by Rick Hautala
For a split second, his mind went blank as he sailed over the front of the bike, was air-borne for a moment or two, and then landed face down in the gravel by the side of road. His knees and the palms of his hands stung as they scraped the ground, and the left side of his face clammed against a large stone. Bright pinpoints of light spun like sparklers across his field of vision, and a high- pitched ringing sound filled his head.
Panic and pain filled Kip as he scrambled to his feet and turned, fully expecting to see the dog with gleaming teeth spring for his throat, but all he saw was a yellow flash of tail as the dog darted off into the woods in response to a shrill whistle. His bike tumbled end over end but was finally stopped by the embankment of brush between the road and the river. Kip stared at it and frowned, too stunned to react. Then, wincing with pain, he looked at his skinned hands. The side of his head was throbbing, but when he put his hand to it, he didn’t see any blood.
“Hey! Boy!” a voice called out from behind him.
In the confusion of the accident, Kip had forgotten about Watson. Looking around now, he saw the old Indian who had stopped at the edge of the road and was waving frantically to him. “Jesus, boy. You all right?”
Kip ignored him for a moment as he rolled up his pants leg and look at his leg. The torn denim and his sock were soaked with foamy saliva, but there wasn’t any blood—not from a dog bite, anyway. His hands and knees were another story. Already he could feel the burning sting spreading across his broken skin.
“Boy! I asked if you was okay.” Watson still hadn’t moved from his front lawn. He just stood there with both hands extended. He reminded Kip of someone checking to see if it was raining.
Trying his best to ignore Watson, Kip walked over to his bike and dragged it from the brush. The front wheel was bent, but it still spun around enough, anyway, so he could ride it home. The chain guard had snapped loose, and there were numerous fresh scrapes and dents on the frame and fenders, but overall, it didn’t look too bad considering. The pain of his cuts and scrapes was soon replaced by deeper aches and something worse. Embarrassment... Embarrassment that anyone, even someone like Old Man Watson, had seen what had happened.
“Come on, boy!” Watson shouted, and when Kip finally looked around at him, the old man started across the road toward him. In the shade of the overhanging pines, he looked more shadow than substance. Once again, Kip was filled with a rush of irrational fear.
“You hurt bad?” Watson asked, drawing closer. “Come on up t’ the house and lemme wash them cuts.”
The embarrassment Kip was feeling mixed with fear grew stronger. Shaking his head numbly, he swung his leg over the bike, gave the handlebars a test shake, and then started to pedal away. The broken chain guard got in the way, though, and stopped him. Cursing softly and casting a wary glance back at Watson, Kip leaned down, tore the chain guard free, and tossed it off into the brush.
“What’s the matter, son?” Watson said. Kip looked at him. He was close enough now so Kip could see the deeply carved lines in his ancient face. There was an eagle-sharp gleam in his eyes. “Can’t you speak?”
Kip licked his lips and tried to say something, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.
“I saw that dog coming ‘n tried to warn yah,” Watson said. He stopped a little more than arm’s length away from Kip. “That guy comes here a lot. Got a little spot down by the river where he likes to go skinny-dipping. I stumbled on to him and his dog one day down there. Friggin’ dog just ‘bout took a chunk outta my hide. You’re bleedin’. Com’on up t’ the house, ‘n we can clean that up.”
Kip shook his head sharply from side to side. “No— I, uh—I’ve gotta get home. My father’s waiting for me.”
Watson took a single step closer, and Kip’s stomach tensed so much he thought he was going to throw up.
Get away from me, he thought, almost laughing in his nervousness. Here come the cookies.
Kip was frantically nodding his head as he spun back his bike pedal, getting it into position for a fast takeoff.
“I’ve been wantin’ to talk to you ‘n your dad anyway ‘bout that property you’re buildin’ on out on Kaulback Road. There’s something I gotta tell yah before he starts digging—”
“I really gotta go,” Kip said, his voice almost breaking.
He lunged forward, putting his full weight on the pedal. His back tire scuffed on the sandy road, and the bent front tire scraped against the front wheel fork, causing a competing drag. In spite of the pain shooting through his body, Kip put everything he had into getting away from that crazy old Indian as fast as he could. But no matter how fast he got going, Kip thought it would never be fast enough. As he picked up speed, he cringed, expecting to feel an iron hand clamp down on him from behind.
“I mean it, boy,” Watson called out. “I’ve gotta talk to your father. Tell him to give me a call. It’s important.”
Wind whistled in Kip’s ears, and he was grateful that the singing sound of his tires on the road drowned out whatever else Watson yelled. Kip’s knees creaked, and his sweaty grip on the handlebars stung, but he didn’t ease up as he raced down River Road to home. Even as he rounded the bend to pick up speed on the down slope, he thought he could still hear Watson shouting behind him. Only much later did it strike him as almost funny that he had been planning to lie to his father about having a problem with his bike so he could get a ride to school tomorrow.
2
Bill had just picked up the phone in the living room when he heard the kitchen door open and slam shut. “Just a second,” he said into the phone. “That you Kip?” he called out, cupping the receiver with one hand.
“Yeah” came a voice from the kitchen followed by the sound of running water.
“Yeah, hello,” Bill said into the phone, but as he spoke, his eyes were fixed on the closed kitchen door. There had been something odd about Kip’s tone of voice. “Howard,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“This is Sid Wood.”
“Yes, Mr. Wood. What can I do for you?” Bill said as he loosened his tie. If there was a last person on earth Bill wanted to hear from, Sidney Wood was it. Bill eased down into the easy chair, trying to anticipate why Sid had called. He knew Sidney wouldn’t waste any time on small talk.
“You got my boy out of the slammer, Howard, and I ‘preciate that.” Sid’s voice sounded gruff from too many years in cigar smoke-filled rooms. “But a bit of a glitch seems to have come up.”
Bill furrowed his brow. From the kitchen, the sound of running water stopped, and slow, shuffling footsteps approached the closed door.
“Well,” Sid said, drawing out the word, almost giving it two syllables, “the cops have asked my boy to come back down to the station. They say they want him for some more questioning.”
“What happened?” Bill asked. He slid open the desk drawer of the telephone stand, took out a legal pad, and then drew a pen from his shirt pocket.
“Bob Doyle, Portland’s own Officer Friendly, got blind-sided with a tire iron on his way home from work yesterday. Since he was the arresting officer who took Junior in on Thursday night, they thought he might have some idea who’d do a nasty thing like that.”
Bill let out a thin stream of air. For the first time in a long time, he wished he hadn’t quit smoking all those years ago. “How is he?” Bill asked. “The cop, I mean. He hurt bad?”
It was Sidney’s turn to let out a sigh. “Whoever hit him, hit him pretty hard. He’s got a broken neck, and there’s talk he might be paralyzed, ‘though it’s too early to tell.”
“Jesus,” Bill muttered, wishing even more for a cigarette.
“’Course, you ’n I both know my boy would never do something like that.”
“Sure we do,” Bill replied, fairly sure Sidney would never catch the note of sarcasm. “Have you got any more of the facts? Any details?”
Sidney roared with a phlegmy cough which helped dispel Bill’s desire for a cigarette and then said
, “It ain’t my job to get the facts; it’s yours. If my boy’s in jail, I want him out.”
“Can you tell me where your son was when the policeman was beaten up?” Bill said, trying to sound as placatory as possible. “Could he have been anywhere near where this happened, or does he have a solid alibi?”
“All I know is they hauled him in,” Sidney said. “He was at a bar where he hangs out. I dunno. Maybe he was there all day.”
“He couldn’t have been drinking. Not before noon on a Sunday, anyway. Bars have to be closed. Were there any witnesses who placed your son there? Other than the circumstantial evidence that your son’s arresting officer has been beaten up, is there anything connecting him to the incident?”
“Listen, Howard. You’re the goddamned lawyer,” Sidney snarled. “I want you to get his ass out of jail. We can pretend this is all on the up and up, and them cops just wanted to have a friendly little chat. But you and I know what could happen down there. A cop gets hurt, the other cops take it real personal. If they bring my boy into the station, who’s to say they won’t—you know— manufacture a little scuffle. They call it resisting arrest, and the cops have carte blanc to beat the shit out of him.”
Bill almost chuckled at the thought, but his smile froze when the kitchen door slowly opened, and Kip stuck his head into the living room. His forehead had a bruise the color of midnight, and he was holding a damp cloth that was pink with saturated blood. His shirt and pants were filthy, and one pant leg had a hunk missing.
“What happened to you?” he said, forgetting for a moment that he was talking to Sidney. “No, not you, Sidney. My son just came home.”
“I don’t really give a crap about your kid,” Sidney said. “I want you to make sure my boy doesn’t get into any more trouble. Christ! He isn’t out on bail more than twenty-four hours, and he’s already back at the police station.”
It took a lot of effort for Bill not to suggest that, maybe…just maybe Sidney’s son deserved to be there. If he gave him much more grief, he just might tell him to take his money and his influence and stuff them some-place warm and dark.
Kip leaned against the living room wall and let the kitchen door swing slowly shut. He cast a long look at his sneakers and shook his head sadly from side to side.
“I have to go, Sidney,” Bill said. He was trying to keep his mind on Sidney’s business, but the sight of his son bloodied and bruised unnerved him. “I’ll give a call down to the Portland police and find out what’s going on. Believe me, your son won’t be held in jail wrongfully.”
“Goddamned right, he won’t,” Sidney snapped. “I ain’t paying you to sit on your ass.”
Bill refrained from mentioning that, at least so far, Sidney hadn’t paid him a penny. “I’ll call them as soon as we hang up. If there’s any news, I’ll buzz you right back.”
“Fine,” Sidney said and hung up without another word. The line went dead, and Bill cradled the phone.
He stood up and walked over to Kip. “What the heck happened?”
Kip flushed with embarrassment and couldn’t make eye contact with his father. He shuffled his feet back and forth, but the pain of his bruised knees made his wince.
“I had a little accident on the way home from school,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You didn’t get into a fight, did you?” Bill asked.
Kip shook his head. “No...I was just stupid, I guess. I fell off my bike.”
He hobbled over to the couch and sat down, letting the towel trail to the floor beside him. In as few words as necessary, he told his dad everything about what had happened—everything, that is, except that John Watson had been there and had seen it all. That he would just as soon keep to himself. While riding home, he had pondered what Watson had said. He had seemed desperate to talk with him and his father, but Kip didn’t think it likely the old Indian would call.
Still, he wondered what could have been so urgent. In all the years they had lived in Thornton, Watson had never said anything more than a grunted greeting when they passed him on the street. Why did he seem so eager, so frantic now to talk to them?
No, Kip decided, it was best just to leave Watson out of this. All his dad needed to know about was the dog and his graceful swan dive over his handlebars. When he finished, he finally had the courage to look directly at his father.
“I don’t know what to say, Kip,” his father said, barely repressing a smile. “Maybe if you can identify the dog, we could talk to the owner. The town does have a leash law.”
His father’s concern let him know that, in spite of the torn pants, broken bike, and—Bill could see, now, upon examination—relatively minor scrapes and bruises, everything would be okay.
Kip smiled and promised his father he’d keep his eye open for that dog and take a piece out of its tail if he ever got the chance. Bill laughed and scruffed Kip’s hair, but all too soon the moment passed, and he remembered that he had to call the Portland police
3
“Not so fuckin’ tough now, are yah?” a voice snarled. Woody’s face was pressed between two bars of the jail cell, and his arms were pinioned behind him, held by handcuffs. Whoever was speaking was also holding Woody’s bound wrists and jerking them up and down like a rusty pump handle.
“I tole yah where I was,” Woody said, his voice raspy and broken. “I wasn’t anywhere near South Portland yesterday morning.” The insides of his cheeks were bleeding, and the copper taste of blood filled his mouth. If his hands had been free, he would have checked to see if any teeth were loose. It sure felt like one or two might have loosened.
“Hmmm. Well, we don’t happen to believe you,” the voice said evenly. For emphasis, the person holding him gave Woody’s hands another quick upward jerk.
Pain shot up his shoulders like an electric jolt. He almost cried out, but he clamped his jaws together and closed his eyes so tightly he saw pinwheels of inward-turning light.
“If you—ahh! If you don’t believe me, talk to Suzie, my girl friend. She’s—ahh, fuck!”
Something cracked in his right shoulder as the policeman pulled up on his cuffed hands. The pain felt like a dentist’s drill the size of a baseball bat was biting into his spine and slamming into the back of his skull.
“You’re a lying sack of shit, Sidney, you know that?” Arm-wrencher said. “Suzie would say anything you told her to say ‘cause she doesn’t want a matching set of scars.”
“Listen, Sidney,” another voice said, this one calmer and milder, almost friendly except for the undercurrent of disgust. “We might not have proof you did it, but we heard what you said to Doyle the night he brought you in.”
“Oh, yeah?” Woody said. “And what was that?”
“Burn his ass, was how you put it,” Arm-wrencher said with a snarl.
“I would’ve if I—ahh!—if I’d gotten the chance. Fuck! That fuckin’ hurts!”
“Officer Doyle’s a good family man,” Calm Voice said. “Got a wife and two kids. Been on the force more than ten years. Someone clipped him from behind, and we know it was you. So why not come clean? Admit it so we can stop this little workout session.”
“Fuck off,” Woody snarled. He tried to turn around to see who was behind him, but Armrencher gave his arms another sharp jerk up.
“You enjoying this?” Calm Voice asked.
Woody had seen enough police shows to know what they were doing. It was called a “Mutt and Jeff” routine. Good cop, bad cop. One of them is mean as hell while the other approaches him like a friend, a pal who doesn’t want to see him take any more shit. That was supposed to relax his guard so he’d admit to clipping Doyle, but there was no fucking way it was going to happen to him. No-sir-ee, Jack.
“Officer Doyle’s in a coma at Maine Med. Critical condition, Sidney,” Calm Voice said. “He’s got a fractured skull and a severe concussion. There’s also been severe damage to his upper spine. The doctor says there’s a chance of brain damage—if he ever wakes up.”
<
br /> “He had brain damage long before—” he caught himself before he said I “—before he got beat up. I wish I had done it ‘cause it would’ve felt good, burning his ass. He fucked me up good when he picked me up on Thursday and I—ahh! Jesus!”
“What Doyle did to you last weekend’s gonna feel like a fuckin’ Sunday school picnic when we get through with you,” Arm-wrencher said.
Woody tried to turn around again. He wanted to see his faceless tormentors, but a firm hand smashed his face against the bars. “You ain’t got nothin’ on me that’ll stick,” Woody said, his voice distorted by the pressure of the bars against his cheeks. “I know my fuckin’ rights, and you gotta charge me if you’re gonna hold me here.”
“We may just snuff you here,” Arm-wrencher said. “It wouldn’t be the first time a punk like you took a dive while visiting us. All we gotta say is you were ‘resisting arrest.’”
“Up yours,” Woody said, and he couldn’t believe it when the pressure was released from his arms. He sagged against the bars and was just about to turn around when Arm-wrencher grabbed him by the belt and spun him around. Woody spun right into a fist that hit him like he’d smashed into a wall. Blackness took him down as he dropped to the cold cement floor.
When he regained consciousness, he was lying on clean sheets on a jail cell cot. His face and hands burned from cuts and bruises, and his shoulders felt like they would never move right in their sockets again. The inside of his mouth felt like most of it had died. It tasted that way, anyway. He swam up to awareness like a diver who has run out of air too many feet below the surface and has already given up hope of ever re-surfacing. It hurt his cracked lips to do so, but he groaned as he opened his eyes to a slitted squint.
“You had quite a fall there, Mr. Wood,” said the smiling policeman who was standing at the foot of his bed.
