Moonbog (17 page)

Shaw heard a shuffling of paper, and then Porter said, “Mr. David Logan discovered the body, correct?”

“Yeah. Anyway, by the road it’s, oh, three—four miles between the two places, but if you go directly through the Bog, they ain’t no more than a mile and a half apart.”

“Mere proximity, Chief Shaw, is not enough to connect these two incidents. Although I must say that, circumstantially, there does seem to be some grounds for connecting the two.”

“That’s what we’re thinking.”

“Of course,” Porter continued, “I don’t think I want to draw too many conclusions. I would have to do a more thorough investigation before I could do that. Is there any clue as to the whereabouts of the missing boy?”

Shaw had to contain himself so he wouldn’t explode:
Christ, if there was some idea as to the whereabouts, then the boy wouldn’t be Christly missing, would he?
Shaw inhaled steadily and then said, “No, of course not. My deputy and I have been out all night. We couldn’t find a trace. ‘Course that was in the dark, and that Bog area has some pretty thick growth. We’ll be organizing a full search party this morning to comb the area.”

“Of course.”

“We can get the Boy Scouts, some fire department guys, and maybe some town workers later on. The Warden Service has sent up a scuba team that’s gonna’ drag the waterways. And probably by this afternoon we can rope the whole highway crew into helping out. They’ve done it before.”

“Before?” Porter sounded surprised, and Shaw was glad that he had cracked the lieutenant’s professional reserve.

“Yeah. Last summer there were three other missing-person incidents, two boys and a girl. You must remember that, it hit all the papers and television networks.”

“Yes, I remember,” Porter replied.

“I may be drawing an unwarranted connection between this missing Hollis boy and the murder last Friday, but there are folks in this town who are pulling those three disappearances last summer into this. Those three kids were all approximately the same age as this Hollis kid.”

“None of those kids were ever found, were they, Chief?”

“Not a trace. And the official position was that they were three separate drowning incidents. All of them were last seen either near the Bog or around Lovewell Pond. Of course, the Hollis home borders the Bog area, and after the Wilson boy was found the way he was—“

Porter’s voice broke in sharply. “Chief Shaw, I suggest that
you
, at least, refrain from jumping to too many conclusions. Other people in your town may; it’s not
their
responsibility to investigate these incidents. Primarily, you have two separate cases to follow, and right now, the search for the missing boy takes priority. If you spread yourself too thin, you just may come up empty-handed.”

“I was just suggesting that—”

“
If
, while investigating this Wilson case or while the search for Hollis is going on, we
do
turn up a substantial link with any other incidents, we may pursue them. Until then, you should concentrate on organizing the search parties and getting them moving.”

“Of course.” Shaw was flustered and at a loss for words. He was angry that Porter would take it upon himself to chastise him. As he groped for something to say, there was a rapid knock at his office door and then, without waiting, Del Montgomery, his deputy, walked in. The deputy smiled and nodded, then made a bee-line for the coffee pot. He looked just a bit more rested than Shaw.

“Well, uh, Lieutenant, when are you going to be comin’ on up here?”

Porter answered with a sharp clip to his voice. “I was heading out to the cruiser now, Chief. I should be able to meet you at your office by O-eight hundred, I should think.”

“Fine. See you then,” Shaw said, and quickly hung up. He was still stinging from Porter’s remarks; he hoped Del hadn’t picked up on it.

“You talk with Cameron and Wescott yet?” Del asked. He took a sip of coffee and wrinkled his nose, as he always did, no matter how good or bad the coffee was.

“Haven’t had a second to scratch my ass. I just finished with the statie from Scarborough. He’ll be up later this morning. Some other fellas from the D.A.’s office and Fish and Game will be by soon to help get the search parties organized.” Shaw looked at his cup of cold coffee, then ignored it.

“You ever meet this Porter fella’ before?” Del asked.

Shaw shrugged. “Naw. But from the sounds of him, he must be a smart-ass son-of-a-bitch.” He whistled and shook his head. “One of them hard-line, by-the-book guys.”

Del smiled and gave the chief a thumbs up. “Ten-four,” he said, smiling.

Shaw smiled weakly, removed his glasses and rubbed his face vigorously with the heels of his hands. He groaned softly and massaged his beard-stubbled cheeks. “I just hope that son-of-a-bitch is more help than hindrance.”

He cleared his throat, as though that brief pause was as good as a night’s sleep. “You take the phone in the outer office and give Wescott a call. I’ll dial Cameron and see if we can get those Boy Scouts outta’ school. I want to be beating the brush by”—he glanced at his watch—“by nine o’clock at the latest.”

Del left. Before Shaw picked up the receiver, he paused and looked out at the sunny morning, washing the street with warmth. “At least it ain’t raining,” he muttered as he started to dial. “Be one helluva bitch slopping around in the Bog if it was rainin’.”

II

“G
oddamn-son-of-a-bitch,” Marshall muttered softly as he held the fingerprint smudged pane of glass up to the door. The broken glass had been cleaned out, the old, dry putty removed, and the wood scraped down, but still, no matter which way he twisted the new pane, it just would not fit. “Ain’t that a damn kicker, Aft? Huh?”

He looked down at Alfie, who sat quietly on the steps, totally unconcerned, blinking in the early morning sun.

“Either my eyesight’s gettin’ real bad, or they just don’t make rulers like they used to,” he snorted. “Which do you think it is?”

Alfie blinked again.

“Probably used the damn metric measurement,” he said as he turned back and tried to place the glass again. After a minute or two, though, he finally gave up and conceded that he would have to cut the glass down. Alfie darted away quickly as Marshall knelt down and placed the pane of glass on the steps.

“It’s a mistake-to use a ruler anyway. Eye’s always better.” He slipped a piece of newspaper under the glass and then ran the glass cutter along the long edge, scoring a line barely a quarter inch from the edge. He tapped the line in a few places, and the glass separated neatly. He grunted as he stood back up and held the pane where it was supposed to go, then pressed it into place.

“I
told
yah,” he said, addressing Alfie over his shoulder as the glass fit perfectly into place. “You always gotta’ trust your eyes.” He bent down and looked closely at the new window. He was so absorbed with inspecting his work that he didn’t hear the car drive up his driveway and stop. The first time he knew he had company was when the driver got out of the car and slammed the door shut. Marshall looked up, irritated.

“Good morning,” David called out, starting up the walkway.

Marshall nodded and, as he did, his hand slipped and the pane of glass started to fall out of place. With a jerk of his hand, Marshall grabbed at it, the jagged cut edge biting cleanly along the length of his forefinger.

“How are you?” David said tentatively.

Marshall looked at the bead of blood forming on the side of his finger and then grunted. “I’m gettin’ by,” he muttered, forcing himself to ignore the sting of the cut. He wiped the blood onto his pants leg and then turned to face David, who stood nervously at the foot of the steps.

“Well?” Marshall said, narrowing his eyes at David as though he were an encyclopedia salesman. “What brings you out here?”

David shuffled his feet, his determination to deal quickly and precisely with his uncle melting away. In spite of how he had prepared himself for his uncle’s lack of concern and manners, the reality of finally confronting the man after so many years threw him off guard. He suddenly felt, again, as though he was a ten-year-old boy who had been caught stealing apples.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” he asked, trying to sound sincere, although he had already reaffirmed his decision to deal with Marshall as quickly as possible and then leave.

“Not particularly,” Marshall said gruffly. He glanced at his cut finger again and then at the window pane, balanced in the door frame. “I got work to do around here, boy, so say what’s on your mind and then git.”

“Well, uh, I’ve been in town a few days. Come up from New York to settle Grammy’s—”

“I
know’d
you was in town,” Marshall snapped, “and I know’d
why
you was in town.” He turned to the window and continued with his chore. He started to work the top off the can of putty, using a rusty screwdriver. The top had apparently hardened on because it took quite a bit of effort to loosen. The cut on Marshall’s finger opened up, and blood smeared onto the screwdriver handle. When David saw it, he felt a wave of pity for the crusty old man.

When he finally got the cover off, Marshall took a putty knife from his back pocket and scooped out a dab of putty. David watched silently as the old man applied the putty to the window. His hands were stiff and shook slightly as he ran a line along the bottom of the pane. The line was much too thick, and it smeared the glass. Again, David felt sorry for his uncle, and he took a step forward.

“Here. Let me help you with that,” he said, holding out his hand. “You’re getting it all over the window.”

“I can handle it myself, boy,” Marshall snapped, pulling away.

David stepping back. “But you’re getting it all over the place,” he protested.

“It’ll clean up,” Marshall said, so close to the window that his breath fogged the glass.

For a while longer, David watched in silence as Marshall worked, but finally the quiet was too much for him to bear. “I suppose you’ve guessed what I’m going to do about the old place.”

“Can’t really say as I care,” Marshall replied, looking at David’s reflection in the window.

“Ummm.” David shuffled his feet. He was just about ready to tell the old man to screw himself and leave, but something—perhaps sympathy—made him want to stay and try to get through to him. As he thought silently, he realized that it was probably impossible.

“I was thinking I might sell the place, once the Will’s all straightened out.”

“I told you,” Marshall said, firmly, turning around to face him, “I really don’t much give a shit what you do.” He pointed the putty knife at David. “It’s your place. You can do whatever you damn please. Burn it down for all I care. Now if you don’t mind, I got work to do.”

“Just like that?” David said, his anger rising. “Just like that, you don’t care if I sell the old home?” He stomped over to the side of the front steps and looked up at Marshall, who tried to avoid his eyes and look busy.

“Don’t mean a damn to me,” Marshall said softly.

“That’s obvious,” David said snidely. “Why else would you sign the whole thing over to me? But doesn’t it bother you a little? Don’t you have some. some
feeling
for the old place?”

Marshall straightened up slowly and glared down at David. As he spoke, he jabbed the putty knife for emphasis. “I worked hard all my life. Close to forty years on the damn railroad. When it come time to retire, I retired on a pension I earned with a lot of hard work. Something you city fellas never know about!”

David frowned angrily.

“I’ve got a comfortable house here,” Marshall continued emphatically. “I’ve got enough to live on ‘s long as I don’t get drinking too much, ‘n I ain’t about to spend the last years of my life with a goddamn burden like the old homestead!”

David stared at his uncle wordlessly. He was vaguely glad that Marshall had finally, shown him
some
kind of emotion; anger and hostility were better than the cold neutrality that had existed between them throughout David’s childhood. David almost felt as though he had finally gotten what he had come out to his uncle’s house to get: emotion.

Marshall was breathing raggedly. His eyes were wide open, and his mouth pulled back tightly, exposing his yellowed teeth. His cheeks were trembling as he fought to say what he felt. “As far as I can see,” he said, his voice controlled, “there’s nothing but pain and suffering tied up with that house. Just plain
misery!
”

David was startled. “Misery? What do you mean?”

The barely contained rage in Marshall grew stronger. His face paled. “Boy! If a dead grandmother, a missing ‘n declared dead father, and a mother who . . . who drowned herself . . . folks saying she did it on
purpose!
. . . that she
killed
herself . . . if that ain’t enough goddamn misery for you, then well . . . well . . . I don’t know,” he concluded with disgust.

David could see that the man was badly shaken, and he wanted to say or do something to comfort him, but, he just stood there feeling helpless.

Marshall made a great effort to compose himself, and then turned back to his messy putty-work. David heard him sigh deeply.