Moonbog (45 page)

“Jesus,” Carl muttered, almost too faintly to be heard, “these fucking frogs are gonna’ drive me bug-house.”

Jack didn’t answer; he was intently watching whatever was illuminated by the sweep of his flashlight beam. The darkness closed in behind the two men as they slowly made their way forward.

Suddenly, Jack jolted to a stop. Carl turned around and grunted as he caught his breath. “Shit, man, what is it?” When Jack didn’t answer, Carl practically shouted, “Christ! Did you see something?”

“No . . . no, I . . . I . . .”Jack shook his head and looked up at Carl. “I was just thinking about . . . aww, fuck it. Never mind. Stop talkin’ about goin’ nuts, OK? You’re giving me the creeps.”

“Me?” Carl shouted. “Me?
I’m
giving
you
the creeps? You’re the one who at least has a flashlight.”

Jack shook his head, feeling suddenly foolish. “OK, OK, I’m sorry. I was just thinkin’ about—” he swallowed with difficulty “—I was just thinking about how it would be if we were the ones who found him.”

“Who, you mean the killer?”

“No, no—the kid that’s missin’. I was just thinking about how I’d react if I was the one who found him out here, dead ‘n all cut up like the other kids.”

“Come on,” Carl said sharply. “Let’s get going. I wanna’ get my ass outta’ this puckerbrush as soon as I can. I think I see a break in the woods up ahead there. And for Christ’s sake, Jack, keep your morbid thoughts to yourself, OK?”

Jack nodded. “Sure.”

As he and Carl started along the dark path again, he muttered softly to himself, “Me? I’m giving
him
the creeps?”

VI

T
here were wide gaps between the planks of the old lumber mill building, and the setting sun cast horizontal bars on the far wall. Sammy sat crouched behind a stack of empty wooden crates, watching dust motes in the air glitter like stars. The sharp smell of sawdust had, at first, stung his nose, but he had gotten used to it and no longer noticed it. The quiet was what he noticed now; quiet so thick it seemed to pulsate.

“They’ll be sorry,” he whispered to himself, hoping to convince himself that his being missing would cause more discomfort to his parents than it would to him. He pulled his jacket tightly around his neck even though the old building still retained the heat from the day. He had a stub of a candle and a flashlight, but after exploring the building and settling down, he decided not to use either—not until it got really dark.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he took out the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he had brought from home. As he unwrapped it, the crinkling sound of the wax paper seemed to fill the building. Sammy smiled as he raised one of the triangular pieces to his mouth and took a small bite. He wanted to make the sandwich last—at least until tomorrow. Then he knew he would have to do something about getting more food. Like all boys who run away from home, he didn’t have any specific plans but, somehow, knew that things would be all right. He’d make it on his own.

As he thoughtfully chewed his mouthful of sandwich, he considered where he might go to live. The only ideas he had were vague; the only thing he knew was that he would never—
never
go home again—not in a million years. A vagrant breeze stirred the sawdust on the rafters above, and in the last glimmer of sunlight, a sparkling shower dusted his head. Sammy leaned forward, protecting his sandwich.

“They’ll be sorry,” he repeated before taking another bite. He started thinking how much he wished he had taken his sleeping bag with him. Of course, it would have been next to impossible to get it out of the house without getting caught. Georgie the Squealer would fink on him if he knew; Robbie probably wouldn’t have cared—maybe would have even been happy to see him go. Sammy chewed and swallowed, glad that he had slipped away so easily without getting caught.

A sudden rasping sound caught Sammy’s attention, and he stiffened. The corners of the building were now thick with shadows that looked like ink stains slowly seeping over the walls. Sammy crouched on his knees, looking around the room for what had made the sound. After a long, tense moment, he heard it again—a scratching sound followed by a heavy thump.

Footsteps? Sammy wondered frantically. Maybe someone knew he was there and was coming to get him. He listened for the heavy clumping sound of boots but heard none.

Slowly, he reached for his flashlight and, drawing it up to his chin like a carefully aimed gun, snapped it on. Immediately he heard a flurry of thumps and, as he swung the flashlight beam around in a wide arc, he caught a silvery glitter. His breath caught as the gleam of reflected light winked, and then the shadowy hump on the floor resolved. Staring at him, chisel-teeth exposed, was a large rat.

An involuntary scream escaped him as he and the rodent locked eyes.

“Get! Scat!” Sammy shouted, waving his light toward the rat. The rat blinked its eyes but didn’t move. Sammy felt a tightening in his groin as if he had to urinate.

“Go on!” he hissed, but still the rat sat there, unmoving. Sammy kept his eyes fastened on the rat as he reached down to the floor and felt around blindly with his fingers. When he found a small block of wood, he cocked his arm back and let it fly without thinking.

The block of wood fell short and hit the floor with a dull smack. The rat wheeled around and ran, swallowed by the shadows before Sammy could train his flashlight beam on it. Once the animal was gone, he breathed easier and wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead. But even before he could settle down and finish his peanut butter sandwich, he heard more scurrying sounds in the shadows; and either the one rat moved around the building very fast or there was more than one. Sammy shivered as he wondered if rats would ever attack a person. Maybe, he figured, if they smelled food. He patted the remaining piece of sandwich and then decided to eat it now rather than lose it to a rat in the middle of the night.

Deep black filled the abandoned lumber mill and, even though it was well before his bedtime, Sammy started to yawn. He shifted himself about on the floor, trying to find a comfortable spot. The wood floor was much harder than he had expected it would be and, again, he wished he had his sleeping bag. He drifted off to sleep after several hours of fading in and out of awareness. The heavy sounds of rats dropping to the floor and the scratching, scurrying sounds of their claws on the wood kept him half awake. He wasn’t even sure if the sounds were really in the building or just in his memory, but after a nervous, exhausting day of planning and executing his escape, sleep finally pulled him down.

Two hours later, as he lay curled up in a ball on the floor, some sounds made him stir in his sleep. He was dreaming that he was at home, that he had fallen out of his bed and was sleeping on the floor. From downstairs, in his dream, he heard the sound of his father’s footsteps on the stairs. He was coming to help him get back into bed, to help him get comfortable again. But, Sammy realized in his dream, his father was mad at him; that he was angry he was not in his bed, and he was coming upstairs to give him a licking. He heard a whispering sound as his father slipped his belt from his belt-loops. The heavy tread of footsteps neared, and Sammy heard a low, guttural laugh.

Then, suddenly, a circle of light blazed in front of his eyes. He snapped them open and, for an instant, did not remember that he was asleep in the old lumber mill. He winced as the circle of light blinded him and, just beyond that, saw a looming shadow of a man. The floorboards creaked beneath the weight of the man as he leaned forward. A steel-clamp hand grabbed his shoulder and a low voice said, “Come on, boy. Wake up!”

Sammy looked into the pool of light before his eyes and screamed. As the man leaned over him, a numbing chill tore through his stomach and his bladder let go.

VII

T
here was just a narrow band of orange on the horizon as David and Marshall pulled up the driveway of the old homestead. David only had the parking lights on so they wouldn’t attract any attention—just in case anyone saw them turn up the driveway to the deserted house. He knew there were searchers out looking for Sammy Rankin.

The road up to the house was lost in shadows, and it seemed as though David hit every pothole. The car scraped bottom a few too many times. David braked to a stop just beside the house. He paused, considering, then as an added precaution, got out, opened the old garage door, and drove the car inside.

“I hope all this sneaking about is necessary,” David said. He shut off the car’s engine and deeply inhaled the mustiness of the long unused garage.

“It is,” Marshall said. There was an earnest tone in his voice that surprised David. “I didn’t tell yah,” Marshall went on, “what happened today while we were out.”

David looked at Marshall and saw that his face was tensed, his jaw clenched.

“What is it?” David asked. “What are you talking about?”

“This afternoon, while we were out . . . there was a visitor out to my house.” The old man’s eyes began to water.

“Huh?”

“Les was out to the house. He . . . he killed Alfie.”

David was stunned. He looked at Marshall, feeling an overwhelming wave of pity, but all he could say was, “Shit.”

“When you dropped me off at the end of the driveway ‘cause you were gonna’ go to town for some groceries, I walked up to the house, and there was Alfie—dead.”

“Shit.”

“He . . .” Marshall’s voice caught, and a tear ran down his face, “he nailed him to my front door.”

“Ohh, Christ.” David reached out and placed his hand on his uncle’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Marshall said, nodding.

They sat in silence for a while, neither one knowing what to say. Finally, Marshall shifted in his seat and snapped the car door open. “Well, there’s no use sitting out here like a couple of fools,” he said, his voice still ragged. “Let’s get inside the house and set up for the night.”

David got out of the car and opened the back door. He took out the two sleeping bags he had stored there, then grabbed the bag of groceries with one hand.

“Why don’t you grab those oil lamps,” David said to Marshall, who was standing there watching him maneuver his load. “I think there’s some kerosene in the trunk. Take the keys and check.”

Marshall opened the other back door and picked up the two lamps. They banged together, sounding like a cow bell. David blindly tossed the keys onto the back seat, and Marshall picked them up.

They walked out of the dark garage and stood for a moment staring up at the old house. It looked dark and ominous against the purple night sky. The west facing windows threw back the last light of day with a dull, marble-like sheen. A light breeze whistled in the gutter, a shrill note just on the edge of hearing. The sound of the spring peepers was the only thing that removed the autumnal impression.

“Why don’t you run the garage door shut,” David said to Marshall. He was unable to control the shiver that ran down his back.

Marshall didn’t move, and David looked at him. He was still looking up at the slate gray house, his face transfixed with rapt attention. His eyes darted nervously along the lines of the house. He looked so frail and washed-out—like the house, David thought.

“Looks kinda’ spooky, doesn’t it,” David said softly. I hope it isn’t haunted.” He forced a slight chuckle.

Marshall sighed deeply. “You don’t have any ghosts in that house waiting for you, do you?” he asked. The words sounded hollow, as if spoken from the other side of life.

David braced himself and said, bravely, “Come on. Let’s get settled for the night.” He started for the door while Marshall went to shut the garage door. David put his load down on the steps as he fished in his pocket for the house keys. He was glad he hadn’t left both sets with Latham and Sumner when they signed the agreement.

“I’m kind of anxious to get this place warmed up and homey—like it used to be,” David said to Marshall, once he had joined him on the steps.

“It’ll never be homey again,” Marshall said vaguely.

David worked the key into the lock and turned it with difficulty. The door opened with a rusted squeal of hinges. David picked up his load and led the way into the kitchen.

“You know, this is sorta’ illegal, ain’t it?” Marshall said.

“Huh?” David dropped his load onto the floor, unable to find the table in the dark. “Come on, light a match so I can see what the hell I’m doing.”

There was a quick scratch, and light blossomed in Marshall’s hand.

“It’s illegal,” Marshall said. He put one of the oil lamps on the counter and started working the wick up so he could light it. The match in his hand burned down, and when he lit another, he touched it to the lamp wick. A warm orange glow filled the old kitchen.

“I just signed an agreement. The contract hasn’t gone through yet. We can spend one more night here—for old time’s sake.”

Marshall snorted and muttered, “Old time’s sake,” as he took the globe off the other oil lamp and lit it. “The last goddamned thing I need is old time’s sake.”

David picked up the bag of food and placed it on the counter. “Well, if nothing else, this is probably the safest place for both of us tonight. Les would never think to come out here.”