Free Moonbog by Rick Hautala Page A

considered calling Shaw. Maybe the best thing to do would be to formally complain, not really press charges, but at least let Shaw know his side of the story. From the sound of Hollis’ voice, it seemed likely he was going to call the police chief.
    Marshall made a move to the phone, then stopped cold. No, he thought, it’d probably not be such a good idea. What with all Shaw was probably dealing with, the murder of the kid and all, the last thing Shaw needed was a piddling complaint like his. Marshall walked back into the living room and went over to the fireplace.
    “What’s gonna’ happen?” he asked, picking up a gilt-framed photograph and holding it at arm’s length. It was a picture, slightly out of focus and fading, of a young woman sitting on a rock by a river.
    Her legs were crossed, and her hands were folded primly on her lap. Her dress, long and full, allowed just the barest glimpse of her ankles. She was wearing a sun bonnet with the wide brim turned up, and the sun washed over her face, almost removing the details of her pale blue eyes and thin mouth. There was a picnic basket at her feet and the trailing edge of a blanket spread on the ground.
    “ You must know,” he said, looking from the picture to a spot on the ceiling and back to the picture. “If anyone does . . . if you’re . . . you’re. . . .” His voice caught and broke, and tears started to well up in his eyes. He sniffed loudly. “If you’re up there, maybe you can help me . . . figure this out.” Gently, he replaced the picture in its spot on the mantle.
    “ Why’d it have to be like this? ” he shouted suddenly. “ Why? Why? ” His tears spilled over and ran down, following the cracks in his face. “Things should have been different! They should have been different! ” He covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook violently as the emotion was released.
     
    VIII
     
    T he man stood in the darkness beneath the trees that lined the road. Behind him, he could feel the presence of the Bog, and he grew dizzy as he tilted his head back and listened to the sound of the spring peepers. The sound rose in intensity until it blended with the night . . . until it became the night.
    His breath came in short gulps, and as the darkness of the night swirled with sound, he felt himself tightening like a snake about to strike. Through the tatters of cloud overhead, he saw the moon rising in the east, over the Bog. With a sustained inhale, he started to walk.
    The night pressed close around him, swelling and pulsating with the sound of the spring peepers. And beneath that sound, he heard something else. He stopped where he was and cocked his head to one side as he listened to what he thought he heard.
    Was it a voice?
    What was it saying to him?
    Tension ripped through him as he stood, listening for a moment, then he swiftly left the side of the road and blended into the shadows under the trees.
    For long, tense seconds he stood there, his ears burning as he listened for the sound beneath the song of the peepers. Had it been in his imagination, or had he really heard someone speaking?
    A sheen of sweat soaked his face, and he peered along the road in both directions to see if anyone was there. Suddenly, two small shapes came out of the woods. The man could tell at this distance that they were boys, but he didn’t recognize them in the darkness. He crouched and listened. The boys were too far away for him to make out what they said, but finally, they parted and started down the road away from each other.
    “Don’t forget what I told you,” the boy walking toward the hidden man shouted. His voice was muffled by the night.
    “I won’t,” came the distant reply of the other. “See yah later, Eddie.”
    The man watched as Eddie stood for a moment, observing his friend leave. Eddie cupped his hands to his mouth, about to yell something further then let them drop to his side. He knew he had to get back for supper fast, but he