Moonbog (15 page)

He groped for the key hanging on the nail beside the door. Suddenly he stopped, his hand in mid-air as he felt his stomach tense. He was almost positive he had heard something—a faint scratching sound coming from the living room. He held his breath and strained to hear if the sound repeated, but there was nothing except the pressing silence and darkness.

“OK, Christ,” he whispered as his fear grew, welling in the darkness like a bloated toad. He leaned forward and peered out into the night, expecting to see—something.

The massive, black, looming shadow, he thought, feeling his pulse race. Is it out there?

He backed away from the door, keeping his back to the wall as he moved toward the living room. A faint glow of moonlight came in through the windows and made the sheets covering the furniture seem to glow. He stood there, tensed, wondering why or how he had let himself get so tightly wound; but he couldn’t dismiss the feeling of threat—he couldn’t push away the mental image of an enveloping black shadow.

“Come on, man,” he said tightly, trying to force away the tension. Slowly, he tiptoed back to the from door and looked outside again. There was nothing unusual that he could see—just a pressing, growing fear.

Finally, with a deep, shuddering sigh, he put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. With a click that magnified to the loudness of a gunshot, the door latch opened. David pushed the door open slowly so the rusted hinges wouldn’t make a sound. He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck bristle, and he expected to hear the sound of footsteps behind him as he turned to go, but there was nothing. The house was tomb-quiet.

He flicked the door lock and stepped outside quickly. The fresh air hit his lungs like a hammer as he swung the door shut and ran down the steps taking two at a time. In the distance, he could hear the swelling chorus of spring peepers in the distant Bog, and far away a dog was barking. David stood at the foot of the steps and took a deep breath, trying to wash away the fear that he felt clinging to him like wet clothes.

The sound of the peepers in the Bog grew and pulsed in the night. Try as he might, he couldn’t free himself of the association he felt between that sound and the blank, dead stare of Billy Wilson’s eyes reflected in his flashlight beam.

One end of the Bog was no more than a quarter mile behind the house, and David found himself mentally trying to calculate how far he was from the place where he had found Billy Wilson.

—Don’t you ever go into that there Bog!

As the crow flies, it wasn’t far away; probably no more than a mile. By following the twisting paths that led through and around the Bog, the place where he had discovered the body might be only a three or four mile walk.

—Suck you right out of sight!

And, David thought, if it was close, whoever had killed Billy Wilson might not be too far away. Maybe this tension he felt wasn’t just the product of irrational, childhood fears; maybe—no, there was no maybe about it, there were real reasons to be wary of the Bog.

—Disappear with nary a trace!

As a child, David had filled the Bog with a wild assortment of vampires, werewolves, and ghouls. He had seen
The Blob
at the Paris Theatre in Portland when he was young, and for months after he had scanned the night sky in the direction of the Bog, just waiting to see a green-tailed meteor streak into the Bog to unleash its deadly terror.

His grandmother’s warnings had been repeated in every house in town where there was a child under twelve. Like most of the youngsters, David had dismissed the warnings as a scare tactic and considered them mostly legends. Then again, there had been the time when David was in grammar school and the high school science teacher, Mr. McKowen, had taken a field trip to the Bog and one of the students had found a real human skull. David had seen the skull, so he knew the story was true.

And now, just two days ago, David had made his own discovery; and what it implied was that all of the childhood horrors he or anyone else had associated with the Bog might have been true. That green-tailed meteor might have landed after all.

Shaking these thoughts from his head, David walked to his car. His still felt tense and was waiting, at any moment, for someone or something to jump out at him. He fumbled with his car keys trying to get them into the ignition, and the car started up with the first crank of the key. He drove down the driveway slowly, but when he turned onto the road, he popped the clutch, and the Rabbit’s front wheels chirped as they gripped the hardtop.

Once the house was well behind him, David found it easier to rationalize and dismiss the uneasiness he had felt while in the house. The only ghosts there were the ones he brought with him, he decided. Whoever had done what was done to Billy Wilson still—no matter how perverted—was just a human being. But even as he considered that, David didn’t find it at all reassuring.

When he got back to the motel at quarter to eight, he discovered that he was right about at least one thing: Allison was pissed! Hoping to make her feel better, he apologized and then told her that he was going to take her to Holland, Maine’s swinging hotspot—the one and only Sawmill.

X

D
avid leaned forward, holding the flame of the lighter to Allison’s cigarette as she puffed. He was on his third beer as they sat in the booth in the far corner of the bar—his spot since his high school days.

Allison inhaled deeply and then, on purpose, David thought, blew the smoke directly into his face. The more he drank, the more his old habits tried to force their way back; and that cigarette Allison was puffing sure looked good. But it had been almost a year since he’d quit, and he kept telling himself that even now there was no good reason to start again. The hardest part of quitting was over. He tossed the lighter in the palm of his hand a few times and then placed it on the table beside Allison’s pack of Winstons.

“So, this is Holland, Maine’s
hot spot
, huh?” she asked, blowing out another plume of smoke that hit David directly in the face. “I don’t know why we didn’t come here sooner!” The smile on her face told David that she was at least trying to be funny. He joined into the spirit of her cynical fun.

“Yeah,” he drawled, leaning back in his seat and looping his thumbs through his belt loops, “real lively tonight, ah-yuh.”

“Real swingers.” Allison looked out at the medium-sized crowd around the bar and tables. She reached across the table and placed her hand on David’s elbow. “In a nice, down-home sort of way, of course.”

“Of course.” David smiled. Although the entire restaurant had been redecorated since his high school days, David could never have mistaken it: flashy new bar lights; electronic pinball machines; digital jukebox (which sounded just as bad as the old one); and new padding for the booths couldn’t hide the essential barroom-dive charm of the place. He liked it and felt comfortable sitting in the booth he had always occupied on Friday and Saturday nights. Unconsciously, he reached under the edge of the table, feeling for his initials where he had carved them one weekend night. His fingers found the grooves and ran softly along the splintered lines.

David smiled. “Like we always used to say, if you ain’t at the Sawmill on a weekend night, you’re either at home or dead.”

“Charming,” Allison said, puffing on her cigarette then flicking the ash. “But this is Sunday night, so we must’ve missed it all last night, huh?”

“No doubt. You know, I—” he stopped short be cause he saw Allison’s eyes widen with surprise. split-second later, a hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind.

“I
knew
I’d find you here, you ole’ son of a bitch.” The voice sounded familiar, and David started to spin around, looking up. “Some people just can’t break their old habits— ‘specially bad ones.”

David looked up and saw Les Rankin. “Son of bitch. Les. How the hell’ve you been. Pull up a chair.”

Les hooked a chair by the rung with the toe of his boot and pulled it around. He spun the back of the chair up to the table and sat down, leaning against it. “I heard you was back in town. Been quite a while ain’t it?”

“Sure has. Hey! Your hand’s empty. Let me buy you a beer.” David swung around and raised his hand it the air until one of the waitresses nodded. He turned back around and caught the stare Les was giving Allison. “Uhh, Les, this is Allison.”

“Howdy.” Les nodded his head, giving his green felt hat a casual tip. His eyes travelled from Allison’s face to the generous amount of skin her dress failed to cover.

“Allison, this is Les Rankin. An old friend from high school.”

“I gathered,” Allison said, blowing a puff of smoke and then stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. She was aware of Les’ lecherous stare but had immediately concluded that she could handle him if he got too offensive.

“Goddamnit, you could always get the ladies,” Les said, leaning over and giving David a poke in the ribs.

David smiled. When he saw the waitress walking toward them, he began fishing in his pocket for some change. Les took the glass from the waitress’ hand before it hit the table, smiled, and took a deep drink. David handed the girl some money. She smiled, nodded, and then, unseen by Les, gave his back a smirk before walking away.

“So,” Les put his beer down, half-gone, “there’s no need in you tellin’ me why you’re here, ole’ buddy. No, sir.” He laughed. “You’re gonna’ settle your granny’s Will and sell the place, then split back to New York, right?”

“Yeah,” David replied, feeling cross again that the whole town seemed to know his business. “I guess so. If that’s what everyone says.”

The sarcasm was not missed by Les, and he smiled slightly. “Still can’t stand the small town bullshit, can you, ole’ buddy?”

David nodded.

“Just collect your dough and head on back to the Big Apple. Whew. You may not like Holland, but I sure as shit don’t think I’d care for New York either.
That
place has got a
lot
of bullshit.”

“I guess it’s just a question of what kind of bullshit you want,” David said and laughed.

‘Spoze so.” Les took another swig of beer and let his eyes drift toward Allison again. She returned his glance coldly. “Hey!” he said suddenly, sitting forward and slapping David on the shoulder. “Remember that time, must’ve been in our senior year? You and me got shit-faced out back? We each drank a six-pack and then came in here, sitting in this very booth, drinking Coke.”

“We did that a lot,” David said.

“I know, but I mean that night ole’ Moose there fuckin’ got pissed at Reggie and started a fight with him.”

“Oh yeah, sure, I remember.”

“You still got that scar on your hand there?” Les reached for David’s left hand and plunked it onto the table between their two beer glasses. “Yessir, right there.” Les traced his forefinger along a thin white line that ran from David’s thumb to his wrist.

“I always wondered about that scar,” Allison said, with no real interest, reaching for another cigarette. Les glanced at her briefly, and then grabbed her lighter, clicking it open.

“Just so’s you won’t get back to New York ‘n say all us Mainers are bums,” Les said, looking directly at Allison as he held the flame to her cigarette.

“Thank you,” Allison said. Unable to stare him down, she looked down at her drink.

“Yessiree. You should’ve seen him,” Les continued. “You wouldn’t have thought ole’ Davie boy had that much fight in him, by Jesus.”

David lowered his head with mock humility, aware that this was one of Les’ favorite stories, and there was no way to stop him once he started in with it.

“See. Ole’ Moose Perry, he was sitting there.” Les indicated the booth directly behind David. “Davie boy always sat where he is now. Though I don’t know why; he could never see the chicks when they came in.”

“Didn’t have to,” David interrupted. “I knew who was around.”

Les snorted, giving David a frown. “Anyway. We was sitting here, in the dark, kinda’ hidin’ ‘cause we didn’t want anyone to see how—shit how drunk we were. So ole’ Moose and his brother Reggie are arguin’ out something. Moose gets pissed ‘n stands up, ‘n throws a haymaker at Reg. But he misses him entirely, and he’s so damn drunk, the punch just carries him right around and—WHAM—he hits ole Davie boy right upside the head.”

“Had a headache for a week.”

Allison grunted and gave David a harsh look that told him she could just about care for Les’ story and tis past heroics.

“I never seen anything like it before, but ole’ Davie boy here jumps right up and spins Moose around. Before I know what’s happening, he’s got Moose down on the floor, straddlin’ him. Then he reaches up on the table beside him and grabs an empty beer glass, breaks it on the tabletop, and holds it, I swear to God, not less than a quarter inch from Moose’s neck.”

“That’s when I cut my wrist,” David added softly, but this time the interruption didn’t slow Les down; he had his momentum.

“That’s the last fuckin’ time you’ll do that!” he says, real mean like, you know? Moose, he’s laying here ‘bout to piss his pants, and Davie boy just says, real low and mean, ‘That’s the last fuckin’ time you’ll lo that!’“ Les cackled with delight as the scene reenacted in his memory.