As far as the pantheon of Hangwell bogeymen ranked, Boot Gundersen came in third just behind Hettie and town drunk, Hy Thurgood. I’d never heard a particular reason why Boot rounded up the top three, but I knew enough about the man that the idea of being alone with him gave me a severe case of the willies.
It’d taken time to build up courage, of course. All day long I’d puttered around. Finally, I just rushed toward the front door, hollered to Dad I was studying with James, and left, my courage still in hiding.
I pedaled up Oak Grove Road, the opposite direction I usually traveled. Dusk crawled in on dirty knees. Under other circumstances, the sleepy shades of blue shot through with magenta highlights on the horizon might’ve been pretty, but now just reminded me how stupid I was not to have set out earlier.
Everyone knew Sunday was Boot’s one day off from manning the telephone lines. What he got up to in his off hours provided ample grist for the gossip mill, and I tried to put such tales out of mind.
A mile-and-a-half down the road, I forked right onto Harrow Lane, otherwise known as the “Bad Side of Town.” Out here, in the wooded boonies, houses were scarce, the land by and large considered unfit for living. Lotta folks used the area as a dumping ground. Deep in the woods, I spotted a worn-out sofa. Boxes and pipes and sinks and all the unwanted debris of home lay scattered around it, very much like tornado fall-out.
The Santa Fe Railroad ran smack-dab down the middle of this wooded wasteland. Four times daily, the train chugged through the area, horn a’whistling, the only life willing to visit this no-man’s land. At night I always listened for the late night train, its forlorn horn crying, a soothing lullaby of sorts. A song for those still awake, telling us we’re not so alone in the night.
Although I knew a train wasn’t scheduled now, Dad taught me well and I looked both ways anyway. Then I crossed the tracks. Just down the hill a jig, not too far now, sat Boot Gundersen’s house.
Though calling it a “house” seemed mighty generous. Boot’s shack made Hettie’s abode look like the Taj Mahal. Like our house, Boot had added on over the years, his construction material clearly scavenged from the surrounding dumping grounds. His newest addition, an abandoned Dad’s Root Beer billboard, supplied a dandy, makeshift outer wall. Plywood, tin, abandoned building parts, car fenders, trash, you name it, Boot’s shack looked like a work of modern art, a bird’s nest of cast-off junk.
Contrary to his meager living means, however, Boot was well off, just swimming in money as rumor had it. He earned a mighty fine wage at the phone company, just didn’t believe in banks. What he did with his money remained one of Hangwell’s long-running mysteries, but everyone knew he could’ve afforded a fancy house up by Mr. Thomason, the banker.
But for whatever reason, Boot preferred his life as a hermit.
At the top of the hill, I hesitated. As Boot didn’t drive, I couldn’t tell if he was home. Maybe he was out in the woods tearing the throats out of opossums with his teeth, the way he gathered food, one of those tall tales I tried not to think about. After all, he rarely visited town to gather provisions.
Dusk decided not to stick around too long. Nighttime blew in like an ill wind. An owl hooted, impatient. Startled, my feet found the pedals and I coasted down the hill toward the shack.
I hopped off the bike, walked it the rest of the way in a nice and slow manner, hoping to forego a bellyful of buckshot. A lawn of weeds sprung up past my knees. Mites and other winged bugs swarmed. Not ‘till I neared did I see ol’ Queeg lounging on the warped porch. The three-legged German Shepherd’s head rose. His tongue unrolled like a red carpet. His tail dusted dirt away, cleared a path for me.
“Hey there, Queeg.” I leaned my bike against the porch. Hand out, I approached the dog. “Good boy. Good dog.” Queeg gave me a sniff, licked my hand. I scratched his head, gave him a couple good, hearty pats. While ol’ Boot seemed as cantankerous as a hung-over mule, the whole town loved his dog. A welcome sight on his rambling, hopping journeys through town, lotsa folks tossed Queeg food scraps.
Hinges squealed. The screen door ratcheted open. “Who the hell’s there? Whaddaya’ want?” Boot stomped out, eyes narrowed. “That you, Dibby Caldwell?”
I straightened, felt like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. “Um, yes sir, Mr. Gundersen. Howdy.”
“Howdy yourself.” He strolled closer, bare-chested beneath his overalls. Tufts of gray chest hair bloomed out from behind his overall straps. The splintered floor boards didn’t bother his naked feet one bit. He hooked his one thumb behind a strap, squinted up in the sky, then spat a wad of tobacco to the dirt. “I didn’t ‘spect you’d take me up on my offer, girly.” He chortled, a weathervane squeaking in the wind.
“I didn’t think I would either,” I blurted out.
That made him laugh even harder. He pulled up a knee, slapped it a good one. “World’s fulla surprises, ain’t it?”
“Reckon it is, sir.”
“Well, quit standing there, shaking in your boots, and come on in.” He stomped toward the door, slipped inside. The screen door slapped shut. I considered dragging Queeg in with me for comfort.
Inside the shack, my jaw fairly dropped. The interior appeared a far cry from the patchwork exterior. Boot kept the large front room tidy, swept, clean. A nice sofa and well lived-in recliner sat in front of a lovely, wooden coffee table. In the corner, a small gas stove, sink, and tiny round table comprised the kitchen. A large, old-timey radio provided Boot his entertainment, no television in sight. Along the back wall, hanging curtains hid two other rooms, presumably the bathroom and bedroom, neither one of which I had a hankering to visit.
Next to the recliner, a single lamp stirred the darkness. Shelves had been built into one wall, packed with photographs vying for attention. Even though Boot knew everyone in town’s business, it seemed funny how little anyone knew of his. Every bit the loner as Odie, I sorta assumed Boot didn’t have any loved ones. Or he’d outlived them all on his strict diet of orneriness.
Downright cozy and isolated, I kinda understood why Boot didn’t want to leave his shack for a bigger abode. Comfort like this couldn’t be bought.
“I like your place,” I said.
“Yep. So do we.” I hoped Boot meant Queeg and not a surprise shack-mate. I’d had my fill of shocks lately. “Sit yourself on down, Dibby Caldwell.”
I sat on the sofa, keeping to the edge.
Boot flopped down in his recliner, the cushions molded to his lean frame. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to ‘member our deal as being I’d tell you what I know about the poor lil’ Saunders boy in exchange for a favor. That about the size of it?”
“That about fits.”
“I gotta say, you’re toeing in turbulent waters with your inquiries. Got no idea why you’re doing such a thing, reckon it’s none of my business, but the whole town’s in a tizzy.” While he spoke, he gestured wildly with his hand. The tapered stump beneath his right shoulder wagged along. Frankly, it was a might bit hard to keep my eyes from it. “Yes sir, the whole town’s got their knickers in a knot!” At first I thought he’d stepped into a fit of sorts, coughing and bouncing all over his chair. But hellish laughter soon rose from the ashes, loud within the confining walls. “What a town, what a town…” He wound down, out of gas. Reflecting a spell.
“Hangwell surely is something,” I agreed. “Still, I don’t have a clue why folks are so riled up.”
“Oh, there’s lotsa reasons for that, Dibby Caldwell, lots of reasons.” He sat forward. The lamp’s light caught his eyes just so, small embers flickering in them. “Nobody in this here town likes change. They want everything the same, hunky-dory as ever. Buncha goddamn hypocrites don’t wanna think about the bad things, just sweep it all under the rug. And Hangwell’s gotta bunch of dirt to hide, yessiree.”
“That’s what I’m finding out.”
“Good! I hope to high hell you find it all out. Somebody needs to, dammit.” Boot sat back. He scratched at his ever-present five-o’clock shadow, blinked wary eyes. “Now, before we get down to business, I’d like to collect on that favor.”
I gulped, my imagination pushing me down a treacherous slope. I managed, “That’s fine.”
He sprung to his feet, bounded over toward the photograph filled shelves. On a small table beneath the shrine, he plucked a handful of flowers from a vase, a collection of poppies, peonies and sunflowers. Every much the Southern gentleman come a’courting, he lowered his head, and offered them to me. “These here are for you.”
Before things turned really ugly, I jumped to my feet. Much too young to become his kept bride, I visually plotted my escape route. My fists knotted. “Mr. Gundersen, that’s not the reason I came here. I ‘spect you got the wrong notion about—”
“What’re you yapping about? Take the goddamn flowers.” He thrust them toward me. The stems poked into my arm. Anger rippled across his face. “Take ‘em!”
I grabbed them, bundled them close to my chest, an impotent shield.
“Now follow me.” Boot turned, stomped out the front door. “Come on,” he hollered from the porch.
Glad to leave the prison of the small shack, I rushed outside. Queeg tore out in front of me, nearly tripping me up on the porch. Beside a gathering of trees Boot stood, impatiently tapping a bare foot. “You coming? Ain’t got all day. Night’ll soon be here.”
The last surviving stretch of sunlight pulled. Tree limbs wiggled crooked fingers. A gust of wind forced the trees to shake hands with one another, a pact of darkness.
Boot stepped within the woods and all but disappeared. I considered high-tailing it toward my bike, but the promise of vital information ensnared me. One step closer to putting poor Thomas Saunders’ soul to rest.
Owls hooted from all corners of the woods, an air-borne game of “Marco Polo.”
Suddenly, hair rose on the back of my neck. Chills skied down the slope of my back.
Someone else had joined us. Someone hidden in the woods, watching me. Felt it like a slap on the back. I turned, peered into the darkening woods. But I didn’t look too hard.
As they say, “Better the devil you know.” I took off after Boot, figured at least I could see him, outrun the old coot if it came down to it.
Once I entered the woods, the meager, remaining sunlight just up and went home. A heart-stopping spell of blindness froze me in place. Aided by small jags of purple light poking through the brush, my eyes got the hang of it. Ahead I spotted the tip of Boot’s cigarette, burning bright and red. I followed the tiny beacon, tracked the smoky smell down a rock-strewn path, the drop just deep enough to make for slow-going. Eventually the path flattened and opened into a circular, man-made clearing. Even the trees overhead had pealed back, inviting in the last dim light of dusk.
Boot stood in the center, his back toward me.
Behind me, something snapped. Cracked. The following silence came too abruptly, unnaturally. I whirled. Saw nothing. But I surely felt the presence of something. Human or otherwise, I couldn’t swear by. I hurried toward Boot. Chills chased me like a persistent flu bug.
In reverence, Boot fisted his hand over his belly and bowed his head. At his feet, a cross composed of two pieces of nailed together wood jutted out of the ground. A heap of small pebbles and rocks sat in front of it, a smaller version of the skull-sized rock mounds found on top of the graves in Judge Wilbur’s hanging cemetery. In red paint—blood?—the name “Richard” had been scrawled across the horizontal wood plank.
I stood next to Boot, followed his example. Folded my hands and looked down in silence.
“Go on,” he said.
I hesitated, not having the foggiest.
“Go on, put them flowers down.” Irritation crisped the edges of his voice. His arm stump gestured, just a small wag.
On my knees, I placed the flowers at the foot of the crude grave marker. Quickly, I got to my feet, uncomfortable with Boot behind me. I resettled beside Boot.
He said, “Richard. Lil’ Richie. My grandson.”
“Was he… Is he buried here?”
“Yep. Well…no. Not really. But he may as well be.”
Up on the path, leafs snapped. Footsteps approached fast. Three of them. Queeg broke into the clearing and raced toward us. He sat down next to me, lowered his head, too. Used to the ritual.
“This here’s part of what you’re looking for, Dibby Caldwell.” Boot’s stump wiggled at the marker.
“I don’t understand.”
“Course you don’t, dammit! I ain’t tole you yet. Now if you’ll gum up a minute, I’ll explain.” His voice broke a little, just a hair. A slice of the rising moon hooked into his damp eyes. He took a deep breath, let it out. Queeg seemed to mimic him, then settled into a groan. “About four months after Thomas Saunders disappeared, my grandson Richie went missing too.”
“I’m rightly sorry to hear that, Mr. Gundersen. But I’ve never heard of—”
“Course not! And don’t interrupt adults when they’re speaking!” He clucked, carried on a bit. “Some time ago, my daughter, Gretchen, went head over heels for Alvie Holmberg, a well-to-do Durham farmer. Wasn’t long after that she married him and moved to Durham. They started raising a family of their own. Their first-born, Richard, was really something, really special. I loved that boy. Loved him like he was my own son. Hell, he looked like a Gundersen more than a Holmberg, too, I always said.” He thumped his chest, jut his chin out.
“I’ll just bet he did,” I said.
“Used to bounce that boy on my knee. When he was old enough, I took him out on hunts. Course Gretchen thought him too young, but age don’t matter for certain things, if you know what I mean.”
I didn’t, not really, but nodded like I did.
“Well…it was tragedy enough when lil’ Thomas Saunders went to missing here in Hangwell. Whole town was on edge, the gossip flying left and right. I heard it all on the phone party line. And since the boy’s father, Hedrick, had gone missing just a couple months earlier, tongues were really wagging, putting together outlandish stories. I heard all of them. All of them, I tell you, Dibby Caldwell!” He placed a finger beside his nose, winked. “But, by then, I learned not to give too much consideration to nattering. You hear it day in and day out on your job, it tends to not matter any more.”
“Wish more folks would turn a deaf ear on gossip.”
“You’re damn tooting! Anyway, I didn’t give the gossip no mind. Until Richie went missing. Four months after Thomas Saunders. The law in Durham said Richie’d done run away, just like Thomas had. Same age, same situation. Now, I ain’t a big believer in coincidences, a fool’s game, you ask me.” I nodded again. “I blew my stack. Refused to believe Richie’d run away. Let me ask you this, Dibby Caldwell, how many eight year olds run away?”
I considered it. The several occasions I’d tried it, I hadn’t made it farther than the woods, home in time for supper. “Not many, I reckon.”
“You reckon right. The kiddies go sit by the crick, climb a tree. Get scared and come home. And those are the kiddies who ain’t had a happy upbringing, feel they got reason to run away. But Richie’d come from good stock. His folks gave him everything he wanted. No sir, Richie didn’t run away. Just like Thomas, someone’d killed Richie.” His voice derailed. He gulped out great sobs. Lately I’d taken to carrying around a wad of clean tissues and for good reason. I handed Boot one. He ripped it from my hand, honked into it, then finagled his arm stump into his eyes to dry them.
“Sorry ‘bout that. I know it ain’t very becoming to see a man bawl.”
“It’s alright, Mr. Gundersen. Everybody does it now and then. I reckon it proves you’re human.”
To that, Boot laughed. “For a little one, you’re wise beyond your years, Dibby Caldwell.” He cleared his throat, rattling like he’d swallowed a can of nails. “No one would believe me. About someone murdering my grandson, I mean. The Durham sheriff just laughed me out of his office. Gretchen and Alvie, Richie’s folks, were all bound up in blind faith. They overlooked the mean reality of it all, holding onto hope Richie’d come home. To this day, they still put a light on in his bedroom at night. Gretchen even turns down his sheets before turning in.”
“I’m sorry to hear—”
“Not half as sorry as me,” he spat. “My daughter refused to give Richie a proper, Christian burial. So—and I know it ain’t right and all—I put together this here lil’ memorial for Richie. Hoping he’d be invited into the gates of Heaven.”
“I’m sure he has, Mr. Gundersen.”
“Well, I believe in doubling down, Dibby Caldwell.” He turned toward me, his face drawing long as the outlying shadows. “I’m collecting on your favor. Get down on your knees.”
“What?”
Boot could turn on a dime. Just seconds before I felt a great flood of empathy for him. Now it seemed as if the Devil himself had set up camp within Boot.
“I said get down on yore knees!” I backed away. He came at me, arm outstretched. My foot rolled over a fallen limb, sent me tottering back. I hit the ground hard, my hind end absorbing most of the shock. Boot grabbed the back of my flannel shirt. With surprising strength in his one arm, he hauled me up. Wrangling me by my shirt collar, he shoved me toward Richard’s temporary gravesite.
“Get down, goddammit, down!” He shook me like a rag doll until I dropped to my knees.
In the woods, something crashed. Limbs snapped, leaves crunched. Lowered on his front limbs, flange of hair raised, Queeg growled at the sudden intruder. A shushing sound grew loud, louder.
“Let her go!”
I whirled around.
Scratched, sweaty and red-cheeked, James raced his bike into the clearing. He sliced into a semi-circle, his feet dragging him to a stop. The bike crashed to the ground as James abandoned it. One fist pulled back, he ran toward us.
“Leave her alone before I kick you into next Tuesday!” James looked like he meant it, too.
Boot let go of my shirt and straightened. A howl of laughter erupted from him, sent up toward the moon.
Cautiously, I rose to my feet. James stopped, just sorta stood there, dumbstruck. His fists still coiled, he stared at them, clearly wondering if it’d be proper to sock a laughing old man.
“Well, I’ll be dipped in shit and put on parade,” hooted Boot. “Your lil’ boyfriend here’s come to your rescue, ready to take on a one-armed marine. You—”
“Not my boyfriend,” I muttered.
“You still ain’t no match for me, sonny,” Boot continued. “Not even on my worst days! If that ain’t the damndest thing! Now I seen it all! The very idea… The best laugh I’ve had in a coon’s age. Why I never, never, ever…”
From a dire situation to one I couldn’t comprehend, I had no recourse but to listen as Boot wound on. Not to be left out of the merry proceedings, Queeg circled his owner, tail wagging, his missing back leg not setting him back a bit. No doubt the dog didn’t see Boot in a giddy, back-slapping mood often. Birds cawed and fled, afraid of the unusual beast in their midst.
Finally, Boot’s legs gave up on him, just dumped him into the dirt. He issued a bagpipe wheeze. “Sonny-boy, I wasn’t aiming to hurt your little darling…”
“Not his darling,” I said.
“I reckon I owe you my apologies, lil lady,” Boot said. “When it comes to my grandson, Richie…I just kinda slide a little to the bad side. A dark side I don’t much like, picked it up in the war, but it’s mine and I have to live with it. Sometimes…about Richie… Everything goes black…” He scratched his whiskers, looked either lost or ashamed, hard to tell. “It ain’t much of an excuse, I know, but I ‘spose I’m not all that good at one-on-one interaction with folks anymore. Since Richie’s death, I’ve kinda become a hermit, sometimes forget how to be good folks.” He held a hand up. “I surely shouldn’t have manhandled you, missy. I’m sorry. I rightly am.”
“I understand how family matters can color one’s view at times.” I grabbed Boot’s hand and tried to tug him up. He shooed my helping hand away, then managed to crawl to his feet.
Confused, James looked between us. He settled for matter over mind, what he knew best. “You…you just leave her alone, you hear me? Or I’ll…I’ll…”
The menacing storm had passed. Boot laughed again, lending James’ threats the significance of a gnat’s sneeze. Humiliated, James sunk into a cute bundle of silence.
But James cared. Inside, my heart flowered. Outside, I festered. “James…what’re you doing here, dangit? I told you I’d take care of it on my own!”
He shrugged, put on his flash again. “I was worried about you, Dibs. I found out where he lived…” He jerked his chin at Boot. “…and thought you might need help. I was right.”
“I downright handled this a bit sloppy, I reckon, but my intentions were clean.” Boot pointed toward Richie’s marker. “Dibby Caldwell, I’d muchly appreciate if you’d pray for Richie’s soul. You might say I ain’t been much of a righteous man. Done sinned with the worst of ‘em. For all I know, my praying here might not be doing a lick of good. So I figured if I could get somebody righteous, somebody good to pray, it just might ensure Richie’s arrival into Heaven.”
A pickle of a situation, to be sure. Praying didn’t come naturally to me, either. I hadn’t prayed since…well, pretty much since Mom had left. And I hardly felt good, righteous folks went around socking their enemies in the mouth, either. Still, it seemed like it might put Boot’s mind at ease and it surely couldn’t hurt. Maybe for me, too. Besides, with all the unexplainable things I’d seen in Hangwell lately, it just seemed a bit short-sighted to rule out matters of Heaven just yet.
“All you had to do was ask, Mr. Gundersen.” I got down on my knees, beckoned for James to join me. “Next time you might try a softer touch.”
Boot shrugged, a mighty peculiar gesture with only one arm.
James joined me, whispered, “I don’t know how to pray.”
I nudged him. “Shut your hole and follow me.”
Down on one hand, Boot tucked his legs beneath him, then sidled up next to us. Together the three of us folded hands, closed our eyes. Queeg anchored the other side.
“Dear God in Heaven,” I said, “please help the spirit of lil’ Richie Holmberg find safe passage into Heaven and to live a good and peaceful eternal life.” James lagged behind, occasionally repeating words and snippets. “Give his folks and Grandpa peace of mind and help them know that someday they’ll see him again. Um…I reckon that’s about it ‘cept I’d like to ask that Thomas Saunders find his way there into Heaven, too. Maybe the boys can be friends, just having fun, fishing off their cloud, and what not. So…”
Boot murmured, “Ask for Queeg to go to Heaven, too. When it’s his time.”
“Oh, and dear God, help Queeg to hob-knob it up there, too. When it’s rightly his time, of course. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Boot.
“Amen.” James fumbled his way through a variation of the sign of the cross, although I figured the only Catholic thing about him was drinking and dancing.
First to his feet, Boot said, “Thank you, Dibby. Now…I’m plum-tuckered. Let’s make our way back.”
For a plum-tuckered man, Boot made short work out of trawling up the hill. By the time we reached the shack, James couldn’t catch a lick of breath. We settled onto the sofa. As if chaperoning, Queeg hopped up between us.
“Reckon I don’t have much in the way of refreshments,” said Boot, “lessen you’d like some fish jerky. Water? Whiskey?”
All of that sounded about as appealing as an ingrown toenail. Whiskey seemed to light fire in James’ eyes, though. I answered for both of us. “No thanks, Mr. Gundersen. We’re fine.” I shot James a scowl. He looked down at his hands, a chastised school-boy. A look I liked.
“Mr. Gunderson, what’s the link between Richie and Thomas?” I asked. “Do you know who…took ‘em?”
Boot got up, quickly walked toward his display of photographs. He snatched one up and on the way back to his recliner, he dropped it into my hands. “Before we go on, I want to put a face to the name. You should know who you done prayed for. Who you’re helping to put to rest.”
The face didn’t shock me, not really. “I know this boy,” I said.
“That can’t be, just can’t.” Boot shook his head solemnly. “Richie went missing when you were just a wee lil’ lass.”
“I know that, sir. But…I saw him in a vision. He was the other boy in the Saunder’s cornfield.” Since Boot had been forthcoming with me, I returned the favor, told him about my ghostly encounters, though I framed them as dreams.
Boot reacted unexpectedly. “The Saunders. Bah!” He spat on the floor. Queeg lifted his head, appeared to give his owner a disgusted look. “You wanna know what happened to them two boys, look no farther than your next door neighbors.”
“What’s the Saunders’ connection with the missing boys?”
He tossed up an arm and stump. “I hear lots of things, Dibby Caldwell. Lots of things. Yes sir…” Boot began to fade, lost in a reverie.
“Mr. Gundersen, please!” I clapped my hands. “What can you tell me?”
“I’ll tell you one thing, missy… That ol’ Evelyn Saunders? She ain’t as innocent as she plays to be. Now, she likes everyone to think she’s a frail, not quite right in the head, poor lil’ thing who can’t take care of herself. That’s far from the mark.” Boot closed one eye, stuck out his thumb and forefinger. Taking aim, he dropped his thumb, fired an imaginary shot my way. “But I got her number alright, yes sir. Ol’ Boot knows the score. Evelyn Saunder’s a man-eating monster if there ever was one. Surely she up and did away with her husband, Hedrick. And if she was capable of that, I reckon she did away with the boys as well. Sure as my name’s Boot Gundersen, I know it for gospel.”
“Did you actually hear it, Mr. Gundersen? Did Mrs. Saunders say something over the phone?”
Boot scratched his cheek, worked his way under the chin and around to the other side. “Well…no. Can’t rightly recall that she did. But I can piece things together alright.”
“Like what?” Exasperated, I tossed my hands up. Boot’s credibility as a source slowly slipped away, his age eroding memory’s edge. James didn’t help matters, fussing and fidgeting like he had better places to go.
“For starters, everyone knows Thomas wasn’t actually Hedrick’s boy. Well…maybe not everyone. But that juicy tittle-tattle kept the phone lines burning. Of course Hedrick got around, too, if you know what I mean. Not that I put much stock into rumors, mind you, but Hedrick was having relations with…ah…that is…” Boot waffled, first time for everything. He looked at me, averted his eyes. I knew what weighed on his mind. And frankly, it surprised me I didn’t give a hang.
“I’ve heard the rumors about my mom and Hedrick Saunders, Mr. Gundersen. But that’s not relevant right now. Who was Thomas’s biological daddy?”
“I could venture some guesses, I ‘spose, but that wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors. That Saunders woman got around though, just couldn’t keep her bloomers on. Now, she was careful, I’ll say that for her. Always careful about what she said on the phone. She got a lot of calls from male admirers. A lot of ‘em. But they spoke in codes of a sort, kinda like what I heard back in the Big War. Just short nothings, mind you, howdy-do’s and the likes. None of it really of import. But I heard enough to know things weren’t right. That she was cheating on her husband with half the men in Hangwell, seemed like.”
Headed nowhere again, my frustration reared. “Did Evelyn ever come right out and fess up as to who Thomas’ father was?”
Boot thought, absentmindedly scratched at himself. “No…can’t say that she did. But from what bits and pieces I heard… I believe Hedrick found out about Thomas’s heritage, then plum went outta his mind. So Evelyn killed him and covered it up. And if you murder once…I should know…” Boot’s eyes turned dark again, scary and rooted in the past. “…it don’t take much to kill again. Mark my word, Evelyn Saunders killed the three of ‘em. One after the other. Probably accountable for all the other missing kids in Hangwell, too.”
Boot dropped me right back to the beginning again. Even though he’d lured me to his shack with the promise of big revelations, he’d only given me gossip, scraps not hearty enough for starving birds. “Mr. Gundersen, is there anything else you remember? Did the Sooter sisters have contact with Mrs. Saunders?”
“Them ol’ witches? Feh. Far as I know, outside of their library, they don’t even own a tellyphone. Communicate through smoke signals or some such hooey.”
“What about Mrs. Saunders’ men callers? You remember who they were?”
“Lessee…well, there were a lot of ‘em. Mayor Hopkins, Odie Smith, Sheriff Grigsby, Daryl Mooney down from the gas station, Rod Simonson, the pharmacist…even ol’ Hy Thurgood. Evelyn wasn’t beyond tossing the town drunk a shag, shameless as she was. And, um….well, hell, Dibby… Sorry to say your daddy called on her, too.”
Whenever my world started to ground itself (and contrary to Christopher Columbus’ findings), it had a tendency to send me sailing right off the edge again.
Sick at the disclosure of Dad’s involvement, I pitched forward, a hand over my mouth. I rose, raced out of the shack.
It all made sense now, a horrible sense that didn’t sit well. Why Dad wanted me to stay away from Evelyn Saunders. He was up to his neck in everything.
I couldn’t think, could barely see. From a distance, I heard James hollering after me. Atop my bike, I wobbled out of Boot’s yard, made it onto the dirt trail. The world spun, my stomach twisted the other way. The ground raced up and things exploded with a cone of sparks.
“Dibby!”
Head pounding, I opened my eyes, looked up into James’ worried face. I closed them again, wishing for everything to fade away.
“Dibby! Are you okay?”
That damn stupid question again…
“Go away,” I muttered. “I’m sleeping.”
Leaves scattered as James plopped down next to me. “Damn, Dibs, that was some wipe-out you took. Maybe we better get you to a doctor or something.”
At the touch of his hand, I jumped. It felt cold, nearly dead. Or maybe I was feverish.
“Say something, Dibs! You okay?”
“I just wanna be left alone!”
“No.”
“What?” My eyes popped open. James, wan-looking, stroked my forehead.
“Your old man will kill me if you’ve got, like, a concussion or something and I left you in the woods.”
I sat up. Dizzy, but doable. “I’m fine. Quit your caterwauling. And get your hand offa me.”
“You sure? I mean, I’ll call for an ambulance or something.”
“By the time it got here from Durham, I’d be six feet under. I’m okay, dang it.” I tried to stand, wobbled a bit. James grabbed me. I shrugged him off.
“Hey, just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help!” I brushed dirt from my arms, my backside. Brushed away any notion I needed help. “And you’re not off the hook yet! I’m still mad at you for coming. Don’t you ever listen? You almost ruined everything!”
“C’mon, Dibs. Seems to me I got here just in time. I don’t care how much he apologized, that old codger was going to do something to you. He was—”
“I can handle ol’ Boot. He wasn’t gonna hurt me.”
“Dammit! I just want to help you! Why don’t you—” His mouth snapped shut. For a change, he thought first, then calmed down. “Sorry. It’s just… I dunno, you’re the most frustrating girl I’ve ever met.”
“And I plan to stay that way.” Surely he didn’t mean it as complimentary, but I took it that way.
Side-by-side, we walked our bikes down the dirt road. The owls had returned in full force, keeping one another appraised of our progress.
“You know, just ‘cause Boot said your old man talked to Evelyn Saunders, doesn’t really mean he was, you know, having sex with her or anything.”
I suppose James was right. But my anger was something I intended to hold on to for a bit. Lately I’d forgiven folks too readily only to be betrayed by them all over again. Like James. And Dad. My heart could only take so much stomping on.
“I’m not passing judgment one way or another on my dad just yet. But the truth of the matter is he pretty much lied to my face. As usual. And I aim to make it stop.”
“How? You can’t change parents.”
I shrugged. “Same way I always do, I reckon. I’ll make him tell me everything.”
“Good luck with that. I can’t even talk to my old man.”
As if it’d suddenly keeled off a tree branch, an owl stopped mid-hoot. Pretty much used to the sensation by now, I still didn’t like it. Somewhere a switch had been triggered. The woods had grown unnaturally quiet.
“Back there, at Boot’s,” said James, “you asked about the Sooter sisters. You know it’s not possible for them to be Thomas Saunders’ dad, right? Right?” He grinned, thinking he was cute. He wasn’t that cute.
I swatted his shoulder. “Ow! Geez Louise, what was that for?”
“Don’t be dumb, it’s not becoming. And I betcha I know more about sex than you do.”
He stopped. I watched as his face rolled through its limited display of emotions: dumb, lecherous, befuddlement, and finally, face-sagging insecurity. He said, “Wanna find out?” But his voice squeaked, a frightened child playing at big boy games.
I just laughed. “Let’s not get side-tracked. I think there’s a couple different things going on here. There’s the unknown identity of Thomas’s scientific daddy. Then there’s the question who killed Thomas and Richie. Hedrick, too. Not to mention ol’ Hettie. My brain hurts! But I’m beginning to think there’s more than one killer.”
“Why?”
“I keep going back to the symbol Hettie showed me in Dad’s freezer. The six-pointed star. The hexagram.”
“Right. Witch stuff.”
“Yup. I think Hettie was implicating her sisters. Even Boot called ‘em witches.”
“But…why would they kill Thomas Saunders?”
“Beats the tar outta me. Human sacrifice, maybe?”
“Maybe,” said James.
Deep in the woods, something thumped. Something heavy. A second bump ground up through my boots’ soles. Bats fled their nocturnal roosts. Leathery wings whisked away. Creatures fled, trotting briskly across the ground cover. Leaves snapped, then settled. Again, all sound had bottled up, sealed with a cork. Not a chirp, buzz, caw, anything.
Faster than a forest fire, something had emptied the woods.
The air weighed heavy, muggy. A sweat drop poked out at my nose’s tip and dangled. Another ground-trembling throb knocked it off.
“What the hell’s that?” whispered James.
“Danged if I know.” I looked down, realized I’d grabbed James’ hand. Didn’t know when I did it, but it provided a bridge of comfort.
Whump…thump…thump…
From the dark of the woods, inhumanly heavy footfalls approached.
Thump…thump…
The unseen creature’s pace increased. Not quite running, but determination drove its monstrous tread toward us.
“Let’s go!” I dropped James’ hand, hopped onto my bike. The bike bobbled back and forth, bumped across the pocked road. With speed, I straightened it out. I glanced back at James, saw him struggling. “Go, James! Dammit, come on!”
“I’m trying!”
Whump, thump, thump…
The creature broke into a heavy sprint. My bike vibrated. The handlebars jack hammered in my hands. A spattering of collected rain spilled from treetops.
“I’m…coming…” James wheezed, falling farther behind.
Carelessly, blindly, I sped like mad, dipping in and out of potholes. If I hit a rock, one unlucky move, I’d go flying head first into one of the trees.
Behind us, the world’s largest door swung open, moved back and forth, back and forth on great, creaking hinges.
Reet, ret, reet, ret…
A vacuum of hot air sucked back my hair, whipped my shirt tight around my bosom.
Whumph.
The ground quit shaking.
Ahead lay the railroad tracks. The moon glowed off-white, sick. I clattered over the tracks, not slowing, hell on the tires. James followed.
Above us, something flapped. Heavy wings spread out, spanning wide enough to blot out the moon.
I didn’t want to look. But I had to. Above, a dark figure paced us—big, unimaginably big—wings whipping out, then folding back around its squat body.
The same hellish creature that had flown over us the other night. Suddenly, the beast’s identity dawned on me, a scary and impossible and all too real notion.
“James, we gotta get outta the woods!”
“Trying!”
Past the railroad tracks, we plummeted down the dirt road’s massive hill, speed to our advantage. Ahead lay one more terrifying, vulnerable patch of woods, the only way back to Oak Grove Road and blessed civilization.
I broke into the dark, blindly following the trail, navigating by gut. Tears of fear streamed back across my cheeks, then evaporated in my wind current.
Behind me, a thin knife of light snapped on. I shrieked, looked back. One handed, James fiddled with a pocket-sized flashlight, his bike drunkenly weaving. Awkwardly, he plugged the flashlight’s grip between his teeth—his big mouth finally coming in handy—and reclaimed his bike’s handlebars. The light bounced up and down, chaotic.
The beating of the creature’s wings rose, ancient, rife with stone arthritis.
Flump!
Leaves fluttered down around us, new leaves not yet ready to shed. Branches tremored. Smaller twigs dropped, a sudden hailstorm. The beast had roosted in the tree tops.
The dirt road curved right, not too much farther to the fork delivering us to Oak Grove Road.
“Faster, James! Get your arse in gear!”
“Dibby…wait…” He’d fallen behind, his voice barely audible. Maybe now he’d quit smoking. If we lived for the chance.
I cut the bike sharp, twisted. My foot jagged down into the leaves, shushing through them.
The beast leapt into the treetop next to me. Limbs cracked. Leaves rained.
Head down over his handlebars, James had given up. But his shaking hand remained up, flashlight still trying to light my way.
The monster didn’t move. Not an inch. But I knew he was up there. Felt his heavy, other-worldly presence like Santa on Christmas morning.
I sped back toward James. Stupid, sure. But even if it meant an early end to my abbreviated life, I’d have done it for anyone. Except for maybe Suzette.
“James, it’ll be alright.” Everyone’s allowed a white lie now and again. “Give me your flashlight.”
He handed it over, dropped his arm like it weighed a ton. I straddled my bike closer to the beast occupied tree and rode the beam up the tree. Other than a thick crown of leaves, I couldn’t see anything.
“Yvette! Miriam,” I hollered, not standing on proper names now. “I know it’s you! I know you’re using ol’ Stoney to get me. You’re too scared to do your dirty work yourselves, gotta use your gargoyle! Yvette, I know you’re watching through Stoney’s cement eyes. And Miriam! Are you listening through his horned ears? Well, I ain’t afraid! You hear me? You may as well come on down, Stoney!”
James looked at me like I’d gone ‘round the bend. Maybe I had, too. My brave words didn’t match at all how I felt, nothing but lies.
A large limb broke, dropped. Inches from shearing James’ arm off, it exploded on the ground. A sudden loud whoosh pulled branches up and sent leaves storming down. More limbs broke away, snapping like gunfire.
Fast as gunshot, I hightailed it back to James.
Thump, bump!
Stoney dropped to the ground.
He stood beneath the overhanging tree’s umbrella of darkness. The flashlight couldn’t catch a lick of the gargoyle other than his thick, grey legs. Of course I’d seen his clawed feet up close and personal many a time, but this was the first time they set me to shivering. One foot moved just an inch or so. The resulting crack sounded near to a dam breaking.
I got off my bike. Time to make a stand.
“You can kill me now if you want to, ladies. But it ain’t gonna do you any good. I already told my dad and the sheriff you killed Thomas Saunders. Whatever you do, it ain’t gonna save your hides from prison.”
As far as bluffs went, it was a doozy. One I felt I sold, especially since I somehow managed to stay up on my feet. Never had I felt so adult and never had I so wanted to retreat into a mother’s—who I didn’t even know—arms.
Stoney stayed still, true to his statue origins. He grunted, just one single deep-chested sound, an old dog with failing bones.
Suddenly, the beast squatted. His clawed fists dropped into view beside his thighs, then tightened into small boulders of stone. Knees bent with double cracks. Up he went, crashing through the tree’s foliage. A barrage of limbs and leaves cascaded down, his departing gift to us. Across the night sky, he diminished in size until he flit out of sight.
I nearly collapsed. James did. Just laid down his bike and flattened on his back.
“Was that…was that really the library gargoyle?”
“It surely was. The Sooter sisters’ killing machine.” I don’t know why I handled the gargoyle’s visit with such matter-of-factness. For once, I felt calm and in charge. A natural response, I suppose, after looking the impossible in the eye and living through it.
“But…why didn’t it kill us?” Balancing a fine line over hysteria, James spoke reverently up into the trees, treating it almost like a religious experience.
“That’s a mighty fine question. One I intend to get to first thing in the morn.” I strolled over toward James, toed him a couple times. “Get up. I gotta get home.”
Dazed, he sat up. “What’re you gonna do, Dibs? You can’t just go up to the sisters’ front door, knock, and say, ‘Hey, how come your gargoyle didn’t kill us last night?’”
“That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”