

“It sounds okay to me, Davie, but all I’m tryin’ to say is that you, more than anyone else at the present time, are most closely associated with that kid right after he was killed. I was just suggesting that, with a toll house receipt, we could establish where you were in relation to when that kid was killed.”

David shifted in his seat and stared down at the floor.

“Now look,” Shaw continued, “I have a lot more typing to do, and there are some more answers I’ll need from you, so why don’t you get yourself a cup of coffee and settle down. I’ve got just a little bit more to write here and then we’ll be done—for now.”

David grunted, stood up, and made his way over to the coffee pot. The office was again filled with the clacking of Shaw’s typing. David poured himself a cup and sat back down. The coffee was too hot at first, so he let it sit.

“If it isn’t me,” David said suddenly, “do you think it was someone who lives here in Holland?”

“Dunno’,” Shaw muttered, with barely a break in his typing.

“Anyway you slice it, there’s a whacko out there.”

Shaw nodded. David’s coffee had cooled a bit, and he took a tentative sip. It tasted just slightly better than mud.

“There,” Shaw said, sitting back in his chair and tearing the paper from the typewriter. He placed the last sheet onto the pile he had on his desk and then shuffled them into order. “And I’ve gotta’ say that that’s about the roughest report I’ve ever filled out in all my thirty-five years on the force.” He squinted his eyes as he scanned the top page, and it looked to David as if he were fighting back tears.

“Must be pretty tough,” David said.

“A lot tougher on Billy Wilson’s parents, though,” Shaw replied.

Sipping his coffee, David said, “I don’t remember anyone named Wilson living here in town. Did they move here recently?”

“Must’ve been, oh, six years ago they moved to town. They live out on Pond Road. The father teaches English at the high school. Mother stays home.”