by C. L. Bevill
Bubba looked at the launchpad and then back at the professor. This wasn’t exactly what he was expecting. He thought cardboard and Play-Doh would be heavily used with an emphasis on Sharpies. If he was really lucky, David might launch Brownie into space where he could meet up with the ISS and irritate the astronauts there.
He shook his head. No launching Brownie into space. Nor anything else that might be considered a test subject. He took a leg and gently herded Precious behind him.
“Where did David git the money for all this?” Bubba asked numbly.
“I have no idea!” the professor answered with obvious excitement. “Excuse me. Work calls. We’ll let you know when we’re planning to launch.” He paused to eye Precious and she whined pitifully.
“No launching hounds,” Bubba snapped. “Or anything alive.” He reconsidered and wondered if his mother might be interested but quickly shook his head again.
His mother. Miz Demetrice had to know about this for the concrete pad to be poured and for the eighteen-wheelers to find their way into the back property. The road had likely been cleared so they could make their way through. Asking Bubba for permission had probably been an afterthought to cover their proverbial sit-upons.
“Any chance this could turn into a Columbia or a Challenger situation?” Bubba asked, thinking of his pregnant wife in the caretaker’s house about two miles away as the crow flew.
“Of course NOT! Utmost safety protocols have been initiated to the nth degree!” the professor yelled. “DAVID BEATHARD!” he bellowed immediately afterward, “IT IS SO GOOD TO FINALLY MEET YOU!”
Bubba stared at the circus. Certainly, he’d misjudged how advanced David and his crew could be, and when one threw in a professor with specific degrees, there was understandable unease rumbling about the pit of his stomach like food poisoning was beleaguering him.
Could the professor be another one of Dogley’s special patients? Bubba wasn’t sure about that, but he made a mental note to call their latest social worker to see. After all, how would they even power the dang thing? It wasn’t like someone could go to the corner gas station and fill up on rocket fuel.
Right?
Chapter 10
Bubba and the First of Many Clues
Bubba was back on Foggy Mountain by 2:00 pm. It was very nearly chilly on top of the big hill. (It was a Texan chill.) The temperature had to be a whole two degrees less than on the bottom. Whoo-hoo! Winter is almost upon us!
He mopped sweat from his forehead and parked with all of the trailers and RVs on the backside of the hill. There was a noticeable absence of personal vehicles, and it appeared as though the set was closed for the day. Eventually Bubba found one person. Bert Mullahully was typically Pegramville’s only taxi driver but now sat beside the open door of a trailer enjoying the cold air from the inside while he fanned himself with a folded-up magazine. (Good Housekeeping featuring Ellen DeGeneres discussing 50 ways to cook sweet potatoes for summer and a featured essay of “How to jazz up your BATHROOM!” Since Bubba could not eat sweet potatoes without devastating digestive issues, and his BATHROOM! did not need jazzing up, he wasn’t interested in the magazine.)
“Hey Bert,” Bubba said. “Where’s everyone?”
“Oh, hey Bubba, a few of them are up at the house having a conference about the movie. That director gal, her brother, that makeup/scene decorator girl, and I think a few others.” Bert reluctantly closed the door to the trailer, indicating it with the magazine. “It’s Marquita’s place, and she has the best air conditioner. I think she’s hooked up to the electrical line illegally but I ain’t goin’ to tell.”
“You taxi-ing folks about?”
“No, that darned Uber cut my bizness in half,” Bert mumbled. “Did you know two people are Uber drivers in Pegram County? Two. One is Mary Bradley, and she drives folks around in a 1984 Ford Bronco.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “She offers Atomic Fireballs and Chupa Chups in the back of the Bronc. I mean, why should I have to fancy up the back of my cab? She even put curtains up between the front and the back and has heated wipes for people who want to clean up. I think she also burns a Yankee Candle. The label says it smells like honey clementine, whatever that be. Cain’t compete with that.”
“The red-and-white Bronco?”
“Yes.” Bert scowled powerfully. Then he brightened adding, “The last fella I drove was out to your place. Some professor of something or other. He got out and walked down the back road like he knew ‘xactly where he was goin’. Did you know about that?”
Bubba shrugged. If he wasted his time figuring out how all the weird things in Pegram County happened, he wouldn’t have time to think about anything else. “So ifin you’re not driving folks about, what are you doin’ here?”
“Security guard,” the fifty-odd year-old man said. He patted his rotund gut and adjusted the Dallas Cowboys cap on his head. He waved the magazine like it was a baseball bat. “I stay from 2:00 to midnight. Then one of them idiots from the junkyard takes over.”
“Laz, Tom, or Jed,” Bubba said.
“Yes, them. They so stupid they stared at the orange juice carton because it said concentrate. Ifin their butts were missin’ they’d need a spotlight and a GPS trackin’ unit. They went to the library just to find Facebook. Anyway, I also took a few people out to your place yesterday with loads of groceries. I ain’t never seen someone with so many of them insulated cold/hot bags at the same time. What’s up with that?”
Bubba glowered. If anyone else brought ice cream to their house, it was going to fall into the ground with all the extra weight, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool of melted ice cream would be the result. The estate would never be the same. “I cain’t really say,” Bubba said reticently.
“Marquita said you might be about, so ifin you want to talk to her, she’s up there,” Bert said.
Bubba nodded, wondering if he could bribe Bert to not bring people or groceries or ice cream to anywhere within two miles of the Snoddy Estate.
Inside of resorting to lucrative subornment, he meandered in the direction of the Hovious place with Precious trailing behind him. Both her tail and her ears drooped. She knew she could be inside with the other human with air conditioning and a comfortable bed, but no, her beloved master had to be outside with questionable humans and a particular stinky thing that gave her the screaming meanies. Therefore, her displeasure was evident.
“Hey Bubba,” Bert called after him.
Bubba didn’t look back, so Bert asked loudly, “Is it true about the Boo?”
“Don’t know,” Bubba said wearily. “Prolly just some fella out to scare folks.”
“He’s goin’ to get shot,” Bert yelled.
Bubba agreed silently.
A few minutes later Bubba found Marquita, Tandy North, the McGeorge, Simone Sheats, and Risley Risto huddled together in one of the few Hovious house’s rooms with air conditioning.
“Bubba!” Marquita said. “Have you discovered anything?”
“It’s a real Sasquatch,” Tandy said flatly. She lit a cigarette in her mouth and added, “I nearly died, and I’m not happy. This isn’t in my contract, and you know I was doing you a favor, Mar. I didn’t sign up for a real fricking monster.”
Bubba had thought about a number of things. For example, Daniel Lewis Gollihugh’s vehicle had been sabotaged, not once, but twice so that he wouldn’t be on the set in time to play the Boo. Not so coincidently the so-called real Boo had appeared at both of those times. That meant that it was someone with a plan and not a satanic monster that didn’t want people on his mountain.
“It’s not a real Sasquatch,” the McGeorge said, “but this would be great press.”
“No press!” Marquita and Risley yelled at the same time. “The studio might shut us down altogether,” Marquita added.
McGeorge stared meaningfully at Simone.
“Don’t look at me,” Simone said to the McGeorge. “I didn’t make up someone to look like the Boo. I looked at
the footage, and it’s just far away and foggy enough that I can’t tell how it was done. It looks pretty good. I’d almost have to say it was someone in the biz.”
“You’re in the biz,” McGeorge said.
“And I’m not shooting myself in my prosthetic improvised and mechanized foot,” Simone said devoutly. “Why would I do that? I want credit for my work, and if no one knows I did the work, I don’t get any recognition for it.” Her face wrinkled. “Duh.”
Even Bubba knew there were literally hundreds of artists who could have done the job and some of them within a hundred miles. Dallas wasn’t that far away, and it had a thriving movie business and all the supporting people to go with it. Furthermore, there were folks in the area who lived and breathed by selling handicrafts on eBay and Etsy. It was exactly like McGeorge had said previously. There was probably a tutorial on how to make a bigfoot costume on YouTube. More than one even.
Risley strode back and forth. “Tandy, there are two scenes tomorrow that are critical. Can we count on you?”
Tandy puffed on her cigarette and stared at him. “We’re not down in those tunnels, are we?” she finally asked.
“The sound stage we built,” Risley said immediately. “Then we’ll take a little breather and let this thing settle.”
McGeorge sighed. “I know a guy who’ll throw some money into the kitty. One of the benefits of coming from an old-school Hollywood family. We throw Kristoph’s name out there, and they’ll be tinkling in their manties to give us cash.”
“I’m going to sell my beach house,” Marquita said. “I think I can get a half million on a loan for it until the papers are signed. People are always asking if I’m selling that place, and it isn’t the same without Kristoph.”
Bubba hadn’t realized how desperate the movie production had become. “You know there’s folks who will pitch in for free,” he said. “They like having a movie bein’ made here in Pegram County.”
Marquita smiled gratefully at Bubba. “It’s not that. It’s that people keep saying they won’t come up here if that creature is wandering around. Just this morning I caught a guy with a shotgun, and I had to sic the sheriff on him. God help us if he shot one of the crew by mistake or maybe even Armand when he’s in costume.”
“Prolly just piss him off,” Bubba muttered.
“What?”
“Mebe some no trespassing signs down at the roads will keep some of the more entrepreneurial types away. I got some of them signs in my truck,” Bubba said. “I’m always having to re-post them on our property.”
“Oh yes, the Snoddy Civil War gold,” Marquita said. She rubbed her chin. “Sounds like another movie.”
Bubba frowned. “Ain’t no gold,” he said darkly. “Never was. The colonel was a syphilitic loon who hid a wagonful of rusted iron bits.”
“Let’s finish this one first,” Risley suggested quickly.
“I’m going over to the soundstage and make certain everything is copasetic,” Marquita said.
“I’ll walk with you,” Simone said.
“Me too,” Tandy added.
Risley looked at Bubba. “Maybe a word with you?”
“Got something cold to drink?” Bubba asked.
“A cooler full of Red Bull, Mountain Dew, water, and Diet Pepsi,” he said promptly. “Tandy loves Red Bull mixed with Mountain Dew,” he explained. “Simone’s partial to Diet Pepsi, and I’m on a water cleanse until I get sick of it which is about now.”
Risley led Bubba into another room that looked like it had once been a butler’s pantry. It now had a portrait of Che Guevera painted on the sideboard. He opened a Yeti cooler that was remarkably identical to one Bubba had seen recently and handed him a bottle of water. “You sure you don’t want a little caffeine pick me up?”
“Water’s fine,” Bubba rumbled.
Risley took a Red Bull and popped the tab. He drank about half of it while Bubba drank all of his water. Bubba reached around and opened the cooler to retrieve another bottle of water. He knelt on the floor and opened it, giving some to Precious. She lapped at the bottle and managed to get most of it in her mouth.
“I’m very sorry about borrowing your father’s bayonet,” Risley said. Around the time that Kristoph had died, the movie people had all lost their collective marbles, and Risley had been the first of many to drop those selfsame metaphorical glass balls. “I’m sure you can’t look at it the same.”
“I reckon not,” Bubba said. He didn’t know what had happened to the bayonet. The sheriff had taken it as evidence, and Bubba hadn’t gotten it back, not that Bubba missed it or anything.
“I was just trying to protect my girlfriend,” Risley said weakly. “It’s a lousy excuse but there it is, and Kristoph was already dead.”
“Was that the gal that Marquita was seeing at the same time?” Bubba asked.
“Yes,” Risley said unhappily.
“Dint she go to jail, too?”
“Pled out, just like myself and McGeorge,” Risley answered. “Interfering with a corpse or some law like that. I won’t pretend I understand Texas laws. She did just about the same as us. Community service hours and fines. I think we got over easy to tell you the truth.”
“You still seeing her?”
“No, Leigh left us both for an Episcopalian traveling preacher. I’ve trolled her Facebook page, and she’s living in Minnesota in a very rural community. She looks like a schoolteacher. It’s very disturbing.” He shuddered. “She wears polyester suits now.”
“All of that maneuvering and that gal just left you,” Bubba said musingly. “Shore weren’t worth the fuss.”
Risley stared at Bubba hard. “Are you mocking me?”
“No,” Bubba said quickly. “Not at all. Just seems like things happen for a reason and all.” That reminded him that he needed to call Willodean and see how she was doing or at least text her with a witty yet ironic phrase that would make her giggle sidesplittingly. (Or least giggle a little bit since he didn’t want to inadvertently cause her to go into premature labor.)
Risley clapped his hands together. “So, we cool?”
“As long as you don’t try to frame me again,” Bubba said very seriously. “My mother might take exception to that, as would my wife. You know they’re both crack shots. My wife can hit the gnat off a pile of crap at 100 yards, and my mother, well, let’s just say she doesn’t need to aim very well when she’s using an elephant gun.” He nodded. “I seem to recall she’s got two of them. The bullets are this big.” He demonstrated with his index finger and thumb. In fact, the bullets were larger than Bubba’s index finger.
Risley took a deep breath. “Really? That big? No, wait, I’ve learned my lesson. Always be positive the person has been, in fact, murdered. Also apologize a lot and mean it. So again, I’m truly sorry, Bubba. Please let me know how I can make amends.”
Bubba gave the rest of the water to Precious and shook his head. “I reckon I kin let bygones be bygones,” he said. “Y’all have any idea who’s doing the Boo thing?”
Risley shook his head. “A big pest. Let me show the footage from this morning and show you something.”
Bubba followed Risley into another room that had become a makeshift editing room. He shifted the cameras around and pulled a laptop toward him. After a minute Bubba saw the scene from the morning. There was Tandy acting like she’d heard something and then suddenly there was the Boo and hell broke loose. Fog swirled liberally and blocked a clean shot of what lurked in the shadows.
“You see this tree here,” Risley pointed as he paused the clip. “This is an oak tree and right here is a very distinctive branch. It looks like a pointing hand, doesn’t it?”
Bubba allowed as how it might be construed as a pointing hand.
“Well, you can see the Boo tops the branch, right?”
Bubba looked. The Boo in the film did top the branch.
“I went out and measured that branch an hour ago,” Risley said. “It’s eight feet and change.”
&nb
sp; Bubba looked closer at the frozen clip. “You know Armand is a shade over seven feet, right?”
“I didn’t know exactly,” Risley said, “but he already said he had four flat tires and couldn’t find a ride, so it couldn’t be him. Not to mention that this guy is a full foot taller than he is.”
“I don’t reckon Marquita wanted an eight-foot-tall Boo,” Bubba murmured.
“The guy is seven feet tall,” Risley said, “so who needs an eight-foot-tall one?”
Bubba stared at the image on the laptop. Yes, he’d heard the stories. What Pegram County resident hadn’t heard about the Boogity-Boo? But in this day and age of cellphone cameras galore, why wouldn’t there be evidence? After all, that guy in California had gotten about a minute’s worth on an old-fashioned camera. More specifically, scientists couldn’t decide whether it was real or an elaborate hoax and hadn’t been able to for a half-century.
At least the Boo hadn’t actually hurt anyone, and the only missing people in the county were the kind that had run away from child support payments or in the case of a notary public, had been murdered by a crazed wife of a judge and buried behind a defunct auto factory. (He was sure that woman’s family was appreciative to finally know what had happened to her. Possibly they were somewhat appreciative since she turned out to have been murdered and that was never a good thing.)
Folks had been traipsing on top of Foggy Mountain ever since the Hoviouses had died, and no legend had kept them from trespassing en masse. Although the legends continued, there wasn’t substance to them, a fact of which Bubba was very much aware.
Why would anyone make an eight-foot-tall Boo?
Maybe it’s because the Boo is real, said Bubba’s nasty little inner Devil’-advocate-playing voice.
Shut up, Bubba told that voice. That be silly.
“If we don’t get some answers pretty damn quick,” Risley said as they both looked at the monitor, “the film’s going to close up. I think Marquita told you that.”
