Moonbog (6 page)

Frank shook his head slowly. “Come on, Mac. You know that what you saw, if you saw anything at all, was probably fireflies or swamp gas or something. There ain’t no UFOs out in the Bog.”

“Maybe just a bank of mist glowing in the moonlight,” Carmichael suggested.

“More than likely, it was the
alcohol
mist in your head,” McQuire said. Everyone, except Mac, had a good laugh at that.

“I’m tellin’ yah,” Mac began, but then he let his voice drop away. The silence that followed seemed ominous until Les snorted, leaned forward, and muttered, “Bullshit.”

Offended, Mac snorted again, picked up his glass of beer, and wandered over to the bar to see if he could con Luke into giving him a freebie. Everyone at the table watched him leave, then they were all silent. “I say it’s just what it looks like,” Frank said finally. “I think it’s some sexual pervert on the loose.”

Heads bobbed up and down.

“Even if the Wilson boy last night was the only one, if them other kids last summer did just drown in the Bog or something, whoever would—” he choked on the word he was about to say—”would do something like
that
has got to be a real fuckin’ sicko!”

“You know who I think it is?” Espy said quietly. Everyone’s attention went to him immediately, probably because of the tone in his voice. “I think it’s that old man—Marshall Logan. He lives out there pretty close to the Bog. And from what I’ve heard, he knows the area pretty good.”

Schroder was shaking his head side to side.

“No, really. He lives out there. Never been married. The guy’s a real coot.”

“Christ, Sam, will you just drop that? Logan’s okay.”

“How the fuck do you know?” Espy snarled.

“‘Cause Marshall’s lived here all his life. He may be kinda’ a hermit, but you can bet your last fuckin’ dollar, he ain’t no
pre
vert.”

“How about his nephew, David?” Franklin suggested. He was more timid with his suggestion than Espy had been, but again Schroder shook his head.

“Christ, you guys are full of shit today,” he said. He drained his mug, slammed it down, and raised his hand for another.

“Why couldn’t it be the younger Logan?” Espy said, seemingly willing to press any suggestion for the sake of argument, if nothing else. “He was the one who found the kid. Maybe he did it.”

Frank’s beer arrived, and he glared at Espy as he took a first swallow.

“
Someone
did it,” Franklin said meekly.

“Sure as shit, someone did it, but it wasn’t either one of the Logans.”

Espy leaned forward. “How the Christ do you know so much about them Logans? As I hear it, that David’s been living in New York City. If half of what you read in the paper’s true, there sure are a bunch of faggot weirdos living
there
.”

Frank smiled and said, quietly, “You been readin’ Mac’s
Enquirers?
”

Everyone laughed except for Espy and Franklin. Espy’s face twisted with restrained anger. Frank spoke softly, keeping his eyes focused on his hands as he grasped his beer mug. “‘Could’ve been David Logan, though.”

Now Frank got really angry, and he slammed open palm on the table. Everyone jumped. “Are you guys
nuts?
” he shouted.

“I dunno’,” Franklin whispered. “I just thought—”

“You just didn’t think! That’s the goddamned trouble around here. We got a shit load of people who shoot off their mouths before they think.
Christ!
” Frank huffed and stood. He leaned back his head and drained the remainder of his beer, then, without a word, turned and left the Sawmill.

There was a long silence after Schroder left. The men looked nervously from one to another until Espy cleared his throat and spoke. “Well, I for one don’t think Will’s too far off. That David Logan’s probably just as weird as his uncle. Weirder, maybe, after living so long in New York.” Suddenly he turned to Les, who had been sitting quietly, taking it all in. “What do you think, Les?”

“Huh?” Les scratched the back of his head, making his felt hat shift further over his eyes. He sighed deeply, like someone waking up after a long sleep.

“You were buddies with David Logan in high school, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” came the quick reply.

“Well? You think he could be . . . well, a little bit, you know.” He wiggled his hand back and forth. “You know, a queer or something?”

Les shrugged. “Beats my ass,” he said, then took a drink. “He moved to New York right after high school, ‘n we never stayed in touch. How the hell should I know what he’s like?”

“How about in high school,” Espy said, pressing. “Did he score with the chicks?”

“Or was he always dropping his soap in the showers after gym class?” McQuire piped in. When they all laughed, he sat back in his chair, satisfied with his joke.

Les was the only one who didn’t laugh. He said, softly, “He did all right with the girls, I guess. Got as much ass as anyone else, I suppose.”

“Not as much as you did, though,” McQuire said. “At least he didn’t get a chick knocked up and end up with a shotgun wedding.”

Les stiffened at this for a second, then slowly uncoiled and leaned his chair back against the wall. “Naw,” he said finally, “I don’t think Davie Logan’s a faggot.” He paused, then added, for emphasis, “But his uncle, old man Logan . . . well, that might be another story. . . .” His voice trailed away.

“Well, no matter
who
it is,” Carmichael said, “I just hope Shaw busts his ass and nails him. And
soon!

“Ummm. The staties are sending up a sergeant to help him.”

Espy made a sound that was a perfect combination of a sigh and a snarl. “Shaw’s lucky he can find his way home at night, for Christ’s sake. He’s gonna need a whole battalion of staties to help him.” He shook his head with disgust.

“I’m tellin’ yah all!” someone shouted.

They all looked up to see Mac walking unsteadily toward them. He had a full mug in his hand and was splashing beer onto the floor with each wobbly step. “Ther’s somethin’ out there in the Bog that ain’t
natural
. Nossir-ree.”

Everyone tried to ignore him, but he leaned, almost fell sprawling across the table. “Go out there tonight. Any of yah. I dare yah. You’ll see.” He snickered to himself, then added, “Maybe we’ll get lucky and a UFO’ll kidnap the whole fuckin’ bunch of yah!” He snorted and staggered away, humming an unrecognizable tune under his breath.

“He’s feeling better all the time, ain’t he?” McQuire said, smiling.

Espy stood up. “Crazy old coot,” he snarled. Well, I gotta’ get on home ‘fore the old lady starts bitchin’. See you all later.”

The rest of them stood up. As Les was edging around the table, Carmichael grabbed his arm. Les tensed and, as he turned around, Carmichael had the impression that Les was going to take a swing at him.

“Hey, Les,” he said hurriedly, “if you’re heading out to your place, could you give me a ride to the Tulsa station?”

“Sure,” Les said tightly.

“I had some work done on the car. It should be ready by now,” he added apologetically.

“Sure,” Les said, adjusting his hat forward. “No sweat.”

III

I
t had been a mistake to go out to the Wilson’s house; David realized it as soon as Mrs. Wilson opened the door and asked his business by silently raising her eyebrows. It was obvious she had been crying. Her eyes were bloodshot, looking worse than Shaw’s had earlier that day. Her face was pale, almost waxy, emphasizing her frail features.

David opened his mouth, about to speak, when Mr. Wilson interposed himself between them. He stared at the stranger on his doorstep for a second, then said, “If you don’t mind, we would rather not be bothered.” For some reason, David had the feeling the man thought he was from the newspaper—probably because he hadn’t immediately displayed a badge.

“Uh, excuse me,” David said. The door had begun to swing shut, but he held it with his open hand. He was suddenly groping for words. “I’m the, uhh, the person who . . . found your son.” Mrs. Wilson’s face drained even whiter, and she looked as though she was going to faint. “I just wanted to . . . to tell you how . . . how sorry I am that I—”

Mr. Wilson began to swing the door shut. “Yes, I understand,” he said stonily. “Now, if you please, we’d rather be alone.”

“Yes, yes. Of course,” David said as he began to back down the stairs. All the while he had his eyes fastened on Mrs. Wilson’s frightened look: red-rimmed eyes set deep within a white face, almost like a comic book vampire. He found himself thinking that if, at any time, he heard that Mrs. Wilson was suffering from the delusion that her son was visiting her from his grave, he wouldn’t be too surprised.

He jammed his hands into his pockets and, grimacing, nodded his head as the door shut with dull finality. For a second he considered writing a note, telling them to give him a call if there was anything he could do to help. Somehow he thought that might help him forget the woman’s tortured stare—a look that had too much similarity to the expression on Billy Wilson’s face when he found him.

Deciding that a note would help neither the Wilsons nor himself, he walked down to his car.

IV

D
riving back through town, the accumulated strain and lack of sleep began to take its toll. David yawned widely and scratched at the stubble of beard on his chin. He knew Allison was probably getting pretty impatient, waiting for him back at the motel. Then again, if he went back, he’d probably go to sleep, so she’d have to occupy herself anyway. Chuckling at his use of logic, David decided to drive through town just to see how much had changed and how much had stayed the same.

David was surprised at what he noticed—there were some big changes in town, new buildings and some old ones gone; but it was mostly little things, details that
really
showed the passing years.

The twin maple trees in front of the Post Office had been saplings when David had graduated from high school. He remembered the early spring day when his fifth grade class had planted them on the now unobserved Arbor Day. Fooling around after school, he and his friends used to jump over the tops of the small trees. Now they stood tall and healthy, their shadows dappling the front of the Post Office.

The town library still stood, its old granite face partially obscured by the surrounding pines. David noticed, with a jolt of surprise, that a new wing had been added. It was brick and aluminum, and clashed violently with the style of the older building. He wondered if there was still a separate room for the books that were considered “
Not Suitable For Children’s Eyes
.” One afternoon during his senior year, under some pretext or other, he had gained admission to the room and leafed through several of the books, only to be surprised and disappointed by their tameness.

When he reached the old grammar school, David pulled up to the curb. Leaning over the steering wheel, he stared up at the blank wall of brick and windows. It still looked like the prison it had felt like; it just looked much smaller. He got out of the car and slowly walked up the cracked concrete path.

“
Dedicated To Our Children: The Hope For The Future
,” the scroll over the double doorway read. David was surprised when he felt a shiver, even though the sun was beating warmly on his shoulders. Walking up to the door, he pressed his face against the glass and peered in. Yesterday, this building was filled with children restless for summer vacation to begin in another two or three weeks. On Monday, though, the school would be closed—for Billy Wilson’s funeral.

David barely recognized the inside of the school. What was once worn, hardwood floor was now bright, shiny linoleum. It looked as though someone had just been through with a buffer. The pale, peeling green walls and old pine wainscotting had been refinished and were now decorated with brilliantly colored graphics. On a wall near the door was a bulletin board with an assortment of pictures; David deduced that the topic was “What I’m Going To Do This Summer,” because they showed kids boating, swimming, and camping.

David sighed as scattered memories rose in his mind. His breath fogged the window and then disappeared. Almost unconsciously, he put his hand on the door latch and wiggled it. The door clicked open easily.

The smell of school reached out and tickled his nose. In spite of all the changes, new walls, new floors, new everything, the old “prison” still smelled the same: a curious mixture of floorwax, Lysol, and something else which David had never been able to identify.

He inched the door open, blocking it with his shoulder as he stuck his head inside. The corridor was silent, filled only with stirrings, odors and memories from years ago. A sudden sound from somewhere inside startled him. He jumped, and the door began to swing shut, hitting him on the back. Footsteps sounded in the corridor and, just as someone rounded the corner, David let the door close and walked rapidly to his car. But before he drove off, he sat and stared at the old building for another minute or so.

Now that he had started this trip down memory lane, he decided to drive the rest of the way through town and take the Little River Road up to the old homestead. He considered calling Allison and telling her his plan, but then thought better of it; she certainly wouldn’t want to go with him, and if she knew what he was doing she’d be angry—it was best to let her sit and wait.