by Rick Hautala
“You guys are chicken-shits, you know that?” Al said.
“Com’on, Al,” Jenny said, her voice a low moan. “Come on. Don’t stop now”
“I was just putting the grass back, and something touched my arm,” Marty said.
Al lolled his head to one side, squinting at Marty but obviously not caring what was the matter with his friend’s arm. Cassie came over and crouched down, but in the dim light, she couldn’t see a thing. She also thought she had heard a sound from behind the rock, and she kept glancing nervously at the blocking stone.
“What do you think it was? I know I heard something,” Marty said.
“Come on,” Cassie whined. “Let’s go. I gotta get home.”
“Shush. Listen for just a minute, will yah?”
The cave was perfectly quiet except for their shallow breathing, but if there had been any other sounds, they weren’t repeated.
“Will you two get the fuck out of here?” Al said at last. Once again, he was part of an indistinct tangle of arms and legs in the far corner of the cave. Jenny was giggling softly as she moved her hips in a slow, steady circle.
Marty stood up, adjusted his pants, and started out of the cave. His wrist felt like someone had given him a vicious Indian burn. His pulse was throbbing in his fingers, and he was sweating, and not just from having what he and Cassie had been doing.
Together, he and Cassie stepped out into the sunlight. As soon as they left the cave, the sense of tension he’d been feeling seemed to pass. He was still a bit freaked out about whatever had snagged his wrist, but he figured it must just have been a sharp edge of the stone or something. Nothing to get freaked out about.
When he looked at Cassie and remembered how close he had been to getting her pants off, he smiled to himself. He held his hand out to her, and she took it, smiling. All around them, early evening sounds filled the woods as birds and frogs tuned up.
Pausing for a moment at the cave door, Marty called out, “Hey! We’re leaving. Catch you guys later.”
No answer came from the cave. Al and Jenny obviously wanted to be left alone. Let them do the worrying and explaining to their parents when they showed up, Marty thought. Hand in hand, he and Cassie started down the path away from the Indian Caves.
He tried not to think about what a bummer it had been not getting very far with her. Worse still, he tried not to think about what Al and Jenny were still doing back there, but there was plenty of time. He had all summer to loosen up Cassie and get what he wanted.
“You think they’ll be all right back there?” Cassie asked.
“Sure,” Marty said with a casual shrug. “Don’t worry ‘bout them.”
2
Bill was standing at the window of his law office, looking out at the heat-hazed skyline of Portland. Tankers and sailboats moved sluggishly on Casco Bay, and off in the distance, a fogbank was rolling steadily toward shore. The doorknob turned, and Lillian poked her head inside.
“Sidney Wood Junior is here to see you,” she said with a slight wrinkle of her nose. “Shall I send him right in, or make him cool his heels a while?”
Bill considered for a moment, letting his attention drift again out onto the steel-gray water of the bay.
“Tell him... Have him come on in,” he finally said. Shaking his head, he sat down at his desk. It had only been—what? Last Friday that Sidney Wood Sr. had been here, asking—no, commanding him to get his son out of jail. Now Junior was here, fresh from another stint at the Cumberland County Jail.
Junior, Bill thought, and he had to restrain himself from laughing out loud when Woody sauntered into the office, acting so cool, so in control but actually looking as nervous as a jacked deer.
“Have a seat,” Bill said, indicating the chair beside his desk. “Get comfortable. We have a lot to talk about.” Bill rested his fingers on the manila folder centered on his desk.
Woody made a low, piggish grunt as he slung himself into the chair and leaned back. He shifted one leg up, about to plant a worn boot on the desk, then apparently thought better of it and let it drop to the floor with a loud thump. Judging by the condition of Woody’s face, he had had quite a time of it down at the police station.
Bill opened the folder and took a few seconds flipping through it. Woody was probably the next to the last person on earth he wanted to be spending time with. Hands down, Woody’s father was the last.
“Well, you seem to have had a bit of difficulty. Do you want to fill me in? So far, all I’ve got is the ‘official’ side of the story.”
“Fuckin’ cops,” Woody muttered, more to the toe of his boot than to Bill. His voice had a slight drag to it from his swollen lips.
Bill waited to see if there was more coming. When there wasn’t, he cleared his throat. “Well, the assault charge from your girlfriend is going to be a tough one to beat because there were plenty of witnesses there, and you yourself admitted to punching her.”
“Suzie,” Woody said, snorting and shaking his head as if she was a distant memory.
“Yes, Miss LaBlanc. She seems to be set on pressing the charges against you. Even if she dropped them at this point, the county would pursue it. I’m fairly certain you won’t spend any time in jail for it, but it’s going to be a serious offense on your record.”
“I could give a sweet shit,” Woody said. Then, nailing Bill with an angry stare, he added, “That cunt had it comin’.”
Bill stiffened and nodded. Picking up his pen, he began doodling on a piece of scrap paper. “I don’t think it’s necessary to solve any differences between the two of you by doing what you did. But the assault on Officer Doyle is—”
“That pig-fucker,” Woody said with a snarl.
Bill noticed that the boy’s hands were clenched into tight, bloodless fists. The bruises on both sides of his head seemed to redden.
“Officer Doyle is still in a coma at Maine Med. His condition hasn’t changed since he was admitted. Now you know and I know that the cops would’ve kept you downtown if they had anything on you that would stick.”
“I didn’t fuckin’ do it,” Woody said, shrugging his shoulders and giving Bill an almost laughable look of innocence. “I ain’t sayin’ I ain’t thrilled that pig-fucker got it, but I swear I didn’t do it, all right?”
Bill let out a slow, even breath as his gaze drifted out the window for a moment. The fog bank was much closer and below the noise of the city, he could hear the low hooting of Portland Head Light.
“That man in the hospital has a wife and two kids,” Bill said, forcing his voice to stay steady, but inside he was boiling with anger. “Whoever put him there—I hope he gets nailed. Now, you’re my client, and I have a professional obligation to defend you.”
Woody shook his head as though in utter disbelief. “I told you, man—I didn’t do it. There ain’t nothin’ or nobody that saw me do anything.”
Bill covered his mouth with one hand and gently stroked his chin. His day’s worth of beard stubble made a raspy sound.
“The cops at the station—three of them, to be exact—said that on the night you were arrested, you made several very specific threats directed at Officer Doyle, the officer who arrested you down on Franklin Street.”
Woody snickered now and started shaking his head from side to side, as though Bill was a three-year-old who just wasn’t getting the message.
“I may have done that. Sure.” He gritted his teeth. “Even before he hauled my ass down to the station, he was bustin’ my balls. ‘N you can’t tell me you don’t know how it goes. Some hard-ass who’s maybe had a fight with his old lady or somethin’ has to take it out on someone. He’s got the fuckin’ gun and the fuckin’ badge, so he can drop his shit on anyone he wants to. Like me. Hey! I don’t deny it. I slapped Suzie around a little, but that don’t mean anyone has the right to bust my chops like he did.”
Bill slid a sheet of paper from the file and scanned it briefly before speaking. “But the cops down at the station said you said, and
I quote, ‘I’m gonna fry your ass, Doyle.’... Well?”
Woody ran his fingers through his long, oily hair and sighed deeply. “I might’ve said that. I dunno. I mean, they were working me over pretty good.” He held up his arm and stripped the shirtsleeve back to expose a line of purple welts on the inside of his biceps. “I didn’t get this planting tulips in the backyard, ‘n my back’s a lot worse. Wanna see?”
“Spare me, please,” Bill said as his frustration grew, “But Woody, you’ve got to admit it doesn’t look good. A few days after you’re arrested after you’ve personally threatened a cop, and then he’s found unconscious, hit from behind.”
Woody shrugged, and that irritating, smug look washed over his face again. “I swear to Christ I didn’t do it. And even if I had, there ain’t nothin’ to make it stick. Like you said, they would have kept me if they had anything.”
“Woody, let me give you a few words of advice. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, all right? You know, a lawyer isn’t anything if he isn’t a good bullshitter. And he’s nothing if he can’t tell bullshit when he hears it. I’m your lawyer; your father pays my fee either to get you out of jail or to keep you out of jail, and frankly I think you’re trying to bullshit me.”
“Mr. Howard. You gotta believe me.”
Bill could see why Woody reminded him so much of Eddie Haskell from the old Leave it to Beaver show. Pure innocence on the outside; a devil on the inside. But no matter what Woody was, Bill was so close to boiling over he was afraid of what he’d say next. He slid his chair back, got up, and walked over to the window, taking in the scenery and trying to force his nerves to untangle.
The foremost thought in his mind was to tell the “Woodies”—senior and junior—to cram it up their asses. He didn’t need or want their business or the money. Okay, so no one had seen Woody jump Doyle. So what? The kid was obviously guilty, and frankly, Bill wasn’t sure he could live with himself if he defended a person in court who could so callously attack a person from behind, put him into a coma, and not feel even a shred of remorse. It was inhuman.
“Your alibi for the time Officer Doyle is shaky at best because if, as you claim, you were out driving, there’s no way to verify that,” Bill said, addressing Woody’s reflection in the window. “And when a cop gets mugged—”
“You sayin’ you don’t believe me?” Woody asked, sounding suddenly hurt.
Bill shook his head solemnly. “What I do and do not believe has nothing to do with this. All I’m saying is, when a cop is attacked, all the other cops tend to take it just a tad more seriously than they might otherwise.”
“Then they’re all pig-fuckers.”
“That’s your opinion,” Bill said. “It’s also their opinion of you, and like it or not, they’ve got the weight of the law behind them.”
Woody stiffened slightly at that, and Bill felt a least little measure of accomplishment.
“They’re not going to let this rest,” Bill said, turning to face Woody. “They’re going to spend every minute they can tracking down any and all leads. Even though they don’t have anything now, they will. They’ll find it.”
“Or make shit up so they can nail my ass,” Woody said. His face turned several shades paler, and his bruises stood out in high relief.
“Maybe. But by asking around, they’re eventually going to find someone who remembers seeing your car in South Portland that morning. They’ll be combing that Burger King parking lot, looking for one single thread they can trace to you. One fingerprint. Anything.”
A noticeable sheen of sweat glazed Woody’s brow now, and Bill wondered how this kid would handle being on the witness stand if he was ever charged. He’d probably fold and blab the whole story in five minutes.
“But nobody saw m—whoever did it,” Woody said, and Bill detected a waver in his voice. “Like I said, I ain’t sorry it happened, but that ain’t the kind of thing I do. If someone pisses me off, I’ll get back at ‘em sure as shit. But it’ll be face to face. None of this sneaking up from behind shit.”
“Well, that’s all for now,” Bill said. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together vigorously.
Woody took the cue and stood up, wiping his hands on his thighs before reaching out and shaking hands with Bill. His grip was just as cold and clammy as Bill had expected it would be. With a quick nod, he turned and started toward the door. He was just turning the doorknob when Bill’s voice stopped him.
“You know,” Bill said, “there’s something I want to tell you before you go.”
Woody turned to stare at Bill. “‘N that is—?”
“The next time we get together to talk about your case, I don’t want any more crap from you, okay? I, for one, am not impressed by your fuck you attitude. You can keep your gutter talk for the bars or wherever you hang out. Oh. And another thing. You asked what I thought, so I’ll tell you straight out. I don’t believe for one second
that you didn’t attack Officer Doyle. If I was a betting man, I’d put a week’s salary that you did it.”
Woody gave Bill a tight, grim smile and cocked his head to one side, regarding him with a long, cool stare that looked snakelike.
“Things like that happen all the time,” Woody said, his voice low and even. “And sometimes nobody knows how or why.”
“What do you mean by that?” Bill asked as he felt suddenly cold. He had a quick memory of Lori and wondered if Woody was trying to threaten him.
“I mean exactly what I said.” Woody’s voice was lower now, steelier. “Lots of times, weird things happen, and someone gets hurt, maybe killed, and the cops never find out who did it. But I’ll tell you one thing—”
Bill had to swallow before he could get his throat to form the simple words, “What’s that?”
Woody pointed his index finger up at the ceiling, and then in a swift, vicious move, jabbed it like a knife at Bill. “If someone fucks with me, I fuck back—harder.”
With that, he swung open the door and stepped out of the office, letting the door swing shut behind him. Bill went back to his chair and sank down in it as a wave of nausea swept through him like a riptide. He suddenly felt light-headed.
What the hell did he mean by that?
He had to fight back a rush of panic. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to get up and start pacing the office or sink down into the cushion of his chair as far as he could.
Was Woody referring to what happened to Lori out at the house site five years ago? What would make Bill even think that? Was it just a subconscious connection between that unsolved case and the case of Officer Doyle, or had Woody meant to suggest he might know more than he was letting on? And what in heaven’s name could Woody know about Lori’s death?
The sudden buzzing of his phone drew his attention back, but he sat there staring at the blinking light on the intercom for several seconds before he finally snapped it on.
“Yes, Lillian. What is it?” He was surprised how tight and scared his voice sounded.
“Gail Fleischer’s on line two,” Lillian said.
Bill looked up at the window, turning over in his mind so many thoughts they blended into a single, muddy swirl.
“Tell her—uh, tell her I just stepped out of the office and will give her a buzz when I get back. Say maybe fifteen minutes, okay?”
“Anything you say,” Lillian said, and the intercom snapped off.
Bill didn’t notice the light switching off. His eyes were filmed over as he stared, long and hard, out the window at the fog bank rolling in toward Portland. It was a lot closer now.
3
The house was empty and quiet when Kip got home from school, and he was glad for that. It gave him time to think and plan. He was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking milk and chomping his way through a package of Oreos. Usually, he didn’t just sit and stuff his face like this, but today he had plenty on his mind, plenty to think about.
All week at school the kids and teachers had been coasting—all, that is, except for old Shit-h
eels. She’d never let up until the final gun. But today had been the last full day of classes. Tomorrow was just a half-day. After a final assembly and last meeting at homeroom to get their report cards, it would all be over. Then summer vacation and freedom.
And tomorrow, Kip swore he wouldn’t chicken out. He’d been thinking and planning this for too long He couldn’t remember when he had seriously started planning it. It could have been years. At least it felt that long. He’d had too many years of taking Marty’s crap. Too many years of being ignored by his father. Too many years feeling he was no better than a slug.
Five years, he thought with a sudden rush of panic. He knew that’s how long it had been. It was just so goddamned hard to admit, but it had been ever since his mom had died—
—Or been killed! his mind screamed, by—
But before he could consciously think it—as always—his mind closed down as if a black curtain dropped, and he retreated to safer thoughts, like how great it was going to be not to have to live with Marty.
“Come hell or high water,” he said aloud. A burst of snorting laughter sent milk, stinging, up into the back of his nose. He reached for a napkin from the holder on the stove and wiped his mouth and watering eyes.
Even on the way home he had thought about maybe now he should get Marty’s knife so he’d have it ready with the rest of his stuff for tomorrow, but he nixed that idea. No sense taking a chance of getting caught. Not now. That would be stupid.
Plus, he had other things on his mind besides running away. He had been planning that for so long, it was now simply a matter of doing it tomorrow.
No, there was something else...something he had been avoiding for a couple of days, now...something he really couldn’t leave hanging before he went...something he just had to check out...if he dared.
It had been—how long? He counted the days backwards on his fingers. “Tuesday, Monday, Sunday, Saturday. Saturday.”
Even with a coating of milk, his throat felt bitter and raw. Four days, now, since that dream of all those things lurking outside his bedroom window.
