Moonbog (41 page)

Les had waited on the side of the road, considering whether or not he should trail her into the Bog or just forget about her. After all, no one knew he’d picked her up at the Sawmill; no one had seen them drive out the Little River Road; and probably no one would believe her even if she did report the attempted rape. No witnesses, no sweat, he finally decided, so he sank the heavy suitcase in the Bog and then drove home slowly so he wouldn’t attract any attention. He walked to his kitchen at just past one o’clock in the morning and, after a final beer, staggered up to bed where Leah slept fitfully.

HOLLAND, MAINE, THURSDAY, JUNE 9, 1977

EDITORIAL

As We See It—From the Editor’s Desk

Tragedy has struck our fair town twice this spring with the senseless and brutal murders of two of our finest young boys—Billy Wilson and Jeffrey Hollis. Everyone in town is asking when this fiend who has been dubbed THE BOG MAN will be caught.

As the editor of your newspaper and a life-long resident of Holland, I have asked myself and now ask you, if you are satisfied with the way our local law enforcement agency is handling the investigation.

Let me put the question another way: Do you feel it is safe for your children to play outside—even in your backyard—after dark? I doubt it.

I am not calling to account the actions of the state authorities in this matter. They are not members of our community, and we cannot expect them to understand the particular problems inherent to our town. No, I am referring to our own police force, particularly Chief Shaw.

What, I ask myself, is Chief Shaw doing to stop these murders and to bring the killer to a fast and speedy justice?

Nothing, I answer myself!

If you are dissatisfied with the actions—or inactions of our police chief, we urge you to attend the next town meeting, scheduled for Tuesday, June 13, and let your feelings be known.

I find myself praying that the town meeting happens
before
the discovery of victim number three!

Peter Calix—EDITOR

I

“I
t’s goddamn ridiculous, that’s what it is,” Marshall shouted to David as they left the police station. David broke into an easy jog to catch up with his uncle.

“Goddamn ridiculous, and a goddamn shame, too.” He snorted and spat violently, watching the glob of pit sail through the air and land with a plop on the sidewalk six paces ahead of him.

David finally caught up with Marshall, surprised at how fast the old man could move in spite of his age and his bad leg.

“But Shaw said they’d go out and talk to Les,” David said. “And he told you that the polygraph test was scheduled for Saturday. I don’t see how you can expect much more . . . for now.”

Marshall wheeled to a stop and, turning, jabbed his forefinger into David’s chest. “I want that son-of-bitch locked up, that’s what I want!”

David took one step back. “Well, I don’t see how you can expect that. Not just on your say-so.” He cleared his throat and smiled to remind Marshall that he was on his side. “Let’s wait and see what happens after he talks with Les.”

Marshall snorted loudly and spat again.

David stretched out his arm and glanced at his watch. “It’s almost noon. What do you say we grab some lunch at the Sawmill.”

Marshall squinted his eyes and looked down Main Street in the direction of the restaurant. His face was still flushed with anger, and he grunted what sounded to David like, “Yeah.”

“You know,” David said, “you’ve got to calm down just a bit. The way you’re steaming around, you’re likely to have a heart attack or something.”

“Bullshit,” Marshall muttered.

“Come on, then.” David took his uncle by the arm and pulled. “Let’s get some lunch.”

“Not just yet,” Marshall said, twisting away from David’s grasp. “I want to go ‘n see Latham first. Got some business with him.”

David gave Marshall a puzzled look. A faint twinkle lit the old man’s eyes as he started back across the street and headed for the lawyer’s office. David followed a few paces behind as Marshall climbed up the steps of the town’s new professional building.

They had to wait a short while in the outer office, and throughout the wait, Marshall said nothing to indicate why he had dragged David along with him. Finally, they were admitted to Latham’s office.

“Good morning to you both, Mr. Logan . . . David.” Latham smiled widely as he stuck his hand out. David shook it; Marshall ignored it. “Please, please take a seat.” The lawyer pulled two chairs into position around his desk, then took his seat and picked up his pipe.

“I hope,” Latham said, after he had stoked the pipe, “that there’s nothing wrong with the settlement of the estate.”

David shook his head. “Not as far as I know.” He had no idea what Marshall had in mind; he was just as bewildered as Latham and beginning to question Marshall’s sanity.

“I want to talk about the Will,” Marshall said abruptly.

“The Will?” Latham said, clearing his throat. “Your nephew and I have that all settled, and I—”

“Not my brother’s Will,” Marshall snapped, “
my
Will. I want to change my Will.”

“Oh?” Latham’s eyebrows arched. He placed his pipe in the ashtray and shifted back in his chair, obviously feeling more comfortable knowing there was nothing wrong with David’s settlement. He glanced over at David who, still confused, merely shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s what I said,” Marshall barked. “I want you to change my Will.”

“Exactly what do you—”

“That’s OK, ain’t it? I can change it, right?”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Latham said, nodding. “No problem. Exactly what did you want to change in it?”

“What do I have to do to change it?” Marshall said. “Do we have to write a whole new one?”

“That all depends on what you want changed,” Latham said. “It’s your Will.”

“Yeah, ‘n my funeral, too,” Marshall muttered, pulling at his chin. David sat with arms folded, studying his uncle. He noticed that Marshall didn’t answer any of Latham’s questions; that he just plowed ahead, saying whatever he had on his mind.

Is this
, David thought,
a sign that he’s cracking up? That the strain is getting to be too much, and he’s losing touch with reality?

“Well,” Latham said calmly, “it all depends.” He picked up his pipe again and started puffing on it, bringing it back to life. He had decided that the only way to deal with Marshall’s whirlwind manner was to take it slow and easy.

“I want to change it,” Marshall repeated. David’s concern grew as he watched the old man’s bleached face. His lips and cheeks were colorless, and his eyebrows twitched.

“If you want to change the Will slightly, we can merely add a codicil, stating the additions and changes.” Latham continued talking as he walked over to his filing cabinet and drew out the manila file labeled: LOGAN, MARSHALL. “If you have some more drastic changes in mind, it might be just as easy to write up a new Will and destroy the old one. You don’t happen to have your Will with you now, do you?” Latham asked, resuming his seat and opening the file.

Marshall shook his head. “‘S in the bank safe deposit box. I got the key, so we could go over and get it.”

Latham shook his head. “Let’s find out what the changes are first.”

“I want a whole new one,” Marshall said, waving his hands wildly over his head. “A whole goddamned new one. I just want it to be plain ‘n simple, to read that Davie here gets everything when I die.”

David jumped, startled, and looked keenly at Marshall, who was nodding his head up and down.

“Now wait a minute,” David said. “I just finished with—”

“Yessiree, by Jesus,” Marshall snapped, “that’s what I want—you to inherit everything!”

“Well I don’t want it,” David snapped. He made a move to rise from his chair but remained seated. He looked up at the ceiling, leaned back, and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. “Jesus, Marshall,” he said finally, when the silence in Latham’s office lengthened, “after all the damn problems I’ve had straightening out the legal mess with the old homestead, why in the hell do you want me to take on—”

“Because you’re blood, that’s why!” Marshall said, looking at David intensely. David glanced over at Latham, who seemed embarrassed to be caught in the middle of a family argument. David suspected that was why Marshall waited until they were seated in the lawyer’s office before springing his surprise.

“Blood or no blood, Uncle Marshall, I don’t want any part of—”

“You’ll get a part of . . . you’ll get the whole damn thing whether you want it or not.” Marshall suddenly turned and nailed Latham with a harsh look. “I can do it, can’t I? I can write him in even if he don’t want it?”

Latham folded his hands and nodded his head solemnly.

“Well, then,” Marshall said, his voice toned down, “that’s what I want you to do —write him into my Will so’s he gets everything.”

“He can do that?” David asked Latham, already knowing the answer.

Again, Latham nodded. “When the Will is finally executed, you can forfeit your inheritance, if you choose.”

David shook his head from side to side. “Shit.” He looked at his uncle again and a smile tried to force its way across his face. “I should have known you’d pull something like this.” He tried to calm down and accept Marshall’s hasty decision.

“Look, David,” Latham said, “there really isn’t any reason to argue. If you were the major beneficiary, you would find out sooner or later.”

“Sooner,” Marshall whispered to himself.

“What?” David asked, turning toward the old man.

Marshall quickly shifted his gaze from David to the lawyer. “So how soon can you have it ready? The new Will? I’d like it today, if you can.”

Latham leaned forward and scanned the desktop calendar. “I’m not very busy today; there’s nothing planned until later this afternoon. I could have it ready for you in, say two hours.”

Marshall nodded. “Sounds good.”

“Fine.” Latham made a scribbled note on the calendar. “Why don’t you drop back around two o’clock and you can sign it then.”

“That suits me just fine,” Marshall said. He rose and wiped his hands on his pants leg before shaking hands with Latham. Latham walked around the desk toward the door, but as David stood, the lawyer held out his hand to stop him. “If you don’t mind, David, I’d like to have a word or two with you before you go.”

David nodded and watched Marshall walk into the outer office. Latham closed the door, relieved that the family squabble had ended without too much trouble. He walked back to his desk and sat down.

“I assume you want to talk about the property,” David said as he patiently watched Latham stoke up his pipe.

“Ummm,” Latham replied from behind a billowing cloud of blue smoke. The aroma filled the office, making David’s nose sting. Latham took one final, deep inhale, then leaned back in his chair. “I was wondering if you had given any more thought to our proposal . . . if you had decided to sell the land right off or if you wanted to wait.”

David thought for a moment, then said, “Well, you know I am pretty anxious to settle everything before I have to go back to New York. I see no reason why we can’t talk business.”

Latham smiled. He opened the top desk drawer and pulled out a plain white envelope. “My associate, Al Sumner, has given me this to pass on to you.” He handed the envelope to David. On it, written in small block letters, was David’s name.

As David was tearing open the envelope, Latham said, “It’s an offer for the old house and land. I think you’ll agree that it’s quite a good offer for your property.”

David unfolded the paper and glanced at the figure written there. It surprised him because it was quite a bit higher than he had expected—almost more than he thought he could ask for the land. “I’ll think about it for a while,” he said, folding the letter and putting it into his shirt pocket.

“That’s all Mr. Sumner would like you to do, think about it,” Latham said, still smiling. He took a few rapid puffs on his pipe and placed it in the ashtray. “I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s a fair figure.”

“It looks all right,” David said, trying to sound uncommitted. “I’ll come back with Marshall this afternoon and let you know what I’ve decided.” David stood up and moved toward the door. “Maybe,” he added, “you could arrange to have Mr. Sumner here so we could talk.”

“I’m sure I could,” Latham said. David could tell by the lawyer’s voice that he was pleased with his progress.

Marshall suddenly poked his head into the office and snapped, “Come on, Davie. You’ll be jawin’ away until two o’clock at this rate.”

David turned to go. When he was at the door, Latham said, one last time, “I hope you give this offer serious consideration.”

David nodded, unsmiling, and answered, “I intend to. We’ll see you at two.” He left the office, stepping out into the bright sunshine to join Marshall, who was leaning against the brick building.