Untcigahunk: The Complete Little Brothers

by Rick Hautala

  Kip shook his head vigorously from side to side. “I don’t know. I might have. All I know is, the next thing I saw was my mother, lying on the ground, all cut up and bleeding all over the place. She didn’t move, and I think even then, as soon as I saw her, I knew she was—” When he swallowed, his throat made a loud clicking sound. “She was dead.”

  “Now Kip, you’ve told me before that you and your father were down at the foot of the driveway, more than a hundred yards away from the cellar hole when this happened.”

  Kip nodded, no longer conscious of the tears streaking his face.

  “And you know, too, that the police concluded that someone—some crazy person or maybe several crazy people—must have been hiding down there or had come out of the woods and done that horrible thing to your mother.”

  Again, Kip nodded. “I know all that,” he said, his voice low and trembling. “And I know that you and everyone else I’ve told about what I think I saw are convinced I imagined the whole thing. My dad and everyone else is convinced that, when I saw her all cut up like that, I sorta went crazy and must have imagined seeing those things that attacked her.”

  “I don’t disbelieve what you say you saw,” Dr. Fielding said. She glanced down at her notebook as she jotted something down. “I just want to help you get through this so you can let go and start putting it all behind you.”

  “That’s just the point,” Kip said, his voice winding up higher, edged with panic. “That’s it exactly. There’s no way I’m going to be able to put any of it behind me if my father starts working on the house again, is there?”

  “You don’t know that,” Dr. Fielding said. “Besides, don’t you think this might be important to him? He’s got to deal with his grief, too. He’s suffered just as much as you have. Maybe by starting back to work on the house, he’s making his own commitment to try to get beyond what happened.”

  “Honestly, Dr. Fielding, I don’t know if I even dare go out there again.”

  “That’s my point exactly.” Dr. Fielding tapped her pen on her notepad for emphasis. “I think you have to go out there, because I don’t think you’ll ever get over it—not really—until you do.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Kip said, and again his gaze shifted to the window and the freedom beyond it. “Like you always say, I have to face my fears. Confront them head on.”

  “Absolutely,” Dr. Fielding said.

  “But what if...what if those creatures that killed my mother are real? What if they’re still out there?”

  2

  Every Friday morning, after dropping Kip off at Dr. Fielding’s office, Bill Howard usually drove out to either the Eastern or Western Promenade in Portland and took a long, brisk walk. Over the past five years, he had dealt with the grief of losing Lori, his wife, as best as he could—which, for him, meant being as solid and steady as he possibly could be for his two boys, Kip and Marty.

  The problem was, even now he didn’t feel all that strong. Usually it was only on these walks—and late at night—that he let his guard all the way down. If the salty wind was blowing in from Casco Bay, he could even almost convince himself the tears in his eyes were from the wind.

  Today, though, he had gone back to the law office on Commercial Street to make a phone call he had forgotten to make earlier. He parked the car in the parking lot beside the office building, and ran up the flight of stairs, taking them two at a time. He was winded when he walked into the office and heard Lillian, his secretary, say, “What a surprise. Here he is now.”

  Bill glanced over to see Sidney Wood struggling to get his bulk out of the overstuffed chair by the far wall. He’d been flipping through an issue of People. When he dropped it onto the coffee table, it slipped onto the floor, but he ignored it as he started walking toward Bill.

  Sidney Wood was probably...no,strike the “probably”...he was the richest real estate dealer and most influential man in Bill’s hometown of Thornton, Maine. He also wasn’t the kind of man who drove all the way to Portland on a warm Friday morning just to make a social call.

  “Sid. How are you?” Bill said, walking over to shake his hand. The man’s grip was cool and slightly damp, the kind of handshake Bill had always characterized as a “cold fish.” In Sid’s case, it was most appropriate.

  “Can we step into your office?” Sid nodded toward the closed office door. The aura of stale cigar smoke clung to Sid like a well-worn suit as Bill unlocked the door, swung it open, and stood back to allow him enter.

  Sid made himself comfortable in the chair next to the desk, took out and peeled a cigar, and stuck it into his mouth. He made a show of snapping open his Zippo lighter.

  “Well, Bill,” he said between sucking puffs as he got the cigar stoked. “I seem to find myself in need of the services of a good lawyer. And since you live in Thornton—hell, I sold you that property out on Kaulback Road—so I figured I’d give you the business.”

  Bill had to resist the urge to say “Lucky me.” as he watched the clouds of blue smoke swirl up around Sidney’s balding head.

  “I need you to race right over to the county courthouse with me and get the bail they set on my son reduced.”

  Bill walked around his desk and sat down, taking out a pen and legal pad. “Why don’t start at the beginning, Sid? Tell me what happened. Then I’ll see what I can do.” Sid cleared his throat and leaned forward to tap the glowing tip of his cigar on the edge of the ashtray on Bill’s desk. Most of the ash missed and fell to the office floor.

  “Hell, you know my boy—Sidney. Everyone around town calls him Woody.”

  Bill nodded. He knew Woody, and he knew all too well what was coming next. Anyone who had ears had heard the blown-out muffler and squealing tires of his Camero. Anyone who went to Art’s, the corner gas station and convenience store, or the Big Apple had seen Woody and his friends hanging out there. They took pride in their reputation as the local tough guys, but generally their offenses amounted to smoking a little pot and maybe starting a fistfight every now and then. They did it mostly to break the small-town monotony. No real problems, unless you counted a couple of speeding tickets and an occasional “drunk and disorderly.” Bill had always thought Woody and his friends were just street punks who didn’t have the brains or guts to do anything too serious.

  The only question was, how serious is the trouble this time? Obviously it was a bit more than a misdemeanor if the judge had set bail.

  “Well, he got into a bit of a problem down at—I dunno, one of those bars downtown. Might’ve been Free Street Tavern. He was down there with his girl friend, Suzie, and—well, she claims he hit her, beat her up, in fact. This was sometime last night.”

  “Do you know when?” Bill asked. “You must’ve gotten a phone call.”

  Sid shrugged his shoulders, waving his cigar like it was a magic wand that could make his son’s problems miraculously disappear.

  “The cops arrested him and threw him in jail for the night. The bail commissioner set his friggin’ bail at ten thousand dollars. The worst of it is, Suzie says she’s pressing charges for assault.”

  Bill frowned from the cigar smoke as much as from the problem that had suddenly dropped into his lap. If only I’d gone out to the Prom for my walk today, he thought bitterly.

  “Ten thousand’s pretty high, don’t you think, if it’s as minor as you say?” Bill sat back and rubbed his chin. “When Woody’s gotten into trouble before, has he had any problems with not showing up in court?”

  Sid shrugged again, rolling the gray tip of his cigar in the ashtray. “He might’ve had a couple of problems with unpaid speeding tickets.”

  “That all?” Bill asked, trying to draw him out.

  Sid stroked his jowls with one hand and glanced out the window. “Well, last year he got into a bit more trouble. He was...I guess he’d had a bit too much to drink—hell, what boy doesn’t overdo it now and then. Anyway, he got stopped for running a red light and had a bit of a scuffle with the cop who stopped him.”
/>   “How much is a ‘bit’?” Bill asked. “Enough for a charge of aggravated assault?”

  Sid looked down at his shoes and nodded. “Yeah, enough for that. The bail for that was posted at five thou, and then the son-of-a— He didn’t show, so I lost my money.”

  It was now Bill’s turn to shrug. “Well, at least I can understand why they set the bail so high. But Sid, you’ve never used me for your lawyer before. Why now?”

  Sidney shrugged. “Just haven’t had the occasion to,” he said. “But I want you to go over there and talk to the judge. See if you can get it reduced.”

  “I’d have to file a petition for a bail review,” Bill said. “That will take a little time. I might not be able to get him out until Monday. But just off hand, would you say he did it?”

  “Did what?” Sid asked.

  “Did he beat his girlfriend up?”

  Sid laughed aloud, but his laughter turned into a wheezing cough. It was several seconds before he regained control. Bill noticed a small glistening line of drool on the left side of Sidney’s chin.

  “What the hell does that matter?” Sidney took a handkerchief from his suit coat and wiped his face. “My son’s in the slammer, and I want you to get him out. I’m sure as hell not going to pay ten thousand dollars and then have him blow it by not showing up. Look—” Sid leaned closer to Bill, looming over his desk—”I don’t think I need the Portland P. D. taking care of a personal problem, if you know what I mean. What I want is for you to get my boy out of there. He and Suzie can straighten out whatever differences they might have.”

  “Where’s Suzie now?” Bill asked. “I might have to talk with her.”

  “Who the hell knows? Last I heard, she was in the emergency room at Maine Med. Got a pretty serious cut on the side of her face. Word is, she slipped and fell in the parking lot after she and my boy had their little spat.”

  Bill nodded and then glanced at his watch, noticing that it was close to the time to pick up Kip from his doctor’s appointment. “I don’t think I’ll have too much trouble getting him out, but like I said, it might be too late to do anything before Monday.”

  “I ain’t paying you so my boy can spend the weekend rotting in jail,” Sid said, scowling deeply. “I want his bail reduced, and I want him out—now!”

  Bill shrugged, wishing he didn’t feel so powerless against Sid. Maybe that was how guys like him got everything they had, by rolling right over everyone. Bill considered himself a pretty tough lawyer, but still... Sidney Wood had a way about him that was pretty hard to beat.

  “Look, if the district court judge says the bail’s good the way it is, there’s not much I can do about it. I’ll have to get the police records on what happened and all the reports on any arrests. It’s gonna take a little time to prepare the petition.”

  Sid smiled—smirked, actually, and shook his head from side to side as he exhaled thick blue smoke. “Monday’s not good enough, Bill. I want you to hump your ass over there right now and talk to the judge. Get that bail reduced to personal recognizance.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Bill said, standing up. He made a point of checking his watch. “Look, I’m running late. I’ve got an appointment in five minutes.”

  “And right after that, I expect you to head over to the courthouse and get Sidney out with no problems. Am I correct?”

  Bill did the best he could to mask his irritation. “Like I said, I’ll do what I can. I can’t make any promises.” He dropped his pad of paper—still blank—onto the desk and escorted Sid to the door. They both left the office, and Bill locked the door behind him as he went.

  At the front desk, he asked Lillian to give the police in Thornton a call and have them send over Sidney Wood Jr.’s record. Then he dashed out into the warm morning sun, leaving Sidney Wood Sr. huffing as he made his way down the flight of steps to the Commercial Street sidewalk.

  3

  “Someone’s here t’see yah,” the police sergeant called out as he unlocked the cell door and swung it open. “I’ll wait for you over there.” He indicated a chair next to the door as Bill entered the cell. The policeman slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock.

  “Fine,” Bill said, nodding, his stomach tightening. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  Sidney Wood Jr.—Woody—looked up from where he had been lying, facedown on the blue and gray striped county mattress. His thin blond hair stuck up in several places like oily flaps—”rooster tails,” Bill had called them when Kip and Marty were young. His eyes, at least the small amount that wasn’t bloodshot, had a yellow tinge, like sour-milk.

  “I hate to disturb you so early,” Bill said, hooking a chair with his foot and pulling it over so he could sit down. He wanted to keep his distance from Woody. Glancing at his watch, Bill saw that it was past noon. He had already picked up Kip, who was waiting in the car. Bill wanted to be done with this as quickly as possible.

  “You ain’t disturbin’ me none,” Woody said. He lurched into a sitting position, letting his feet hit the floor with a heavy clomp. With an angry scowl, he said, “Anything to break the boredom of this fuckin’ place.”

  Bill tried to restrain his smile. “Gee, I don’t know, Woody. I thought you were getting to like jail. From what your father tells me, you’ve been in them often enough.” Woody was silent for a moment, the scowl never leaving his face. “I didn’t do nothin’.”

  Bill refrained from pointing out that his use of a double negative could be construed as an admission of guilt, but what bothered him even more was the echo he heard of his own son, Marty, in Woody’s defiance. Sure, maybe Marty wasn’t as far down the road as Woody was, but Bill felt a stab of guilt thinking that, since Lori died, he hadn’t carried the weight of the family as well as he might have.

  “We can cut through the crap here, okay Woody?” Bill leaned his elbows onto his legs. “Your girlfriend—Suzie—is in Maine Med. with some fairly serious lacerations on her face and scalp. She’s decided to press charges, and—”

  “That lousy bitch!”

  Bill shook his head. “This isn’t going to get us anywhere. Look, my boy—”

  “I’m not your boy!” Woody snarled, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the pitted cement wall. The institutional green wall paint gave his skin a sickly white cast. Underneath it all, he looked frightened and nervous, but Bill knew he’d never let it show.

  Bill nodded. “No, you’re not my boy, and for that, I thank God. I’m here because your father asked me to do him a favor and get you out of here, but before I can do that, before I even go see the district court judge, I want to have your word that this time you’ll make it for your court appearance.”

  Woody stiffened and looked at Bill with a narrow squint.

  “You’ve been charged with aggravated assault. This isn’t something you should take too lightly, and unless you cooperate with me, you’re going to see a lot more of these bars.”

  Woody covered his mouth with his hand. His eyes darted back and forth but never locked onto Bill’s steady glare.

  “Look,” he finally said, “my old man’s got enough money to get me outta here, so why don’t you just spring me? Tell the judge and the piggies that I’ll be a good little boy from now on. Tell you what. I’ll even start going to church on Sunday. Will that satisfy ‘em?”

  Bill rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Woody, how old are you now?”

  “Twenty-two,” Woody replied, frowning.

  “Twenty-two. And do you have any idea what will happen to you if you’re convicted on this charge?”

  Woody glanced at the ceiling as if nothing mattered to him.

  “I’ll tell you what. You could end up doing some hard time in prison—and maybe not here, maybe in Warren. Do you want that?”

  Woody shrugged like he could just about care.

  “So if you don’t get your head out of your ass, someone in Warren is gonna be putting something else up there, an
d you ain’t gonna like it. Am I getting through to you?”

  A hint of fear had crept into Woody’s expression, but still he maintained his facade of not caring. “My dad’ll put up whatever money he needs to get me out of this.”

  Bill sighed and shook his head, positive he wasn’t getting through to him.

  “You’re right, Woody,” he finally said. “Your dad has the bucks to get you out, but one of the reasons he asked me to help out is so I could tell you he isn’t going to pay this time.”

  “What—? What the fuck are talking about?” Woody’s face had suddenly drained of color.

  Bill could see this slight stretching of the truth was helping, so he decided to push it a little further. “Your dad told me this morning that, if I can’t get you out on your own personal recognizance, he’d just as soon let you spend a few days or weeks here. You can see what it’s like in case you do end up in Warren.”

  “You’re full of shit. My old man would never say that.”

  Bill shrugged, pushing the chair back as he stood.

  “I’m just telling you what he told me. He lost the money he posted for your bail last time—five thousand dollars. Even for someone as rich as your dad, that’s a healthy chunk of change—a lot more than he’s paying me. So if you can’t guarantee you’ll show for the hearing and cooperate with me on every step of this, I’m not even going to try to get the judge to reduce your bail. Your father doesn’t want me to do it.”

  “You’re so full of shit your eyes are brown, you know that?” Woody snapped, his upper lip curling into a sneer.

  “Woody, my boy,” Bill said. He could see he had him, and he knew this time Woody wouldn’t say I’m not your boy. “It’s a beautiful day out there. A gorgeous June afternoon. Of course, with no windows here, how are you going to tell what kind of day it is. But do you know what I’m going to do?”

  Woody clenched his fist and pressed it against his mouth. He didn’t say a word.