Moonbog (33 page)

He tried to calm himself, but whenever he thought about her cockteasing Les, his anger burned.
She
was the one who packed and left!
She
was the one who told him to forget it!
She
would have to be the one to apologize! The thought of him apologizing made his stomach churn.

So what else would he do?

His mind hedged around the most logical answer for some time. He fenced with it like an arch-villain. Finally, he picked up the thought and turned it over gingerly:
he probably should accept the fact that this was it—he and Allison were done
.

It was time to be honest with himself, David decided. He didn’t hedge away from the thought: while Allison satisfied him physically, she had never satisfied him mentally.

“Except as a mind-fucker,” he mumbled, shifting his position.

Allison was a basically self-centered, selfish person. David could admit that to himself easily enough. What troubled him was that he put up with her bitchiness simply because she could throw a mean fuck. He swallowed hard as he considered that just possibly he had been just as self-centered and selfish for the past five years.

He forced a smile and chuckled deep in his chest. “OK, OK, so what? So what if I’ve been using her for her body?” he said, addressing the ceiling. “No crime there, right? We’re mutually consenting adults, as they say. Right?

“So,” he said, looking up, “so now it’s time to stop.”

Saying it out loud made it a little easier to think about. It also made the decision more firm in his mind. The ceiling bore silent witness. He swung his legs from the bed and onto the floor, standing up quickly. He began pacing the length of the motel room, running his hands through his hair as he considered the implications.

“So we split up,” he said gruffly. “That’s it. It’s over.” He snapped his fingers with a dull pop.

He knew that realizing he and Allison were through would be a lot harder than just saying it; but, he thought, maybe if he said it loud enough and often enough, the idea would sit easier.

“It’s over! We split. We’re through. It’s just that goddamn simple,” he repeated as he paced back and forth.

But still . . . he remembered the times oh—Lord! the times he had with Allison.

The sudden ringing of the telephone made him jump. He turned toward the phone on the nightstand but, before he lifted the receiver, he saw that Allison had left a pack of cigarettes there. He quickly shook out a cigarette and lit it. With blue, choking smoke curling up into his face, he lifted the receiver.

“Hello!” he snapped, angry at himself for being startled and that his thoughts had been interrupted.

For a second or two there was static silence on the other end of the line. Distantly, in the background, David heard a faint roaring sound that gradually built. It took him a second to realize that it was the sound of a crowded restaurant.

“Hello,” he repeated, his irritation growing. His eyes shifted to the closed Venetian blind.

“You want to know something?” a woman’s voice said, soft and low.

“Huh?” The nicotine reached his blood and made his stomach lurch.

“I think you’re one helluva rotten son of a bitch!” Then the connection was broken, and David was left with the buzzing receiver held to his ear. He slowly placed the phone back in its cradle, fighting the impulse to smash it down. He looked coolly at the silent phone for a moment, then he took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked the ash, dusting the telephone.

“That’s it” he said, fighting the anger and the hurt. “It’s over.”

VI

F
rom outside the restaurant, Les could see through the windows that the place was more crowded than usual. As he walked in through the front door, Frank Schroder cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Here he is now!”

A chorus of cheers and whoops rose, filling the dimly lit Sawmill. Les started and looked around nervously as everyone in the bar stood up and applauded him, tilting their glasses in his direction.

“Hero for a day!” someone shouted above the cheering.

“All right! Someone get this man a beer!”

The shouts, whistles, and cheers rose higher and then slowly faded away as Les moved through the throng toward the bar and the beer that waited for him there. He was reaching for the brew when someone clapped him roughly on the shoulder, almost making him spill the beer. He turned and looked at Schroder, who regarded him with a beaming, proud look.

“I’m buyin’ the next one for yah,” Schroder said, grinning.

Les nodded, took the beer, and drank deeply. “Sure,” he said weakly, wiping the foam on the back of his hand. He forced a smile. “Thanks.” He leaned on the bar, trying to appear casual in the limelight.

“And then the next one’s on me,” someone else shouted. Les saw his road boss, Jerry Wescott, pushing toward him. He came up beside Les and extended his hand. “Congratulations, Les!” They shook hands firmly. “By Jesus, you gave our crew a good name. You did a damn good job there, boy.”

“Ummm,” Les mumbled, his face downcast. He drank another swallow, then with a deep breath turned to face the throng. As he looked around at everyone, their eyes riveted on him, Les had a sudden, dropping feeling in his gut.

What if they know what really happened?
he thought.
What if everyone here knows the truth and this whole fucking thing is a put-on? What if. . . What if. . . ?

He shook his head, trying to push the thought away, but it would not leave him—it grew, flexing in his stomach like an icy hand.

They all know and they’re doing this to break me down! They’re doing this so I’ll crack! Christ! No!
He shook his head again, finding it difficult to get a deep breath. A cool prickly sensation ran across his back between his shoulder blades.

“So tell me, how’d you find him?” Wescott said suddenly. The noise in the bar had subsided, and people were beginning to break into separate groups to drink and talk.

“Huh?” Les said, shaking his head as though dazed. The paranoid thoughts still chattered in his head, but he was resolved not to let them get a better hold.

“We’d been over that area at least a dozen fuckin’ times, ‘n no one found a trace of that kid. How’d you find him?”

For a flickering moment, Les studied Wescott’s face, trying to determine if he really wanted to know or if—

—Oh shit! They all know!

—he was trying to get Les to talk, to admit what had really happened out there in the Bog.

Les shrugged his shoulders, trying to look casual.

He tried to sound at ease but, to him, his voice sounded strained and hollow when he spoke: “I dunno’. I guess I was just in the right place at the right time is all.”

“Fucking Hawkeye, that’s what you are,” Schroder said good-naturedly, clapping him on the back again.

Wescott cocked his head. “Yeah, I suppose, but a hell of a lot of fellas went over that area and didn’t come up with a thing. ‘Sides, I thought you weren’t out on the search yesterday. Hadn’t you called in sick?”

Les’ throat closed off with a sharp click, but when he looked at Wescott, his face was firmly set. “I got kids too, you know. What was happening out there affected me, too,” he practically shouted. A few of the people nearby stopped talking for a moment and looked at Les and Wescott. Les’ eyes flicked nervously about the barroom, then back at Wescott.

Wescott squinted, regarding Les.

“I got to feelin’ guilty,” Les said, softer. “You know, letting everyone else do the brush beating when it could affect me just as much as anyone else.”

“Sure,” Wescott said, “sure. I know.”

“You don’t seem to mind lettin’ others do the work when we’re laying a new road bed,” Schroder said, smiling widely.

Les looked at him unamused. Schroder shifted nervously from one foot to the other and then, deciding that his jokes weren’t appreciated, ambled away to join one of the knots of people at the far end of the room.

“Hey, Les,” Wescott said gently, “you gotta’ lighten up, you know?” He leaned toward Les and placed his hand firmly on Les’ shoulder. Les squirmed under the touch and grunted. Wescott’s grip tightened slightly, and again the panicked thoughts began to rise in Les’ mind.

What if this son-of-a-bitch really knows and is just trying to wear me down?

Wescott went on, “I know you’re probably pretty worked up about finding that kid. Especially in the condition he was in. You didn’t hear anything about the autopsy they did on him, did you?”

Les shook his head no.

“Just as well I guess. But I’ve heard that the kid had been raped.”

Les gulped, fighting the tightening feeling he had in his stomach.

“Whoever the fuck killed that kid, it looks like he jammed him one up the ass before he did.”

“No shit,” Les said tightly. He reached for his beer and drank a big mouthful.

“I mean—” Wescott indicated the whole barroom with a broad sweep of his arm—”all this, treatin’ you like a hero must feel kinda’ nice and all, but I bet it can’t take away the shock of findin’ someone dead and . . . and mutilated.”

He’s trying to fuckin’ wear me down!
Les’ mind screamed. He swallowed hard and forced his voice to stay steady and low.

“Yeah. The whole thing has me . . . kinda’ worked up, you know?” After another swallow of beer, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and only then, slowly, was he able to look Wescott in the eye. Wescott was still holding him by the shoulder, and the grip seemed to tighten slightly.

“Well, I know it don’t sound like much,” Wescott said earnestly, “but you gotta’ try not to let it get to yah.” The grip eased, and Wescott clapped Les hard on the back. “OK? Just don’t let it bother yah. And about this guy, whoever the Christ he is who’s doing this, don’t worry. The cops are gonna’ run him down before he gets your or anybody else’s kids.”

Les cringed and shifted his eyes away from Wescott’s stare. For a tense moment, he stared at the slick top of the bar as he chewed on the back of his thumb. “How d’yah know that?”

“Huh?” Wescott leaned closer to Les.

“I said, how do you know this killer’s gonna’ get caught soon?”

“Hell, I
know
,“ Wescott said, leaning back with a smirk of being privy to inside information. “Shaw and Porter, the statie there, said they had a pretty good lead, that they thought they might have an arrest in a day or two.”

A warm flush of fear hit Les with such intensity that he felt an urgent need to urinate. He held his beer glass tightly so his hand wouldn’t shake. “Really?” he said weakly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wescott said, inflated with self-importance. Lowering his voice, he said, “‘Course, they didn’t give me any details or anything, but I’ll tell yah, Les, you can feel pretty sure that nothing like this will happen again. They’re gonna’ nail
down
that bastard, whoever he is.”

“I think it might have been Logan, you know?” Schroder said. Startled, Les turned around and looked at Schroder, who had left his table and was drifting back over to them.

“Marshall?” Wescott said, sounding surprised. “Come on, Frank, you’ve known Marshall all your life, you can’t say that—”

“Naw, not Marshall,” Schroder said, shaking his head, “not Marshall, his nephew—David.”

Wescott snorted and then chuckled. Les stood there, staring wide-eyed at Schroder.

“It could be him. None of this started happenin’ until he came back to town.”

“Awww, you’re crazy. It ain’t fuckin’ David Logan either.” Wescott dismissed Schroder with a wave of his hand, but Schroder pressed on.

“Well, it’s true,” Schroder said, sounding defensive. “Soon as he came back to town, Billy Wilson was found dead, and—”

“For Christ’s sake, Frank, it was Logan who found the Wilson kid and got the police out there. You don’t mean to tell me that he’s gonna’ kill and then call the police in on it, are you?” The mockery in Wescott’s voice cut deep.

“What better cover could he have? Makes him look nice and innocent, don’t it?” Schroder’s eyes widened and burned with the intensity of a fanatic.

“You’re full of shit, Frank. Logan had that woman with him.” Wescott cupped his hands in front of his chest and shook them suggestively. “The one with the big fuckin’ knockers.”

Schroder didn’t laugh. He glanced at Les, who was staring at him with a dull, distant look. “What do you think?” he asked.

Les shrugged.

“You’re saying that Logan and his chick did this together? Ahhh, you’re outta’ your fuckin’ mind,” Wescott said.

“It’s possible. There’s a lot of weird people in the world. How the hell do you know it ain’t them?”

“You’ve had too much to drink. Either that, or you’ve been talking to Mac too much. Next thing you know, you’ll be sayin’ you saw a UFO out there picking up the bodies and examining ‘em.” Wescott chuckled loudly and then looked at Les’ near-empty beer glass. He signaled to the bartender. “Hey! Another one here for the hero!”

Les nodded silent thanks, folded his hands and leaned on the bar, trying to fight down the twisting tension he felt. The bartender slid a full glass over the bar. It came to rest at the apex of Les’ folded hands.