Boone

by Berntson, Brandon

  “Aye-aye, sir. Who’s McGruff?”

  “He’s a crime dog.”

  “Oh, sure. Well, since you’ve been so helpful and understanding, can I get you a soda or anything while I’m out? Maybe a frozen yogurt or an ice-cream sandwich?”

  “Quit being a smart ass, Miles.”

  “Sorry, sir. My boss brings it out in me.”

  Wally rolled his eyes, a short, portly man with a beet red face and graying hair. Miles thought he looked like a broken down alcoholic version of Elmer Fudd once Elmer reached about sixty. Wally wasn’t that old, but he did hit the sauce a lot. He kept a bottle in his desk drawer and it’s backup on a shelf behind the binders. You could tell because the binders stuck out farther than the others. Miles had seen him on more than one occasion sipping from the bottle like a kid trying to get a peak at a nudey show. You could sometimes smell it on his breath. It wasn’t on his breath now, but maybe he was just waiting for some time away from Deputy A and B, as he liked to refer to Miles and Remy.

  Miles left the office and stepped out into the rain. It was coming down hard, hitting him like thousands of rain-sodden golf balls. It was a cold rain, being late winter. At the rate it was coming down, he would welcome snow instead.

  He hurried to his patrol car, soaking wet by the time he got there. Several inches of water covered the lot, and there was a fog, a light misty cloud moving in off the Miramac. He got in the car and shut the door.

  “Jesus,” he said to himself, wiping water from his face. He should have brought a towel.

  He could not remember it ever raining so hard. How long had he been outside? Ten seconds? It didn’t even feel like raindrops, just a steady stream of water falling from the sky.

  The police station was at the south end of town, where the Junction 21 Turnpike dropped south toward Old Hartford. He was only a couple miles from the Takamine Bridge. He didn’t know what the chief was worried about. The Takamine was as stout as an oak. Wally acted like the damn river would carry the bridge off into no man’s land. There was no chance of that, Miles knew. But if the old buzzard wanted him to check it out, Miles was happy to oblige.

  “You know how kids are,” Wally had said earlier. “I’ve seen them playing along the damn river, thinking it’s cute, and the next thing you know, they’re floating down the fucking thing, screaming for their lives.”

  “Sure, chief. I hear ya.”

  A particular urge had been growing for some time below his waistline, and he wanted to dispel of it as quickly as possible. He would have to check the bridge and the river and see how everything was, though, first.

  Miles started the car and put it in reverse, turning on the headlights, then drove out of the lot. The wipers were practically useless, and he realized how dangerous this was. No wonder Wally told him to be careful. He could drive off into the Miramac if he wasn’t paying attention.

  Miles turned right from the Junction 21 Turnpike, which turned into Main Street and the downtown area. He did not see a living soul.

  The rain was like symmetry. He listened to the cracking, thunderous downpour in the hollow silence of the car. It sounded like machine gun fire on the roof, a relentless, angry rain. A dark and stormy night if ever there was one, Miles thought, and grinned.

  The shops were lit along downtown, and there went the first soul of the evening, Ben Holcomb’s Ford pickup on its way to B-Happy Burgers, the fast food joint in town. Miles had seen the truck often. No late night deluge was going to stop Ben from getting his Number 3 Combo with a large Sprite.

  But other than Ben, there wasn’t much cause for concern. Not that he could see.

  He turned his thoughts to the house on Ashbury Lane, feeling his libido rise. His throat was suddenly dry. His chest grew warm, thinking of Frankie Boone. Miles took a gulp, his heart beating fast. He should stop and get himself a drink, but he would wait.

  From where he was, all was quiet along Main Street. Sunny Side Up was still open and would be until 1am. But there was little going on, and it looked like Shepherd’s Grove, for the most part, had decided to stay in for the evening.

  Miles turned down Jacoby Street, heading south toward the turnpike, and the Takamine Bridge.

  ~

  He was growing increasingly uneasy, thinking, shifting in his seat like some hormonal teenager. Good Lord, it was getting to be where he could hardly control himself anymore. He was still in his early twenties. Maybe that had something to do with it. Though shalt not stray far from the teenage years, Miles thought, and chuckled.

  A flash flood warning was still in effect until 6pm tomorrow, according to KBLS, the windshield wipers on, high beams cutting through as much as they could of the downpour. It was tolerable. Dangerous, he thought, but tolerable.

  The storm had been raging like a hurricane off the Atlantic until it hit the eastern shores several days ago. It was still going strong. You didn’t have to tell anyone that who lived in the Grove. Some had already made it out safely, but it was turning out worse than expected. Seven people had been killed already, according to KBLS (The running joke in the Grove was that the radio station stood for K-Bullshit).

  He would check the hospital after he made a detour. First thing was the Miramac, then he had to straighten out this carnal takeover climbing into his chest and throat, making him want to take care of business right then and there, because he couldn’t wait much longer.

  Miles took the turnpike until he came to the Takamine Road. He made a right, where the bridge was only a half a mile ahead. He wondered what Remy and Marci were doing.

  He took the bridge road, a beautiful view during the day of the valley, farmlands, and the Miramac, but at night, it was just another rain-drenched road leading to the psychiatric hospital. He was clipping along at a steady 35mph when the river rose before him in the headlights, along with the Takamine Bridge.

  Built in 1891 of structural timber and reinforced over the years, the arched bridge was a solid piece of architecture, mirroring its counterpart 10 miles north, the Chippewa. Both had a condition rating of 7 out of 9. Not much for Wally to worry about.

  He turned on the spotlight, directing it over the Miramac, while driving up onto the bridge. He parked the car and opened the door.

  The roar was the first thing he noticed. That and the downpour hammering on the roof. It was almost deafening. Shining the light onto the muddy water, the river was a raging, rising behemoth. Miles’ eyes widened at the sight. He’d never seen the Miramac this high. The banks were disappearing. It was widening certainly. Anyone could see that, and it was only two yards below the bridge, as opposed to its normal fifteen feet.

  “Jesus,” he said, under his breath. Because of the rain and the river, he couldn’t hear the words he spoke.

  He was soaked. He continued to look out over the river and thought he saw a tree in the water before it disappeared. A giant log like a railroad tie came next. A bolt of fear raced up his spine when he heard the bridge creak and felt the force of the water tugging at the timber.

  “Holy shit,” Miles whispered, and got back into the car. He picked up the radio and pressed the button. “Wally, this is Miles. Come in.”

  Static. Then a click. “Copy. What’s up, kiddo?”

  “The Miramac’s raging, chief, and rising like hell.”

  “Which bridge are you on?”

  “The Takamine.”

  “Can you take a drive toward the Chippewa, and see how she’s holding?”

  “Will do, chief.”

  More static. The storm was affecting reception on the radios, but the words were clear enough.

  “How’s the town look? Everything okay?”

  “Right as rain. No pun intended.”

  “Get back to me and then check out the psych hospital and make sure everyone is okay out there, will ya, Miles?”

  “Sure thing. Give me about an hour or so.”

  “Will do. Over and out.”

  Miles put the radio back and listened to the rain drumming
steadily onto the roof. He could hear the raging of the Miramac even with the windows up.

  The chief wouldn’t expect to hear from him for another hour or so. He could take the turnpike back up to the Chippewa Bridge, stop at the house on Ashbury Lane, and then head out to the hospital. He could come back into town from the opposite direction. It would be a huge loop through downtown, along the turnpike, and around most of Shepherd’s Grove, but he could get back in time and still take care of business. The raging Miramac seemed to add to it, the dangers of the storm and imagining Frankie Boone. His throat grew warm.

  The thought was enough. He felt it rising again, and he was breathing heavier.

  Miles put the car in gear and backed off the bridge.

  ~

  The feeling had been gnawing away at him on and off throughout the day, and he’d noticed, even while talking to Wally, that his throat had been heating up, his heart beating, thinking of being in the house with pictures of Frankie Boone all around him.

  He drove across town, taking the back roads. 15 minutes later, he drove up onto the Chippewa Bridge, holding steady.

  Just a little Boone fix, that’s all he needed. He’d had plenty of them over the years, and like any good junkie, it had turned into a need.

  But it could be at no other place. It had to be at the house. The need for Boone, the history of the boy and his presence, was all Miles craved. He needed to feel Frankie Boone all around him.

  Miles wondered what that would be like as he drove across the bridge and into the neighborhoods west of the Miramac: the big man taking him, forcing him down onto his stomach. Miles shivered with excitement.

  He pressed his foot on the gas taking the Chippewa Road to Dover Street. He turned right from Dover onto Ashbury Lane, driving slowly. The tiny house came into view, set apart from the rest of the neighborhood, a dark, silent, windowless structure at the end of a broken road. The headlights lit up the front where graffiti had been spray-painted. The house where Boone lived, was written on the front in a childish, cursive scrawl.

  It had been set far back from the rest of the neighborhood, hardly visible. The overhanging trees buried it along with the shrubs, most dead now. He’d found an old sleeping bag once, underwear, bras and panties. There had been condoms draped over the windowsill at one time.

  Miles pulled the car to a stop and shut the engine off. Just the sound of rain, his heart beating fast. A bit of randy excitement always took over when he pulled up to Frankie’s house, not knowing if some vandal, stoned teenager, or homeless person was lying in wait.

  Over the years, Boone had turned into a local celebrity. The rumors and cruelty of his mother had been widespread. Local teens began to idolize him, and when he’d been institutionalized, the press, along with a flock of teenagers, had shown up under a ceaseless barrage of camera lights. Miles still had some of those pictures. Boone had made history in the Grove.

  He stepped out of the car and listened. All he could hear was the rain. He moved along the footpath to the small house and up the porch steps. The creeks in the area had risen and there were already small lakes forming across the ground. He stepped onto the porch and opened the door. There was a beer bottle just inside. He took out his flashlight and shined it on the floor. A rat, the size of a small cat, ambled down the hallway. The house smelled, like always, musty and of dry rot and mold. But it was quiet.

  “Hello?” he called.

  He checked the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom, and another room, which he assumed was Boone’s. Miles didn’t know that Boone had lived in the basement, buried under blankets and clothes, and that this was his mother’s sewing room.

  He opened the door, leading downstairs, and shined the flashlight on the steps. He took the stairs, the steps creaking under his weight. On the ground floor, he panned the light back and forth, but it was just cold concrete, spider webs, one of which held a massive yellow spider. There was nothing going on here that Miles could see. He turned and climbed back up the stairs.

  His pulse pounded, knowing he was alone with the cool air, the rain, and the memories of Boone. His erection was growing.

  In the room he thought was Boone’s, he lifted one of the floorboards by the wall and pulled out a shoebox. Inside were roughly a dozen pictures. There was an old dresser by the wall. Miles began to arrange the pictures on top of the dresser, leaving the flashlight there so he could see them.

  The rain beat on the roof. Several leaks made puddles on the floor.

  He took off his gun belt and unbuttoned his pants.

  Thoughts of Boone’s body against his own, massive hands pushing into his back . . .

  He would be done in about 10 seconds at the rate he was going. Pictures of Boone’s young, handsome, childish face stared back at him, but Frankie wasn’t smiling in any of them.

  He was rock hard, his pants around his ankles, shirt unbuttoned, something invigorating about the cool air against his skin. Miles masturbated, looking at the pictures of Frankie Boone, knowing this must constitute him in some way as a pedophile. But the pictures were only a catalyst. He imagined Boone walking the grounds of the hospital. He imagined dressing up for Boone, putting on a dress, makeup on his face. He imagined Boone’s big hands all over him.

  That was all it took. Miles climaxed on the floor. It hadn’t taken more than twenty seconds. He’d heard it only took three minutes for a man to ejaculate from start to finish, but thanks to Frankie, he had that beat by two and half minutes.

  He was breathing heavily and realized he should have stopped at the Tilt-a-Whirl and gotten himself a drink. His throat was dry. He felt completely drained. He was still trying to catch his breath when he realized someone was standing in the doorway.

  He was almost buck-naked, his shirt coming off his shoulders, his pants around his ankles. His heart leapt into his throat in fear and shame.

  His penis shriveled, cowering back inside of him. The illumination from the flashlight made out a massive bulk in the doorway. The silver gleam of an axe was visible. The man was soaking wet from the rain. He could smell a musky, sweaty, animal scent that Miles was surprised to find, turned him on again.

  “Uh . . . hey . . . you uh . . . know how to knock?” he said, trying to retain as much dignity as he could by making light of the situation. “I . . . thought I was alone.” He forced a chuckle, his cheeks flushing, burning red. The embarrassment he felt along with the shame was as a hot as a torch.

  He reached down for his pants and pulled them up. The man did not say anything but stood quietly in the doorway. He could not make out any features, but the hair was long, the shape, burly.

  The man took a step into the room. Miles heard the floor creak under his weight. When he’d been playing with himself, he’d though he had heard something similar in the hallway, but he’d ignored it.

  Cupid, draw back your bow, he thought for no particular reason.

  The man took another step into the room. Miles reached down for his belt, and more importantly, his gun. But the man moved quickly, like a graceful shadow. One giant step across the room, putting his foot down on the belt. He pushed Miles out of the way. The hand was big, the kind of hand he’d imagined moving all over him.

  “I . . . know how this must look. I’m a police officer. Please . . . no one has to know about this . . . ”

  But the man wasn’t listening, didn’t care. And what did he think? That a naked police office with his gun on the floor was masturbating to pictures of a boy no older than ten? Was he afraid that was how it looked? That he was masturbating to a boy who’d committed matricide?

  Just your local law enforcement pedophile with his pants around his ankles and his gun on the floor, not to mention his semen. What’s your name, big fella?

  But in the gloom, the light shining from the flashlight, Miles looked up. The same eyes and chiseled jaw he’d seen walking the hospital grounds. It was stubbly, pale from the chill and the rain, but he knew that bulk. He’d imagined it a thousand times. The
re were flecks and splatters of darkness against the white, wet shirt. Miles looked down at the axe in the man’s hands and tried to see if there was blood on it, but it was clean. Clean because of the rain. He’d traveled far. Several miles. He’d gotten out of the hospital; he’d obtained an axe. It was his love, his fantasy in the flesh, Frankie Boone, and he’d decided, for whatever reason, to come home.

  Chapter 7

  Miles finished buttoning up his pants, his heart like a trip hammer. He buttoned his shirt. It took him a second before he realized that the fear of sweat was trickling down his temples.

  Boone looked around, stopping when he saw the pictures of himself on the dresser. He walked over, picked one of them up, and looked at it for a long time.

  He knew the risks in coming here, in doing what he did. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. He was lucky to get away with it for so long.

  Masturbating to a fantasy, while the man you were fantasizing about was standing right in front of you, was something Miles should have seen coming. But he was not surprised to find that he was stimulated all over again. Just before he’d buttoned himself back up, he felt the little soldier standing to attention. The fear, the shame, the excitement, but mainly the animal musk of Boone triggered it.

  He pictured Boone getting forceful with him, manhandling him the way Miles had wanted to be manhandled for years. Even if there was another part of him that knew he was going to be chopped into little bits and pieces in the next 30 seconds.

  Something else was happening as well. From the moment Boone entered the room, the moment Miles realized it was Boone, the feminine side of him leapt to the foreground. His love for the man intensified, and something happened he didn’t expect: he didn’t want to hurt Boone. He didn’t want to pull the gun on him, didn’t want to cuff him (well, not entirely) and certainly didn’t want to take him to jail. Those were all things he knew with certainty. He’d idolized and fantasized about this man for years, and here he was.