Moonbog (9 page)

“Sure, sure, you wanna’ go out,” Marshall said as he stomped over to the door. Alfie darted out the door as soon as it started to open. “Hope you catch a nice fat one,” Marshall said as he slammed the door shut and locked it.

Back in the kitchen, Marshall scooped the burned beans onto a disk. They steamed as he stirred them around with his fork, never taking a mouthful. The telephone call from Robert Hollis had made him lose his appetite quickly, causing a strange mixture of anger and guilt and, maybe, something else.

After staring at his plate of food for almost half an hour, Marshall got up stiffly, went over to the garbage can, and scraped everything into the trash. He left the dirty pan and dish on the counter and walked into the living room.

“They
did
get what they deserved,” he mumbled to himself, trying to convince himself of that fact. “There’s just no damn way they should get away with something like that!”

He looked over at the phone in the hallway by the door and considered calling Shaw. Maybe the best thing to do would be to formally complain, not really press charges, but at least let Shaw know
his
side of the story. From the sound of Hollis’ voice, it seemed likely he was going to call the police chief.

Marshall made a move to the phone, then stopped cold. No, he thought, it’d probably not be such a good idea. What with all Shaw was probably dealing with, the murder of the kid and all, the last thing Shaw needed was a piddling complaint like his. Marshall walked back into the living room and went over to the fireplace.

“What’s gonna’ happen?” he asked, picking up a gilt-framed photograph and holding it at arm’s length. It was a picture, slightly out of focus and fading, of a young woman sitting on a rock by a river.

Her legs were crossed, and her hands were folded primly on her lap. Her dress, long and full, allowed just the barest glimpse of her ankles. She was wearing a sun bonnet with the wide brim turned up, and the sun washed over her face, almost removing the details of her pale blue eyes and thin mouth. There was a picnic basket at her feet and the trailing edge of a blanket spread on the ground.

“
You
must know,” he said, looking from the picture to a spot on the ceiling and back to the picture. “If anyone does . . . if you’re . . . you’re. . . .” His voice caught and broke, and tears started to well up in his eyes. He sniffed loudly. “If you’re up there, maybe you can help me . . . figure this out.” Gently, he replaced the picture in its spot on the mantle.

“
Why’d it have to be like this?
” he shouted suddenly. “
Why? Why?
” His tears spilled over and ran down, following the cracks in his face. “Things should have been different!
They should have been different!
” He covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook violently as the emotion was released.

VIII

T
he man stood in the darkness beneath the trees that lined the road. Behind him, he could feel the presence of the Bog, and he grew dizzy as he tilted his head back and listened to the sound of the spring peepers. The sound rose in intensity until it blended with the night . . . until it
became
the night.

His breath came in short gulps, and as the darkness of the night swirled with sound, he felt himself tightening like a snake about to strike. Through the tatters of cloud overhead, he saw the moon rising in the east, over the Bog. With a sustained inhale, he started to walk.

The night pressed close around him, swelling and pulsating with the sound of the spring peepers. And beneath that sound, he heard something else. He stopped where he was and cocked his head to one side as he listened to what he thought he heard.

Was it a voice?

What was it saying to him?

Tension ripped through him as he stood, listening for a moment, then he swiftly left the side of the road and blended into the shadows under the trees.

For long, tense seconds he stood there, his ears burning as he listened for the sound beneath the song of the peepers. Had it been in his imagination, or had he really heard someone speaking?

A sheen of sweat soaked his face, and he peered along the road in both directions to see if anyone was there. Suddenly, two small shapes came out of the woods. The man could tell at this distance that they were boys, but he didn’t recognize them in the darkness. He crouched and listened. The boys were too far away for him to make out what they said, but finally, they parted and started down the road away from each other.

“Don’t forget what I told you,” the boy walking toward the hidden man shouted. His voice was muffled by the night.

“I won’t,” came the distant reply of the other. “See yah later, Eddie.”

The man watched as Eddie stood for a moment, observing his friend leave. Eddie cupped his hands to his mouth, about to yell something further then let them drop to his side. He knew he had to get back for supper fast, but he wanted to take his time until he came up with a good excuse to get him out of trouble in case Old Man Logan called his folks about the window soaping.

Once his friend had disappeared, Eddie turned and started home. It was a dark stretch from where he was to the housing development where he lived, and as he walked, he found himself wishing that the road had at least a few street lights.

The man waited in the darkness until Eddie had passed him. Then, his head spinning with exhilaration, he crept up to the road. Keeping to the shadows, he followed several paces behind Eddie. That little shit, he thought, he should know better than to be out in a place like this after dark. A soft laughter escaped him and, although the sound didn’t seem to carry far, Eddie suddenly stopped in the middle of the road and turned.

“Sammy?” ‘Sat you?” he said tightly.

The man froze in his tracks and hoped Eddie couldn’t see him where he stood.

Tension rose, he could almost feel it crackling like lightening between them as he waited and Eddie listened.

“Is anybody there?” Eddie said, his voice tighter still. The man remained immobile and almost laughed aloud as a thrill gripped his stomach.

Finally, Eddie started to walk toward home again, but the man could tell that he still didn’t feel safe because every now and then he would stop and look around behind him. A few times he called out softly for whoever might be there to reveal himself, but when his only answer was the chirring of the peepers, he started to walk faster and then, finally, broke out into an easy trot.

The man felt his anger rise when the boy started running; he knew that it would be difficult to continue following without getting caught too soon—before he could surprise his prey. Cursing under his breath, he started to jog along, pacing himself behind the boy, hoping he wouldn’t hear him coming up behind.

As Eddie rounded a corner, he suddenly stopped short and wheeled around to face his pursuer. A low whimper came from his throat when he saw a dark shadow moving alongside the road. Straining forward, he finally heard the steady slap-slap of the man’s feet.

Without a word, Eddie turned and ran, clenching his fists and looking back over his shoulder to see if whoever was behind him was gaining on him. The coiled fear he had experienced when he thought someone was following him now blossomed into terror, and that terror drove him on with a speed he never knew he had.

Eddie was gaining ground, and the man knew that if he didn’t catch up with him before too long, they’d get to the first house on the road and by that first house was a street light. He redoubled his efforts, aware now that Eddie knew he was behind him, but he was sadly out of shape, and it wasn’t too long before he realized that Eddie was pulling ahead.

They ran through the darkness, the only sounds the steady slapping of their feet on the pavement and the spring-time chorus of peepers. The man looked up and saw the moon, sailing up into the sky, casting dim, powdery shadows.

First Eddie rounded one turn, and then another, and with air tearing his throat raw, he saw, dimly up ahead, the streetlight: safety. Relief flooded through him as it got closer and closer. He dared not look around for fear of breaking his stride or tripping. Gritting his teeth, he pumped his arms furiously for the last stretch until he drew up beside the lamp post.

His breath came in hot waves as he leaned over, feeling he would puke. Glancing back along the road, he felt a chilled wave run along his spine when he saw that there was no one there. It hadn’t been his imagination; he was sure of that, but he didn’t see the man crouching low by the road embankment, glaring at him.

“Can’t catch me!” he hollered, feeling braver for having escaped. By the time he got home, he wanted to tell his parents what had happened, but when he remembered Billy Wilson, he decided against it. Why worry his mother? Besides, by that time, his father had gotten a call from Old Man Logan telling him about the window soaping, and right after supper, he went to bed, grateful at least that his father hadn’t given him a spanking . . . like a little kid.

IX

S
ylvia Shaw walked up behind her husband and took hold of his shoulders. The strength in her hands surprised him, but then again, there was much about Sylvia that was surprisingly strong. He took one hand out from supporting his chin and, reaching behind, patted her hand.

“You should go to bed early, get some rest. You really need it,” she said softly, sympathetically.

Shaw grunted. Keeping his elbows on the table, he rubbed his face vigorously with the heels of his hands.

“Your sleep is just as important as the work you do.”

“I know.” Shaw’s voice sounded distant, as though he was talking from the next room.

The couple was silent for a long time. All the while, Sylvia massaged her husband’s shoulders. She could feel the knitted muscles beneath his skin, and she willed them to soften and loosen up.

“You can’t get so worried about it all. That’s not the way to take it.”

“How am I suppose to take it?” he asked. His tone of voice was soft, and Sylvia realized that if he had shouted what he had just said, she would have been hurt. The defeated tone in his voice worried her.

“I just mean,” she said more softly, “that if you let it really get to you, you won’t be any good at working it out.”

Shaw stiffened. Sylvia felt it in his shoulders. “That’s what Latham said to me today. Almost the exact same words.”

“Sidney?” Sylvia said the name as half question and half accusation.

“Ummm.”

“What else did he say?”

Shaw sighed deeply. “You can probably guess.” He turned and looked up at her. She smiled, trying to infuse him with her strength.

“Yeah, I probably can. He
probably
told you that you might not be the best man for the job of police chief anymore. He
probably
reminded you that last summer three kids got lost in the woods or in the Bog and were never found—by a search party organized by
you
. He
probably
suggested that, since you were almost sixty-five, you should retire and let someone else, someone younger take the job. Is that what he
probably
said?”

“Close enough,” Shaw said. A smile tried to appear on his lips.

“And you
probably
told him to sit on it!”

Surprised by his wife’s near obscenity, he spun around in his chair and looked at her. “What—”

Sylvia smiled, and her smile widened when she saw the ice in her husband’s face slowly thawing. She shrugged and said, “if the Fonz can say it on TV, I don’t see why I can’t.”

Shaw laughed out loud at that. Sylvia leaned over and kissed him firmly on the mouth. “And you’re
probably
going to stay on the job until Mr. Sidney Latham can find some heavier artillery.”

Shaw’s face suddenly dropped. He was silent for a moment, then said, “He has. He said he was going to bring it up at the next council meeting.”

Sylvia’s face suddenly darkened. “Oh Virg. You’ve worked hard. Been the police chief for a good many years. And you’ve done a bang up job.” She paused and had taken a deep breath before continuing. “Then again, maybe Sidney’s right.”

“What?” Shaw exploded. “Sylvia, what in the devil are you saying?”

“I’m saying that maybe you
should
retire. What happened last summer really got to you; you can admit it. I just don’t know if I can sit by and watch”—her voice broke off as tears formed in her eyes—“And watch what happened last night run you down. I don’t want it to drag you under.”

“Sylvia.”

“You’re a good man, Virg. You’ve done a good job as police chief and you should be proud of it, but maybe you should—”

“Walk away?” Shaw shouted, his fist slamming down onto the arm of his chair. “Is that what you’re saying? You want me to walk away?”

Sylvia remained silent, but the look she gave him continued to plead with him.

“No, damnit! I won’t! I’m not gonna’ give up!”

Suddenly Sylvia’s face softened, and a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “I
know
you, Virgil Shaw. Don’t you ever forget that. And I know that you won’t give up until this . . . this killer is caught. Now,” she said as she walked over to the stove, “how about another cup of coffee.”