Moonbog (5 page)

“Umm.” David took another sip of coffee and decided to drink it faster now; it was starting to get cold.

“You know, the bitch of it is finding the Wilson boy like that,” Shaw scratched his head and adjusted his glasses, “it kinda’ gets me thinking.”

David tensed and leaned forward. “You said you didn’t think I had anything to do with it, that I—”

“No, no, not that. It’s just that—” Shaw broke off, got up, and walked over to a filing cabinet. He tugged the top drawer open and pulled out a thick file. He riffled through until he found what he wanted, and then handed a sheaf of newspaper clippings to David.

“What happened last night,” Shaw said, his voice like gravel, “might help explain these.”

David looked down at the top clipping and read the headline: CHILDREN MISSING. The clipping below was headlined: WHOLE TOWN TURNS OUT FOR SEARCH. The newspaper had run a series of articles about these missing kids for two weeks, finally concluding that they had drowned in the Bog. After that article, another headline proclaimed: BOG CLAIMS THIRD VICTIM, and close to three weeks worth of clippings were filled with details of the second unsuccessful search for someone missing in the Bog.

“Christ,” David muttered, shaking his head as he continued to skim the articles.

“Do you notice anything, though, that could tie these in with what happened last night?” Shaw asked. David was reassured. Shaw seemed to be taking him into his confidence; the police chief wouldn’t do that if he really did suspect him, David figured.

“Uhh, well, they all have something to do with the Bog.”

Shaw smiled and shook his head. “You’re probably one helluva good banker down there in New York, but I can tell you don’t have a head for police work. Look at the dates.”

David glanced at the first article about the missing boy and girl. It was dated Saturday, May 22. The first article about the second boy who disappeared ran on Thursday, June 3.

“Now, as a cop, the first thing I notice is that the dates are almost exactly the same as . . . as yesterday’s. And if there’s
one
thing I’ve learned not to ignore in police work, it’s coincidence.”

“You mean you think these are all related?” David asked incredulously.

Shaw shrugged. “Dunno’. All I’m saying is that an unexplained disappearance is just about as bad as a murder.” Shaw went back and sat behind his desk. “You never heard anything about all this?”

David shook his head. “Never heard a thing.”

“Jeeze, I thought for sure you would have. It got quite a bit of national coverage, but I guess it kinda’ got lost in all the Bicentennial news. It was pretty hectic here for a while, though.”

“I’ll bet.”

“You see,” Shaw said leaning forward, “unlike a murder investigation, like we got now, a disappearance is
everybody’s
business. Even with the state police help, we have to draw on local assistance. And you wouldn’t believe the number of crank phone calls we get from people who’ve seen the missing kid in Miami or Dallas, or people who say they’ve seen him hiding in the woods or floating face-down in a river or something. Last summer here was more like a carnival than anything else.”

“Sort of like a big fire, huh? Or a car accident? Everybody wants to be there out of morbid curiosity or something.”

“Yeah, some of them I guess have a ‘there but for the grace of God,’ attitude, but a lot of them really want to help.”

David nodded.

But you see, there’s more of a connection. Check out the ages. One boy, George Nelson, was twelve years old. The other boy, Kenny Lawrence, was thirteen. Susie Jackson was thirteen, too. Billy Wilson, last night, was twelve years old. Again,” Shaw shrugged his shoulders, “it might be coincidental, and it might not.”

“Of course,” David said, “that age for boys is just about perfect for playing by the Bog. Was Susie a tomboy? I know when I was growing up, my friends and I spent a lot of time out there and in the surrounding woods. We knew that area just as well as we knew the roads around town.”

Shaw frowned. “Whoever was playing with Billy Wilson last night got a bit rough.”

David’s stomach squirmed as he remembered the dead boy staring up at him; glistening eyes in a pale, pasty face.

“Anyway, I shouldn’t be talking your ear off like this. I know you got quite a bit of business to take care of.”

David raised his eyebrows. “You do?”

Shaw smiled. David noticed that some of the tension that had been there while he was talking about last night’s events finally melted away. “I’ve been talking to Sid. He told me you were expected back in town to settle those problems with your grandma’s Will.”

“Well, some things about small towns never change.”

“Yeah, that’s true. Anybody’s business is everybody’s business. But your problems with that house, they’ve been going on for quite some time now, haven’t they?”

“Too long,” David replied. “But I think we’ve got it pretty much straightened out now.” He was tempted to continue, to fill Shaw in on some of the legal problems, but he decided to let it drop.

“That’s a fine piece of property your family has there. It sure is a shame the way the house has run down so bad. Used to be one of the finest houses in the area, when your grandma was still alive. Seems like once she was gone, the place went to hell.”

David was beginning to feel uncomfortable; he had wanted to stop talking about the old place, but Shaw just wasn’t letting it rest. “I, uh, I wouldn’t know about how it looks. I haven’t seen the place since I was back for the funeral eight years ago.”

“Eight years? That long?” Shaw shook his head in disbelief.

“It was December of 1969,” David answered.

Shaw shifted uneasily in his seat and, folding his hands, leaned toward David across the desk. He spoke in a whispering voice. “Meaning no disrespect to your Uncle Marshall, now, you know. Hell, the place was old, and it just may have run out of time. But it seems to me that as soon as Marshall moved into the old house, it went down hill real fast.”

David was surprised by this revelation. “Marshall was living in the old homestead?”

Shaw nodded. “Yeah. Shortly after the funeral he moved in. Funny you didn’t know. He lived there, I don’t know, ‘bout three years or so. Then he moved back into his own house again. When he left, though, the old home looked a shambles compared to what it was.”

“That’s too bad,” David said, with little feeling. As far as he was concerned, the family homestead had become an overly-complicated pain in the ass ever since his grandmother’s death. It was shortly after the funeral that David’s father, Steward, had left town for good, it seemed. The Will had specified that Steward and David’s uncle, Marshall, were to be the heirs to the property. But once Steward disappeared, Marshall became sole heir, after waiting for seven years until Steward could be declared legally dead. Then, as soon as the seven years were up, Marshall forfeited his claim to the property, and everything fell to David.

It was this ring-around-the-rosy legal affair that had brought David back to Holland for the first time in eight years. He had hoped that Marshall would take possession of the place and let the matter rest. He had never been very close to his father, and as soon as he learned his father had left, in his mind he disowned him. David intended to settle everything with Sidney Latham, the family lawyer, put the property on the market, and return to New York with the money from the sale. He hoped that most of the problems were behind him, but now, after last night, he wasn’t so sure.

“I think,” David added, almost to himself, “that the sooner I get the whole thing off my hands, the better off I’ll be.”

Shaw looked mildly surprised. “So you
are
gonna sell?” he asked, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

David nodded agreement, and Shaw shook his head sadly. “You’re not gonna settle here in Holland? That’s too bad. There were a lot of folks hopin’ you’d stay, fix the place up, maybe—” Shaw winked and smiled “—get married ‘n all.”

“That’s just not possible right now,” David replied coolly. He resented the way Shaw was prying into his personal life. “I’ve got a good job, a nice apartment, and friends in the city. I’m just not ready to return to Maine.”

Shaw stood up suddenly and walked over to David. He had the distinct impression that he had insulted the police chief, but he was feeling slightly insulted himself, so he made no attempt to apologize. Shaw placed a firm hand on David’s shoulder. “Well, no matter. This has been one hell of a homecoming for you, Davie. I’m sorry things had to be . . . be like this.”

David rose from his chair, twisting from under Shaw’s grasp. “Well, I just hope you nail whoever did this to the Wilson boy.” He noticed that he was still clutching his half-full cup of coffee. He handed it to Shaw, partly to keep the man’s hands busy so he wouldn’t grab his shoulder again. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“Sure,” Shaw replied. “I may have to get in touch with you again about this case.”

“No problem. I’ll be at the Pine Haven at least until next Friday.” David started for the door, then paused and turned around. “I was thinking I might stop out at the Wilson’s a little later, express my sympathies.”

“I think that’d be a good idea,” Shaw answered. “Their house is the green Cape, right after Pontbriand’s vegetable stand.”

Without another word, David stepped out into the bright, early morning sun, got into his car, and drove out upper Main Street toward Pond Road.

II

T
he semi-darkness that filled the Sawmill Lounge was pierced periodically by the flashing red neon sign that read:
Chop Suey
. It was a strange claim to fame in this corner of Maine, but the Sawmill had the best chop suey north of Boston.

The restaurant was filled, as usual, with the Saturday afternoon crowd. About half of them were there for lunch; the other half were there to begin their Saturday night just a bit early. The din of voices rose above the clatter of knives and forks on plates and the scratchy tunes belting from the jukebox. Today, though, in every booth and at every table, talk revolved around the death of Billy Wilson. Shaw hadn’t been the only one in town to connect last night’s events with the disappearances of George Nelson and Kenny Lawrence the summer before.

In the far corner of the restaurant, over by the fireplace, was a long table set up with benches. At the head of the table sat Frank Schroder, one of the construction bosses on the town’s highway department. The muscles that bunched and tightened in his arm as he raised his beer mug proved he deserved the respect he commanded.

Sitting to Frank’s right were three of the men from his crew—John McQuire, Will Franklin, and Joe Carmichael. On the other side of the table sat Sam Espy and an old man, Mac Foster. Mac had a reputation as the town drunk, and this Saturday afternoon he was working hard to prove it. At the other end of the table, his chair leaning against the wall and a shapeless green felt hat pulled down to hide his eyes, sat Les Rankin. Les was listening carefully to everything that was being said around the table, although if you had asked anyone there, they probably would have said that he was asleep.

“It’s goddamned terrible, that’s what it is,” Espy said earnestly. “Almost makes me glad my kids are off to college. They’re probably safer
there
, for Chris-sakes.” A few chuckles went around the table, and Espy added, “I ain’t bullshittin’.”

“We know you ain’t,” Frank said harshly. He took a swallow of beer and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

In spite of the heat of the restaurant, Mac was wearing a heavy red woolen shirt and had a stocking cap pulled down to his ears. His eyes twinkled with moisture as he leaned forward and placed both hands on the table. “I tole yous all last summa’,” he slurred, “when them otha’ boys disappeared. They didn’t jus’ drown or somethin’ in the Bog. I’m tellin’ yah, they was taken, kidnapped.”

Frank looked at the old man crossly. “Aw, come on, Mac. Don’t start in with that bullshit again.” Everyone shook their heads, knowing that once Mac started, it took a bit to shut him off.

“I’m tellin’ yah!” He slammed his fist on the table for emphasis, making the mugs of beer jump. “You don’t believe me, you can go shit in your hats.” He snorted loudly, wiped his nose with his forefinger, and then frowned deeply, making his forehead a tangle of wrinkles. When no one at the table spoke, he continued, “I seen flashin’ lights out there . . . in the Bog.” Someone snickered. “I ain’t shittin’ yah! Blue lights flitterin’ and flickerin’. You look here, they’s gone, over there, they’s gone. One night, last summa’, after that Lawrence kid disappeared, I was out walkin’ ‘n I—”

“We’ve heard that story before, Mac,” Frank said. His voice was firm, controlled.

“‘N I’m tellin’ ‘yah the God’s-honest truth.” Mac raised his right hand as though he were swearing in a court of law. “People’ll tell yah that it’s ghosts or somethin’ out there in the Bog, but I seen ‘em. That’s them UFOs you read about in the paper.”

“What paper?” McQuire asked, unable to hide the amusement in his voice.

“The
Enquirer
, ‘course!” Mac almost shouted. His eyes took on a more than usual watery gleam as he went on, now that his story was beginning to hit its stride. “Them UFOs been abductin’ people, examinin’ ‘em. That’s what happened to the Lawrence ‘n Nelson kids. ‘N the Wilson kid last night. That’s what they do to ya once they finish expectin’ yah.”