The Miramac was turning into a massive turbulent body of water. By the looks of it, Shepherd’s Grove was disappearing in one night.
“FRAAANKKIIIEEE? FRANKIEEEEE BOOONNNEE! I THINK I’M IN LOOOOVE WITH YOOOOU . . . ”
Now that he thought about it, it sounded like the voice of some crazy wildebeest, a cackling hyena, a wild animal between the blips and warning sirens.
But to Carrie, it was like a homing beacon.
~
Miles was having a bit too much fun using the microphone. He’d taken a break and gone to Wally’s desk to get the bottle he knew was there, which was conveniently just sitting on his desk in plain sight.
He’d grabbed the bottle, Tennessee whiskey, barely glancing at the picture of Wally and his wife Regina on the desk, then meandered back down the hallway to the switchboard. He stepped over the body of Wally Manwaring without so much as a second glance. He sat at the desk, opened the bottle, and took one slug after another. The first one was so sharp and powerful, he hadn’t quite prepared himself for it, and he shuddered almost violently.
“Good God, Wally. How on earth do you do this to yourself?”
Instantly, though, the booze entered his bloodstream, and he shook it off, taking another belt. Now, he was feeling looser and grabbed the mic:
“HEY THERE, LADIES AND GENTLEGLAMS OF THE NEW FLOOD. THIS IS YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD DEPUTY, MILES MADIGAN OF THE SHEPHERD’S GROVE POLICE FORCE SPEAKING TO YOU AND COMING AT’CHA LIIIIIIVE. WE ARE REACHING OUT TO THE ONE AND ONLY BOONER MCGOONER OF THE PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL. THAT’S AN ASYLUM TO FRANKIE SPANKIE. THIS ONE GOES OUT TO YOU, BOONEY, CAUSE I’M THINKING YOU GOTTA BE GETTING BORED BY NOW BEING OUT THERE ALL BY YOUR LONESOME AND SOAKING WET. AIN’T NO MOUNTAIN HIGH ENOUGH, AS THE SAYING GOES. HOW MANY YOU UP TO, FRANKIE?”
The chuckling sounded, a madcap laugh in the dead of night. He kept his finger pressed on the button, and the sound echoed over the downtown streets.
He sang: “CAN I LICK YOUR LOLLIPOP? ALL THE GIRLS SAY IT GOES BOP- BOP-BOP. I GOT A SPECIAL ON ONE OR TWO. CAN I GET YOURS FOR A DISCOUNT, BOONE? ALL THE GIRLS SAY IT GOES BOP-BOP-BOP.”
~
Carrie stopped only a block away from the police station. His glasses were the only things he’d managed not to break. He didn’t know why he was still carrying the laptop, maybe because he’d paid 1,500 dollars for the damn thing, and he still thought he could fix it.
He frowned for a second, though, was even a little frightened. He wasn’t stupid, but part of him wondered if maybe things hadn’t gotten more out of control than he realized.
But it scared him. There was something about the voice he didn’t like. Sure, it could be kids having fun, maybe even drinking a little bit (Carrie thought he could detect a few slurs), but he didn’t think so.
The cackling sounded through the streets, like mad, baying donkey laughter. There wasn’t a soul that he could see, just he, the rain, and the loony running the switchboard.
But, like the story, it was a chance he had to take.
~
Miles felt the breeze from outside, the rain getting louder as someone opened the front door. He turned, beaming a huge smile.
“Frankie,” he said.
He didn’t realize how drunk he was until he stood up. He tried to take several steps toward the door and stumbled. “Oh, let the roller coaster tilt just a little bit more, cyanide. We got some special gadgets and gizmos waiting just for you. All is well in the peace, love, and war department, so don’t get all teary-eyed waiting for that special catalog to come in the mail.” He giggled to himself, lurched one way, then the other, then directed his gaze to the door.
Frankie Boone was standing in the doorway.
Miles smiled wide. The body of Wally was still facedown on the ground, and once again, he stepped around it. There was blood embedded into the carpet, which had been coagulating for quite a while now. He could smell it. Not that it bothered him.
“Frankie, baby,” he said. “You came home.”
~
The first thing Carrie saw was the Dodge out in the middle of the road against the guardrail. He saw the Volvo, the pickup parked across several spaces. He looked and thought he also saw a body face down in the water.
He walked across the parking lot and opened the door to the police station. He saw the body of Wally Manwaring on the floor. Blood made a large patch around the man’s head and torso. He widened his eyes at the sight. The Good Samaritan in him came to the foreground, thinking he had to get help right away. He felt a bit of shame as well. He could’ve called he realized. He could’ve called and done something, and now Wally was dead.
The man came around the corner in an instant. His eyes were wide and excited. He was thin, tall, and, if Carrie didn’t know any better, a trifle drunk by the way he moved. This man wasn’t Boone. This man was drunk, but he was a deputy because he was wearing the uniform. He looked at Carrie, slightly unfocused and said, “Frankie, baby. You came home.”
Carrie’s father used to get what he called, ‘stinky, shit-faced drunk,’ and this man, whoever he was, was stinky, shit-faced drunk now.
“I . . . I’m not Frankie,” he said to the man.
The deputy frowned, eyebrows coming together, and said, as if to confirm, “You’re not Frankie.”
But he recognized the voice. It was the voice from the speaker, calling to Frankie Boone, Miles something, if what he heard from the latest broadcast was true.
“There’s . . . people dead in here.”
Miles smiled and nodded vigorously, his eyes going wide. “Oh, don’t I know it! Frankie Boone is out there running dodgers around the pilgrimage factory, and several people you could say have gotten in his way. It’s safer here, though, trust me, and it’s been one helluva night. I’m trying to get Frankie to come back.”
“So, you can put him in jail?” Carrie asked.
“What? Ha! Oh, yeah, sure! So, I can put him in jail. That’s what I plan to do, yessiree. Lock the door and throw away the rumors they’ve been spreading all around these parts, sure thing. You know what I’m saying?”
Carrie had no idea what he was saying. He’d been hoofing it three or four miles to get to Shepherd’s Grove, dry off, get something to eat, see what the hell was going on, but he’d never in his wildest dreams imagined this. He should’ve never picked up the phone. He should’ve never opened the door to the police station. Had this man killed Wally and the man in the parking lot? It didn’t seem possible, but if not, who had? And where was Frankie Boone? How did he even know Frankie Boone was out there? This could very well be the maniac Wally had been talking about.
“Wally called me . . . I’m . . . Carrie Dewhurst of the Wide River Gazette. I could use some help. My Jeep broke down a couple miles back, and I’m . . . terribly hungry.”
“You do look like you could use some help, lil’ pardner. You’re knee’s bleeding.”
Carrie adjusted his glasses and looked down. He felt like a big wet mop, and probably didn’t look much different. “Yeah, it . . . was hell getting here. Do you think you can help me? Wally called and said you guys needed some help. I . . . guess I underestimated the situation.”
“Oh, that ain’t nothing. I got everything under control.” Miles looked at the body on the ground, nudging it with his foot.
“Did you . . . kill him?” Carrie asked.
Miles looked up, his brows coming together. “Me? Jesus, no, what the hell do I look like? That’s my boss. This is all Frankie’s work. Frankie’s been here, and then he left, and now I’m trying to get him to come back. See?”
Carrie wasn’t sure he saw at all. He was reeling. So much so, he actually rocked on his heels for a second like he was about to black out. It was too much, more than he could take.
“Did you see the car in the road?” Miles asked. “Reba? Remy? That’s all Booner McGooner’s work.”
Carrie shook his head. “Do you . . . do you have an outside line, a landline I can use?” He was taking a chan
ce, but part of him thought he could get the man to see reason if he worded it correctly. “We need to notify some people of this. We can get some help out here and have Boone stopped, if you let me. I mean . . . if you’d just let me call someone.”
“Stopped? Why would you want to do that? Boone’s on a mission. He is being driven by the hand of silence, or God, however you want to look at it.” Miles casually put his hand on his revolver.
Carrie looked at Miles, his eyes dropping to the gun. He hadn’t realized how quickly all his senses were kicking in. His eyes were wide, and he was taking note of every movement the deputy made. He could smell the interior of the police station, the man’s sweat, even the booze, but more importantly . . . the blood on the floor. His perceptions had heightened, and the alarm bells were ringing loud and clear.
“Maybe we can help get Boone here together,” Carrie said.
Miles frowned. He pulled the gun out and pointed it at Carrie. Carrie held his hands up, his eyes widening even more. “You want Booner all to yourself? Is that it?”
“No!” Carrie could almost feel his bowels loosening with fear. He’d never had a gun pointed at him before, let alone from a man who was clearly insane. “No. If you want Boone all to yourself, I don’t want to get in the way.”
Miles lowered the gun. “I’m not sharing Boone with anyone, if that’s what you had in mind. He’s mine. He killed his mother. Did you know that? Years and years ago. He was just a little tyke then, a little noggin buster. But he was strong and big for his age. I just gotta get Boone here . . . if you know what I mean. I got the itch.”
Carrie thought he knew exactly what he meant. The man was shit-faced drunk and bat-shit crazy, and those weren’t good combinations. He could easily get himself killed if he wasn’t careful.
“Uh . . . that’s fine. I don’t want to get in your way or anything. That’s not . . . why I’m here. I just thought maybe you could use a little help. What do you want me to do to help you?”
“How about bleating like a sheep?”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Look, I got a better idea.” Miles holstered his gun.
He was afraid of that. He didn’t know what this man had in mind, but Carrie wanted no part of it. The only way he would feel safe is if he got the gun away from the deputy, and he wasn’t confident he could do that. He did want to try and phone the state police, however. This guy was not only drunk and bat-shit crazy, but by the looks of it, head-over-heels in love.
~
The water tugged at Boone’s ankles. Several times, he’d fallen flat on his rear, almost submerging himself, but he never lost hold of the axe. The water was pouring in from the Miramac, and it’s momentum tugged forcefully south. Boone was doing okay, considering. Any other individual might have had a harder time, but he battled the water and followed where the voice was coming from.
A body brushed up against him, but he ignored it.
~
He didn’t know what the guy had in mind, but Carrie was growing more nervous by the minute. Maybe he wanted him to operate the switchboard. Maybe he wanted to perform some pornographic, homoerotic act before Boone arrived. That’s what it sounded like. Maybe it was nothing at all. After all Carrie had said, maybe he was being dragged around the corner, so the guy could kill him. Whatever the reason, he knew he wasn’t dealing with a sane individual. But the fact that the man was drunk might give him an edge. His reflexes might be slow. Since he was walking back to the switchboard, Carrie decided to stay close behind him, within arm’s reach. It might be his only chance of putting some sanity into an otherwise insane situation.
He’d dropped the laptop on the floor earlier and was following the deputy around the corner. He noticed there was a snap on the gun, but the man hadn’t snapped it back into place when he re-holstered it.
His heart drummed in his chest. The man was just a few inches in front of him. Carrie was shorter, and the man had a reach, but he took a chance and decided to go for it.
He reached out, got his hand on the handle of the gun, and pulled it free. The leather in the holster creaked. The deputy turned instantly. Drunk or not, he had good reflexes. Carrie didn’t even think he’d meant to do it, but he hit the gun with the back of his hand, knocking it out of Carrie’s grasp, and onto the floor. Carrie bent to pick it up, but the deputy was quicker. He kicked Carrie in the face, breaking his nose. White pain exploded across his face, his nose gushing blood. His glasses shattered.
He groaned and put his hands to his face. The deputy punched him in the stomach. Carrie felt the air go out of him, and he crumpled to the floor. He could hardly breathe. He lay on the ground, curling into a ball. He was holding onto his stomach now while his nose gushed blood.
The man reached down and picked up the gun. “Not smart. Not smart at all.”
“Please,” Carrie begged in a nasally whine, and was not surprised to find he was crying uncontrollably. “I just wanna go home. Please don’t hurt me. I . . . won’t tell anyone, I promise. Wally called me. I just wanted to come down and see what the story was. If you let me go . . . I . . . I promise I won’t say anything.”
The deputy chuckled. “It’s all right, you won’t be saying anything anyway. And you won’t be going anywhere, either. You see, Carrie ole girl, Shepherd’s Grove right now is kinda like a roach motel. You check in, but you don’t check out. Your momma should have taught you that a long time ago. We’ll have to keep you around for now, though. Live specimen. Fodder for Boone. You understand.”
“NOOO!” Carrie yelled as loud as he could.
He wasn’t sure if he was sacrificing himself or if he’d simply reached his breaking point. Either way, Carrie snapped. Tears of rage poured down his face, the goddamn deer, the stupid Jeep, the broken laptop, his ankle and bleeding knee, the memories of Miranda, his broken nose and broken glasses, his drive for something better and the reality of shambles that it actually was. He was just another schmuck who couldn’t seem to do anything right.
And it didn’t matter. None of it.
The deputy didn’t waste any time. He raised the gun and pulled the trigger.
~
Miles didn’t want any more surprises. He should’ve been better prepared. That was the thing. In the slow hours as the night progressed, some dark force had taken up residence inside of him. It began with seeing Boone earlier that night, then following the trail of carnage at the hospital. An obsessive flowering madness had taken control as the night waned. Now he was so drunk, so gone, he’d actually committed murder. Maybe it was all those things combined.
Or maybe it was just that love made you so damn crazy.
He didn’t have to like it, but there you had it. He blamed Boone, big bad, beautiful Booner McGooner in all his 6 and a half foot glory.
Another crazy idea stirred his imagination. He would go out and bring the bodies inside. Remy and Reba. He would gather Wally and Carrie like a little party, so Frankie Boone had something to come home to, a little welcoming committee . . . a wedding feast.
~
“FRANKIE! WON’TCHA COME AND YANK ON MY WANKIE! PULL MY PANTS DOWN SO YOU CAN SPAAAANK MEEEE! JUST GIVE ME THE GREEEEEN LIIIGHT. I’LL BE YOUR LAAAADYYYY REEEED LIIIIGHT. TAKE ME TO THE LIMIT, TOUGH GUY!”
Miles was having more fun at the switchboard than before. That seemed impossible, but it was true. He’d been polishing off most of the Tennessee whiskey, and was now serenading himself and all of Shepherd’s Grove in a drunken litany of dirty limericks and improvised ditties. He had it going on, that was certain. He was in the groove. It was going to be a special night. He could feel it.
There was electricity in the air.
~
Boone was coming back along Main Street, heading toward the voice, which seemed to be mocking him. It no longer sounded like his mother. Even the sirens had started up again, occasional spurts that stopped and started intermingled with the voice of whoever was calling.
As he approached the police station, he was
following more than the sound of the voice. He was closing in on the speaker that was emitting that ghastly transmission.
He found it—a single pole fixed to the ground about thirty feet high between two buildings in the middle of town. It was nothing more than a telephone pole sheared at the top with three rows of speakers, five stacked on top of each other, for a total of fifteen, all facing different directions of the town.
He could also hear the sirens and the voice echoing over the town farther south, where there must be another speaker.
But this was a start.
Boone looked up.
“MCGOONER! FRANKIE MCGOONER! ARE YOU COMING HOOOOME?”
The corpse of his mother was on the top of the pole, chewing on a fingernail. She smiled down at him.
Boone took the axe and swung it into the pole.
“FRANKIE SPANKIE, DO YOU LOOOOOVE MEEEEEE?”
Boone swung again.
~
Of course, it went back to his childhood, an emotional need for silence.
As he hammered the axe into the pole, the voice continued its berating rhythm:
“FRANKIE WANKIE! WON’T YOU COME SPANK ME? I’VE BEEN A VEEEEERY BAD BOY AND I WANT YOU TO YAAAANK MEEEEE!”
The pole began to teeter more as he took out chunks of wood. It was a good axe, solid, and Boone was strong. Soon, the pole wavered, falling slowly toward him, and splashed into the water.
He took the axe to the speakers, one by one until the voice was silent.
But he could still hear it coming from down the road on what was apparently another speaker to the south.
It was noticeably quieter, but his work was far from over.
~
“YOU GOT ALL THE LOVE I NEED INSIIIIIDE MEEEEE. DON’T YOU WANNA DOOOOOOO ME LIKE YOU DOOOOOO, FRAAAANKIIIEEEEE?”
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