Gray baby: a novel

by Scott Loring Sanders

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  ***

  Chapter 8

  He hunched over and tried to catch his breath before entering the woods while Bosco pulled at the rope, excited to keep running. The rope had burned his palm, so he decided to let Bosco go free, hoping that he wouldn't run off. Even if he did, Clifton couldn't worry about that right now. Besides, he'd mainly wanted Bosco's protection while on the road; he wasn't worried about the ice cream man being in the woods. Not as much as the road anyway.

  Bosco bounded into a stand of poplar, shuffling leaves as he took off, and Clifton followed, jogging now instead of sprinting. Bosco stayed ahead of him, but kept his nose to the trail, stopping every few seconds to raise his leg and pee on the base of a pine or the slender trunk of a dogwood. When Bosco picked up the scent of something and began crisscrossing through the woods like a tacking sailboat,

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  Clifton yelled for him but kept on jogging. He marveled at Bosco's unabashed fearlessness. The dog didn't seem to have a concern in the world. He had leapt into the woods, scared of nothing. No worries about predators or anything else that might try to hurt him. Clifton wished he could adopt some of Bosco's philosophy, but at the moment, that was impossible.

  When Clifton reached the Killing Pit, Bosco was nowhere in sight though Clifton heard the tromping of crisp leaves off to his left. He yelled for the dog again and then headed down the hill toward the road, his face breaking through strands of gossamer far thinner than the lightest fishing line. When he reached the road, he stopped, caught his breath once more, and picked the sticky webs from his face and hair. He yelled for Bosco a third time, figuring he'd probably lost him, when the dog popped out of the tree line right next to a dry creek bed. During the spring, the creek would rush at full capacity after the rains and mountain snowmelt, braiding with similar runoffs as they all raced to join the New River. But at the moment, it was bone dry.

  "Come here, Bosco," he said between breaths. The dog rubbed against his bare legs, wagging his tail. "You look like you're having the time of your life." He rubbed Bosco's ears, feeling a little better about things now that he was close to Swamper's house. "Come on, boy."

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  They crossed the road, Bosco kicking up traces of dust as he located the adjoining trail, acting like he knew where he was going. Then Clifton lost sight of him as the dog got swallowed by a patch of knee-high mountain ferns. An erect tail, slightly curved over, was the only thing visible, parting the plants like a black periscope slicing through a green sea. The fanlike fronds swayed lightly from side to side in Bosco's wake.

  When they finished descending the hillside and reached the front steps of the porch, Clifton found Swamper sitting in his rocker, snoozing away. The sight of his friend sent a surge of relief coursing through his body.

  Bosco bounded up the steps and nudged Swamper in the crotch with his snout. Swamper snapped to attention and instinctively grabbed at his pants, covering himself with both hands. "What the hell?" he said as he roused from his nap. Bosco set his head on Swamper's leg as a wrinkly hand reached down to pet him. "Who do we have here?"

  Clifton climbed the steps and said, "That's Bosco."

  "I didn't know you had a mutt. What is he? Got some Lab in him for sure."

  "Lab and chow, I think. But he's not mine."

  "Whose is he, then?"

  Clifton didn't want to bother with explanations. He had more important things to talk about. "Swamper, listen, it's a long story."

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  Swamper immediately recognized that something was amiss. "What's wrong, boy? You don't look too good."

  "I've got a problem," he said. "A big problem."

  While Clifton related the events, Swamper sat in his chair, rocking slowly, rubbing Bosco's head, taking it all in. When Clifton finished, Swamper nodded in recognition. He pulled a pouch of tobacco from his pants and quickly rolled a cigarette. He lit it, clicked his Zippo closed, and exhaled a stream of smoke above his head. "I don't blame you one bit for not calling the police. I ain't too fond of the law myself. And after what happened to your daddy, I don't see how anybody could fault you. Not telling your mama? Well, I reckon you know best as far as that's concerned. But we gotta somehow let the law know what's going on. That little girl's in danger. A serious heap. There's a pay phone down at Henry's. We gotta make a call."

  Clifton nodded, but still, the thought of talking to the police unnerved him. "But if we call, they're gonna want me to come in and talk to them. I can't, Swamper. I just can't."

  "I'll call them. Don't you worry about that. And I'll make it anonymous. I'll just tell them what you seen and give them a description of the fella. We don't have to use no names."

  Clifton finally felt a bit of relief. "Okay. I guess we have to. I mean ... I know we have to. I want to help her--I just don't want to talk to anybody."

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  Swamper nodded again in that all-understanding way. "Judging by how you described him, sounds like he's a jailbird. You say all his tattoos were blue? No other color?"

  "Yes, sir. That's the only color I saw. Just blue."

  "Probably means they're prison tattoos. We give the cops that description, they might be familiar with him. Did you recognize one in particular? One that could really give them something to go on? If he's been in the clink before, the cops should have records of all his tattoos."

  Clifton thought for a moment as he reflected on the arms that had tried to grab him only an hour before. The arms that had snatched that girl and changed her life forever. "They were pretty much all scrambled together. I think there was one that said 'Mama.'"

  "Which arm?"

  "His right. No, wait," said Clifton, looking into his mind's eye. "His left. On his forearm. His left forearm."

  "Okay," said Swamper as he got up from the rocking chair. "Anything else?"

  Clifton thought hard. He tried to visualize that sea of blue India ink. "No, I can't think of anything."

  "We better get going. Time's a wasting. You think that dog will ride in the boat?"

  "I have no idea. I guess we'll see."

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  ***

  The phone call went as planned. Swamper stayed true to his word and kept the call anonymous, despite the efforts of the dispatcher to get him to reveal his name. The police told him they'd already received an earlier call that a girl was missing, and they desperately wanted Swamper to come in to answer questions. But he just gave them the details that Clifton had supplied and then hung up.

  By the time they got the skiff back upriver to Swamper's dock, and Bosco had bounded out like he'd been riding in a boat all his life, the sun was getting lower over the mountains. That made Clifton nervous. He felt better now that they'd reported what he'd witnessed, but of all nights, the last thing he wanted to do was walk home in the dark. Actually, maybe that was the second-to-last thing. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was be at home by himself. The thought had been creeping into his mind all afternoon. How could he stay in that house all alone while his mother pulled the night shift? How could he stay there when a psychopath knew where he lived? A psychopath who might want to ensure that Clifton stayed quiet. As he sat on the porch next to Swamper, with Bosco curled between them, he began to feel sick to his

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  stomach. But just as it had happened so often over the last month, it seemed that Swamper had already read his mind.

  "Don't you worry. They'll catch that guy soon enough. You know, maybe you should stay here tonight. Only got the one bed, but the sofa makes a pretty good bunk."

  Clifton had been thinking the exact same thing, and he felt relieved when Swamper mentioned it. Swamper had brought it up a few times in the past, since they'd become partners in cat fishing, but Clifton had always chosen to go home. But now, things were far different. "Thanks. I think I will."

  Swamper filled a cigarette paper, wet the gum with his tongue, and twisted the ends. After he lit the cigarette, he snapped the lighter closed and b
egan twirling it through his fingers like a magician with a silver deck of cards. As he exhaled, he said, "If nothing else, you'll be able to sleep in a little longer before we check the line in the morning. Which reminds me, I guess we oughta get down there pretty soon and bait them hooks."

  The nausea that had subsided to some degree suddenly came roaring back when Clifton looked down at Bosco lying on the porch, gnawing at fleas on his hind end. "Swamper, you might have to handle that. I guess I better get Bosco back home before Mr. Henderson realizes he's missing." He'd explained about Bosco on the boat ride back from Henry's, and

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  Swamper agreed it had been a good idea to steal the dog. "If I run, I can probably get there, drop him off, maybe grab a change of clothes, and get back before it gets too dark."

  Swamper looked down at the river where the sycamore shadows were already creeping over the surface. "To hell with Mr. Henderson, boy. From what you told me, he don't give a damn about this dog anyway. I expect he won't lose no sleep over it. I'd be more concerned about getting word to your mama if I was you. Let her know you're okay. We could go back down to Henry's and you could call her."

  Clifton knew she'd be worried sick if she came home and he wasn't there. Though she didn't know it, he was aware-- because he'd heard her sometimes when he couldn't sleep-- that the first thing she did when she got home from work was to crack his bedroom door and check on him. Even before she poured her first glass of wine. "If I call her, she won't go for it. She'll be suspicious unless I explain to her what I saw. And I don't want to tell her. She'll freak out. But if I went home and she saw me grab my sleeping bag or something, I could tell her I was going camping and fishing. She'd buy that."

  "You know her better than I do, I reckon."

  Clifton thought about his mother's current mental state and knew that he was right; a phone call wouldn't work. As much as he wanted to stay right where he was, he was

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  positive he'd have a much better chance of convincing her if he talked with her in person. He knew the right things to say. The right way to manipulate his expressions to persuade her. In the past, on the very few occasions when he'd been invited to a sleepover party, she had never let him go. Regardless of her problems and disregard for her own well-being, she was still overprotective when it came to him. Though she'd never admitted it, he was pretty sure she was constantly filled with a deep anxiety of losing him. A persistent dread that she couldn't shake. He was all she had. He knew it was because she'd already lost her husband and didn't want to go through that again with her own son. It wasn't necessarily rational, but Clifton understood. He understood that she loved him more than anything else in the world. To the outside observer who didn't know any better, she might have looked like a negligent parent. But Clifton wasn't an outside observer.

  "I mean, I'm not exactly itching to go back there, Swamper. But you're right, I have to let her know. A phone call won't cut it with her. Believe me."

  Swamper rubbed the bottom of his chin. "I still don't like it. Not one bit. But she needs to know. I'd go with you if I could--you know that." He had a deep look of concern on his face as he gazed at Clifton. "But these old legs can't get me

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  around so good anymore. Can't traipse through the woods the way I used to. I have a helluva time just walking down to Henry's anymore. That's why I usually take the skiff. This is one time when I wished to hell I still had a vehicle."

  "I'll be fine. I mean ... I'm sure I'll be okay." But he wasn't overly convinced. He dreaded the idea of going back, but he tried not to let it show. "Shouldn't take me more than a half-hour at most if I really hustle. Might even make it back before dark. You said the police were aware of the situation before we even called, right?"

  "Roger that."

  "So every cop on the Crocket's Mill force is probably out there driving around right now. That guy, if he's got any sense at all, is probably holed up somewhere."

  Swamper rubbed at his chin again. "Yeah, maybe. But judging by his actions so far, it don't sound like he's got much sense." He stood up from his chair and said, "You sit tight just a minute."

  As Swamper walked inside, Clifton scratched the itch that Bosco was still trying to get at. Then he gathered the jump rope and strung it underneath the collar. "You're tired, aren't you, boy? You've never had this much exercise in your life."

  A moment later, the screen door slapped shut. In Swamper's flattened palm was a snub-nosed pistol. The short barrel was black, the grip wood-grained. Clifton's heart skipped.

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  He'd already known the situation was serious, but this seemed to solidify it.

  "You know how to use it?" asked Swamper, still holding the gun flat against his palm as he extended his arm in offering.

  Clifton tentatively took the weapon and shook his head. He'd never held a gun before, nor had he ever had a desire to do so. He was surprised by how heavy it was, how comfortable the smooth, polished wood felt in his hand. "No, sir. Not really."

  "That there is the safety," he said, pointing to a small button near the trigger guard. "Safety's on right now. That's the way you wanna keep it. Go ahead and push it just to see how it works."

  Clifton pushed, and the black button clicked and popped out, showing orange around the sides.

  "See the orange? That means fire. It's ready to go. Now go ahead and click it back." Clifton snapped the button back to safety. "It's just a little twenty-two. It won't knock you over or nothing if you fire it, but it's still a gun. It can kill. If for some reason you have to use it, it's best to hold it with one hand and have the other underneath the butt for balance. Keep it straight out in front of you. Put your pointer finger on the trigger and pull it slow and steady, just like the trot line. Don't herky-jerk like you see in the movies. Just take a breath, hold it in, and pull slow and steady. Aim for the center of his chest. That'll

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  be the largest target. Hopefully, if the fool has any sense at all, he'll run the other way and you won't have to use it. But it's best you know, just in case. I put a full six-load in it."

  Clifton used his finger to wipe away the beads collecting on his brow. Things were getting more and more real with every passing second. "I'll hurry. Maybe I can even help with the trot line if I get back soon enough."

  "Don't you worry about no damn trot line right now. Stuff that thing down your britches and get on. And don't shoot your balls off."

  "I won't," said Clifton, forcing a smile but suddenly feeling anxious once more.

  "And Clifton," said Swamper, his eyes narrowing, "you be careful. I expect the news will be out pretty soon about that little girl. If it ain't already. This town's gonna go apeshit. I reckon your mama ain't gonna be no exception once she hears."

  "Yes, sir. I'll be back in just a few."

  "All right, get going. And remember, don't shoot your balls off. Ain't nothing more pathetic than a man with no nuts."

  Clifton stuffed the gun into the waistline of his shorts where it pressed snuggly against his stomach. The cool of the metal felt surprisingly good against his skin. He grabbed the two ends of the jump rope and snapped them like a pair of reins. Bosco stood up and stretched forward, his hind legs extending out behind him. The toenails of his rear paws scraped

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  against the floorboards as he inched forward. He let out a wide yawn and then they set off.

  ***

  Trickles of sunlight seeped through the pine boughs and oak branches, creating bright spots in places on the forest floor as Clifton and Bosco climbed the hillside and reached the plateau near the Killing Pit. Bosco didn't pull on the leash as he had earlier. Instead, he loped ahead of Clifton at an easy pace, his nose to the ground, taking in the earthy smells of the woods. Clifton found it ironic that, for the first time, the woods around the Killing Pit put him at ease instead of frightening him. He was convinced that there was no reason for the man to be in the forest. The guy was probably a hundred miles away
by now, maybe in North Carolina or West Virginia, barreling down the road in an ice cream truck. He figured it wouldn't be too hard for the cops to locate a guy making a getaway in a vehicle like that. He hoped so anyway.

  But as the woods got darker, as the light seemed to disappear behind the trunks of the trees, as the shadows grew and moved as if they were alive, Clifton realized that he wouldn't be quite so calm if it weren't for Bosco. And also for the gun. He had to admit that it comforted him, but the last thing he

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  wanted was to have to use it. Violence scared him. Sure, he got into fights with Colt, but that was different. That was something that had almost become routine. That was two guys slapping each other around a little, more for the fun of it than anything else. That's just what guys did. But that wasn't violence. Not at all. He'd seen violence; he knew what it was and he wanted no part of it.

  By the time he made it out of the woods and set his feet on the asphalt of the cul-de-sac, he had managed to stir himself into another swirl of paranoia. What if the guy was still lurking around? He could be anywhere. What if he was waiting in hiding at the house? What if he'd broken in and done something to his mother? Maybe he should have warned her when he had had the chance.

  He began jogging while his mind continued to race through countless scenarios. Bosco stayed ahead of him as they sprinted down the road, now pulling on the rope hard, thinking it was all some sort of fantastic game.

  As soon as he crossed Kamron Street and headed for his driveway, he suddenly stopped short, yanking Bosco's leash so hard that the dog hacked like a cat coughing up a fur ball. Sitting in his driveway was a police car, the engine running. The headlights lit up the empty carport, but the blue lights on the roof were dormant. An officer was at the side door,