Moonbog (49 page)

Staying in the shadows of the dining room, David moved around close to the dining room windows so he could see Les as he advanced on Marshall.

“You might have seen somethin’ you shouldn’t have ought to seen,” Les said. He hefted the shotgun, then raised it to his shoulder. “You just might get to thinkin’ that you know somethin’ ‘bout how that boy there died. And I want to make sure you don’t start talkin’ about things you don’t know shit about.” He braced the shotgun in the crook of his shoulder.

 
“Your own kid is missing, Les. Christ!”

Les snorted, spat, and took a careful bead on Marshall, whose frail silhouette was framed by the light from the lamp on the mantle.

“I know my kid’s all right,” Les said.

“How do you know?” Marshall asked frantically.

“I know ‘cause I didn’t touch him,” Les replied. “He ain’t been hurt, unless. . . . Unless you have him up here! Maybe that’s it. You took my kid and have him up here. You kidnapped him to scare me . . . to make me admit to what I done.”

“And what’s that?” Marshall asked sharply. “What have you done that needs admitting?”

David tensed for the rush, realizing that Marshall was taunting Les to upset him, to get him off his guard. But the shotgun pointed unwaveringly at Marshall’s chest, and David, studying Les’ back, coiled up, ready.

“You were there in the woods that day,” Les said angrily. “You saw it all.” His voice twisted with anger.

“I saw something,” Marshall said evenly. “I saw a chicken-shit bastard who likes to play with little boys and—”

“You goddamned lyin’ fucker!” Les shouted. “I’ve had all the bullshit I want from you!”

David knew—this was it. He sprang forward. Les sensed the movement behind him and turned, surprise on his face. Just as David tackled Les, the ripping roar of the shotgun filled the living room.

“You son-of-a—” Les started to say, but David drew his arm back and then drove his fist into Les’ jaw.

Dazed but still conscious, Les dropped to the floor. David shook his fist with the intense pain the punch had caused. He glanced over to Marshall and saw that he was no longer standing behind the couch.

“Marshall?” he shouted wildly. “Marshall!” Was he down, shot—or had he ducked? He started to move toward him when Les swung the shotgun and hit him hard in the leg, just above the knee. Yelling and holding onto his leg, David tried to get away, but Les snagged him by the foot and toppled him. His shoulder hit the floor with a dull thump.

“You fuckers!” Les screamed, his face white with shock. “You fuckers! You
did!
You
did
have it planned!”

David tried to scramble away, clutching his leg and calling to Marshall. No answer came from behind the couch.

“You goddamned shithead!” Les yelled at David as he crawled toward him brandishing the shotgun. “I’m gonna’ blow your fuckin’ balls off!”

“Marshall! Are you OK?” David shouted.

Still no answer. Gritting his teeth to fight back the pain, David made it over to the couch. As he tried to raise himself up, he knew that his leg was broken; it could take no weight. Clawing his way up the back of the couch, David looked down on the floor and saw Marshall. He lay face down on the floor. His right shoulder had been torn away by the shot; his arm, a shredded mess, lay twisted over his back. Blood, looking like India ink in the lamp glow, splattered the floor in huge blotches.

“You bastard!” David screamed, turning to face Les. “You bloody bastard! You killed him! You killed my father!” An inhuman scream ripped from his throat as he launched himself at Les. Les raised the rifle and fired.

The explosion of the shotgun, going off so close to his face, made a hollow concussion. Buckshot flew by David’s face with a whistle. Some scattered shot creased his head at the temple, but he felt nothing, not even the pain in his broken leg as he crashed into Les and straddling him, grabbed at his throat.

“You bastard! You bastard! You killed my father!” he shouted, bringing his livid face within an inch of Les’ fear-struck face. Dimly aware of what he was doing, he watched as his fingers closed on Les’ windpipe and squeezed. With wild, grunting sobs, he clenched Les’ throat until his face glowed bright red with infused blood. David stared at his whitened knuckles as his fingers dug deeply into the stringy flesh.

“You’re gonna’ die!” David shouted. “You’re gonna’ fuckin’ die!”

A faint, bubbly sound escaped from Les. His arms and legs thrashed uselessly as he tried to dislodge David’s weight from his chest.

David held Les’ head up and then started pounding it repeatedly on the floor. “You . . . killed . . . my father!” He shouted in cadence with the sound Les’ head made on the wooden floor. “You . . . killed my . . . father!”

At first, David thought it was his anger that seemed to illuminate the twisted, bug-eyed face of his old friend from high school. The basic, most primitive drive to kill filled him, charging his muscles with strength he never knew he had. He gloried as the tendons and veins in his hands throbbed—throbbed with the thrill of killing.

Then, only vaguely at first, David realized that the brilliant red flickering was increasing in intensity. Something in the back of his mind told him that, as Les’ struggles weakened, the animal passion to kill should subside as well. Knowing that Les was as good as dead, he released his grip and sat back on Les’ chest. Chancing a quick look over his shoulder, David saw the flames that were spreading over the floor and licking up the couch. Les’ last shot had hit the oil lamp and started a fire.

“You’re going to burn
here
before you burn in
Hell!
” he said, pressing close to Les. Spittle dripped onto Les, whose eyes watched David with a death-like stare. Rumbling deep within his chest, David spat into Les’ face. Then, easing himself off, he stood up shakily. Not even noticing the screaming pain in his leg, David hauled back and drove his foot into Les’ ribs. The grunt Les made and the sound of splintering bones was the most satisfying sound David had ever heard. He leaned back and aimed another swift kick at Les’ groin, then turned to look at the growing flames.

Shaking his head to help himself focus, David realized the threat of the flames. The old house would go up quickly, he knew. He spun around, almost falling, and limped to where Marshall lay.

He leaned over Marshall and carefully turned him over. He was surprised to see Marshall’s eyelids flutter and then open. Marshall opened his mouth to speak, but only a strangled, gagging sound came out.

“Take it easy,” David whispered. “Just take it easy. I’m going to get us both out of here.” He looked at the flames and then over at the still form of Les Rankin.

As he slid his arms under Marshall and lifted, David made an involuntary groan. With one hand under Marshall’s legs and the other supporting his neck, David straightened up and started for the door. He glanced once more at Les and saw him still looking at him with a distant, reptile stare. He wasn’t sure if he was dead or not, but then, faintly, Les moved. He propped himself up on his elbows and then started to roll over onto his stomach. His face was a mask of agony as he reached a trembling hand to David.

David staggered under the weight of Marshall and bolted, stumbling for the front door. Gritting his teeth to fight back the screams that threatened, he twisted the doorknob and shouldered the door open. The night air washed over him like a cool wave, and he braced himself to make it outside.

“Not far,” he cooed to Marshall, who looked up at him with watery eyes. Shreds of clothing and flesh hung from Marshall’s dangling arm. “Take it easy. we’re almost out of here. . . .”

David staggered down the front steps and into the front yard. Everything was spinning, and he thought for a moment that the swirling red flames still surrounded him. He pushed ahead, praying silently that he could get away from the burning house—just far enough away to be safe. If nothing else, he wanted it so he and Marshall wouldn’t burn in the house if they died.

Finally, unable to go any further, David collapsed beside the large tree in the front yard. Crawling, he dragged Marshall until he was resting his head against the trunk of the tree.

“There . . . there,” he whispered, “you’ll be all right here . . . you’ll be all right. . . .” He stared into Marshall’s watery eyes, watching the flames rise higher as they licked out through the open door. The windows of the house, long dull and dead, now danced with wicked life.

David turned and looked at the house, surprised at how fast the flames spread and how lucky they were to get out when they did. He thought about Les, wondering if he had been conscious enough to try to get out, or if he lay there helplessly watching the flames get closer and closer.

“Oh Christ,” David said with a whimper. “Oh Jesus Christ.” Tears streamed down his face as he looked down at his father. He knew he was dying, that he would not survive the night. The glow of the fire washed over Marshall’s face, and David had the distinct impression that, as the old family house was consumed, so was the flesh on his father’s face. When they were found tomorrow, David thought crazily, there would be nothing left of Marshall but a skeleton—he realized that ever since his mother had died, Marshall had been a skeleton of a man.

Marshall’s lips began to move. David hallucinated the clanking jaws of a skull. A choking sound, thick with blood came out of Marshall’s mouth.

“What?” David said, groaning. “What . . . ?”

“I . . . I,” Marshall sputtered. Blood started to flow from his mouth, running down the beard stubble on his cheeks. “I . . . I’m glad I . . . I . . . could . . . tell you. . . .” He coughed up more blood and seemed to deflate. Then, with a wrenching groan, Marshall stiffened. The reflected light of the burning house suddenly dimmed in his eyes, and then his body relaxed. Watching the tongues of flame in his father’s dead eyes, David grew dizzy, his head hammered with pain, and then he collapsed. His unconscious body fell over that of his father, shielding him from the flames and heat as the old house was consumed.

HOLLAND, MAINE DAILY NEWS, TUESDAY, JUNE 28, 1977

ANOTHER VICTIM OF THE BOG MAN?

HOLLAND—Workers for the Canyon Peat Moss Company of Saco uncovered the partially decomposed body of an unidentified youth yesterday. He is believed to be yet another victim of the child molester murderer known as the Holland Bog Man.

While no positive identification has yet been made, sources have stated that several articles of clothing may help to determine if this is indeed one of the still-unaccounted-for children missing since last year.

Delbert Montgomery, newly appointed police chief, is working in conjunction with state investigators. He refused to comment on the discovery.

There is some speculation from unofficial sources that the victim may not be one of the three children who disappeared last year. A preliminary report suggests that the body may have been buried for several years in the area known as the Bog.

Some people have questioned this finding, stating that the chemical action of the decaying vegetation in the Bog may have hastened the body’s decomposition.

“We are proceeding with the investigation,” Chief Montgomery said when questioned last night. “That’s all I want to say right now.”

David Logan, who previously owned the land where the discovery was made, has declined comment.

One Year Later

R
ex Stevens had moved to Holland when his father became local foreman of the Saco-based firm, the Canyon Peat Moss Company. He was a short, pudgy boy who found it difficult to make friends in the town. Because his thick glasses made his eyes appear to bulge out, he had quickly been given the nickname Toad. It stuck because it fit him so well. Even he took pride in his nickname because, he thought, it meant the kids were beginning to let him into their tight circle. Still, throughout the early spring, he found himself alone more often than not.

It was late in the afternoon during the first week of June that Rex rode his bike down the Little River Road to a spot where a house had once stood. Now, all that remained of the old Logan homestead was a burned out crater filled with charred bricks and blackened timbers. Rex spent some time sifting through the rubble. He had heard a garbled and exaggerated account of what had happened at the house the year before, and somehow or other, he got it into his head that there was still something important buried there.

After an hour or so of digging through the ruins, Toad, soot-stained and sweating, noticed the sun setting. As he raised himself above the rim of the burned-out cellar hole, a tight knot twisted in his stomach. His bike was gone!

“Hey!” he shouted as he ran over to the tree he’d leaned it against. Squinting, he bent down and studied the ground, but he was unable to see any footprints in the grass. Straightening up, he scanned the field and woods for whoever had had the nerve to play such a mean trick. Whoever it was, he figured, was probably hiding nearby, watching him and laughing his guts out.

“Come on!” Toad shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth. “This ain’t funny anymore!” He adjusted his glasses on his face, leaving a thick soot streak on his cheek. His eyes began to sting as tears welled up, but he held them back, determined not to let his secret tormentors have the pleasure of seeing him cry.