by Brian Hodge
Bill couldn't repress a laugh as he looked at the old man who now seemed not so much a threat as pathetic, almost laughable.
"Mr. Watson, if you don't know who I am, my name's—"
"William Howard," Watson said quickly.
"That's right, and you may also know that I'm a lawyer with a firm in Portland. I've lived in Thornton for pretty close to ten years now, and I—"
"I know who you are," Watson said, glaring at Bill with his hawkish, gleaming eyes.
"Well, let me assure you, Mr. Watson, possession is nine tenths of the law, and I've paid—quite a bit of money, in fact—for this piece of land. You can check it out with Sidney Wood if you don't believe me."
"Sidney Wood," Watson said, snickering and shaking his head with what looked like disgust. He squinted his eyes to slits and looked from Bill to Kip. "You can tell me that you paid for the land, but can you tell me who owns it?"
"Look, I don't have time for games, all right?" Bill was no longer trying to hide his exasperation. "We've got work to do, so if you'd kindly get off my property."
"Take a look around you," Watson said, lowering his voice and once again making a wide sweep with his hand. "Tell me what you see."
Bill shook his head and let air hiss between his teeth, but Kip straightened up and cast a furtive glance to his left and right. Except for the car sitting at the bottom of the curving stretch of dirt driveway, all around him was a riot of sun-dappled trees, an explosion of intense green.
"Can you tell me what you see?" Watson said, and then he snorted with laughter. "I've lived around whites long enough to know what you see. You see a quiet, natural place—a perfect spot to build your house. The trouble with you people is, you don't really see what's around you. You don't know who really owns the land."
"Please," Bill said, "spare me the Mother Nature talk, okay?"
This time it was Watson's turn to sneer and shake his head. "You think by clearing the land, by cutting down trees and building a house that you can tame the land, but you don't realize that the land belongs to—" He abruptly stopped talking and darted his glance up the sloping hill. "It belongs to someone who was here long before you whites came... even before the Indian came."
"Okay, right, sure," Bill said. He signaled to Kip. "Come on. Let's go get some lunch." Turning to Watson, he added, "And I'd appreciate it if you weren't here when we got back. Got it?"
"They're coming again. The untcigahunk are coming," Watson said simply. He spoke so softly Kip could barely make out the words, but he shivered as he followed Watson's gaze up the wooded slope.
"Up there, do you see?" Watson said, now addressing Kip because he knew he had his attention. He extended his hand and pointed with a gnarled finger toward a rotted tree stump. "You see that stump?"
Kip nodded, and even Bill glanced over his shoulder.
"You look, all right, but you don't see. What you see is sometimes wrong. That old tree stump might be something else. Watch."
Watson bent over and picked up a fist-sized rock from the driveway. After hefting it in his hand a few times, he cocked his arm back and threw the rock at the stump. He hit it squarely. The rock made a dull thump on the wood and then fell to the ground.
"It's a tree stump," Watson said.
"Of course it's a tree stump," Bill said, exasperated.
Kip exhaled slowly, unaware that he had been holding his breath.
"But it might not have been a tree stump," Watson said. His eyes were still narrowed as he looked intently at Kip. "You know, don't you, boy? You've seen 'em."
Terrified by the old Indian, Kip couldn't speak, so he just shrugged.
"You know that might have been something else—an untcigahunk, don't you?"
Bill stepped forward and clapped Kip on the shoulder. "Come on, Let's go."
Watson seemed about to move to block their passage, but as Bill and Kip started down the driveway toward the car, the old man stepped aside and watched them with an unwavering stare.
Fishing his car keys from his pocket, Bill opened the trunk and threw the chainsaw in with the other stuff. All the while he kept a wary eye on Watson, but he figured the man was... well, maybe crazy, but probably not dangerous crazy. He had already decided that he would ask around town and find out a little bit more about Watson's background. He could stop by the police station and have a little chat with Chief Parkman about the old man, maybe find out if he should be worried about him. He sure didn't want to get the house built and have that old coot snooping around. He might be dangerous.
"Come on, son. Get into the car," Bill said. "He won't be here when we get back."
Kip shook his head, unable to turn away from the old Indian, whose features were lost now in the shadows of the trees. Finally he went to the passenger's door, snapped it open, and slid onto the front seat. The car had been facing the sun most of the day, and the seat burned his back when he leaned against it. Bill got in on the driver's side and, without a word, started up the car and slipped it into gear.
"What was he talking about, Dad?" Kip asked, wishing he could shake the spooked feeling the man had given him. He rotated his shoulder where the Indian had been holding him.
His father positioned his arm on the back of the seat and was concentrating on slowly backing the car down the driveway. The car heaved and swayed over the ruts. One time it bottomed out with a loud, scraping sound.
Bill cursed softly under his breath, but Kip wasn't sure if it was because of Watson or because the car hit bottom.
"Do you know what he was talking about?" Kip asked. "What's an unt…untciga-whatever he said?"
"Never heard the word before," Bill said. "And when we get back after lunch, I hope I don't see that old fool again."
Once the car was on the road, Bill swung the steering wheel around and popped the shift out of reverse. Kip was looking back up the slope at Watson, who was still standing in the shadows, staring at them. He looked more like a hazy tree shadow than a real person.
"Who really owns the land, Mr. Howard?" the Indian shouted as loud as he could. His voice boomed from the hillside and echoed loudly, seeming to come from more than one direction.
Bill applied a little too much pressure on the gas pedal, and the car took off, its wheels spinning and spitting dirt out behind them. As they drove down Kaulback Road toward town, Kip looked back at Watson over his shoulder. He wasn't sure if it was his memory playing a trick on him or if he really could still hear the reverberation of Watson's voice, asking, "Who really owns the land?"
5
Marty didn't make it downstairs for breakfast. In fact, he didn't make it downstairs until just before noon. He'd stayed up late, listening to music, and after busting his hump mowing the grass yesterday, he felt he deserved a sleep-in.
The house was empty and quiet as he made his way slowly through the living room and into the kitchen. He picked up the note his father had left him, read it, then crumpled it up and tossed it into the waste basket.
"Two from downtown," he said when the paper bounced off the refrigerator and then dropped into the trash.
When he opened the refrigerator, nothing he saw excited him. It was too late in the day for orange juice and cereal, but there was no way his stomach was ready for a hamburger or bologna sandwich, either. Out of desperation, he uncapped the two-liter bottle of Pepsi and gulped it until his eyes and nose began to sting from the carbonation. That went a long way toward waking him up.
Smacking his lips, he slid into his chair at the kitchen table, the Pepsi bottle firmly in hand. Nothing like Pepsi to cut through the old morning mouth. Scraping the parakeet shit out of his mouth is what Marty called it.
Sunlight glanced off the kitchen table, hurting his eyes, so he shifted over to the seat Kip usually used and continued nursing the Pepsi. Already he was wondering what Al might have planned for the day. The idea of heading back out to the Indian Caves crossed his mind more than once.
Heaving a heavy sigh, Marty stood up, raked hi
s fingers through his hair, and picked up the telephone. He felt compelled to ask Al about it. They did have an agreement, after all, about not going out to the caves without the other. He dialed Al's number and waited.
On the fifth ring, just as he was about to hang up, Al's mother picked up.
"Hello?" she said. She sounded out of breath.
Caught off guard because he'd expected to hear Al's voice, Marty rubbed his eyes as he tried to concentrate. "Uh, yeah... hello, Mrs. LaBlanc. Is Al home?"
"Just a minute. Let me check," she said. The phone was filled with deadened silence as she covered it with her hand and called out for Al. Marty had a moment of panic, thinking she had sounded kind of funny talking to him, like she might be mad at him or something.
"Yeah?" Al finally said. His voice was hushed and tentative sounding as he spoke into the receiver. Marty heard the soft click as Al's mother hung up the other phone.
"Hey, how's your head feeling?" Marty asked, snickering softly. "You know, I was wondering if—"
"Jesus, Marty!" Al practically shouted into the phone.
"Huh? What?"
"Christ, whatever you do, don't come over here today—all right?"
"Wha—? What's wrong?" Marty asked. "You sound like you've got a gun to your head. Did your old lady find out about—"
"It's fuckin' Woody, man," Al hissed.
"Oh, boy." A chill ran through Marty, making him shake.
"I think he's onto us. He's been cruising up and down our street all day. 'N when he ain't cruisin', he's parked in front of Berger's house across the street, looking up at my house."
"Oh, shit," Marty said. His eyes darted around the kitchen, fully expecting to see Woody's shadow slide menacingly across the shade covering the kitchen window.
"Whatever you do, don't come over here today, okay?"
"Hell, yes," Marty replied. He cupped the phone close to his mouth, his hands slippery with sweat.
"I can't talk now," Al said in a clipped voice. "My old lady's coming up the stairs. Look, I'll give you a buzz later this afternoon."
"Okay."
"If I'm still alive this afternoon, that is," Al finished, and then the phone went dead.
Marty stood for a long moment, staring at the silent receiver in his hand. Then he slowly replaced it on the hook.
"Okay," he whispered, glancing around, making sure he was alone. "Okay. No problem. I'll stay away from Al's for a while. No sweat."
He leaned against the counter and consciously slowed his breathing.
"It's too bad, though," he said, clenching his hand in to a fist and smacking it into the cup of his other hand. "Too goddamned bad because I wanted to party this afternoon."
6
"God, it was the weirdest thing," Bill said. A chill danced up his spine when he remembered the expression he'd seen on Watson's face that afternoon. "The guy looked like he was a little out of his head. Maybe a lot."
He was sitting with Gail in a dim corner of Christopher's Greek Restaurant, waiting for their meal to arrive. Bill came here often for business lunches; he thought he might be getting addicted to the Greek pastries.
"At least he wasn't there when you went back in the afternoon," Gail said. "He was probably—I don't know. Could you smell booze on his breath?"
Bill shrugged. "I'm not sure. Maybe."
"There you go. He was just out walking in the woods, and you just happened to be there for him to vent his spleen on. Stop worrying about it."
Bill stabbed the last triangle of the spanakopita they had ordered as an appetizer. He was mad at himself for not putting this all behind him before he let it ruin their evening together. John Watson was a nutcase, plain and simple. Leave it at that. Still, there had been something about the man that had gotten under Bill's skin. Like an irritating insect bite, he thought it might get worse before it got better.
"How 'bout you?" he asked, after chewing, swallowing, and taking a sip of beer to wash it all down.
Gail looked at him with her head cocked to one side. "Since you've been living out there—"
"All of three weeks," she said.
"Yeah, well—have you ever seen him wandering around out there?"
Gail lowered her eyebrows and shook her head. "I haven't seen him or anyone else, but—"
She was about to continue but cut herself off when Rick, their waiter, brought the dinners. They each ordered another drink—Bill had another beer and Gail asked for a glass of red Retsina—and then set to sampling their own and each other's meal. After they were underway eating, though, Bill looked up at Gail inquisitively.
"You were going to say something else," he said, taking a sip of beer. "About Watson or something."
"No. Not Watson," Gail replied, averting her gaze for a moment. "I told you I hadn't seen him, but for the past week or so, I've been hearing... I don't know—something outside the house late at night. Barkley's been going ape, barking all the time out there, too, so at least I know it isn't my imagination."
"Probably skunks or raccoons, don't you think?" Bill said. "But you haven't seen anything?"
Gail took another mouthful of food and chewed thoughtfully, savoring the flood of taste as she shook her head. "Haven't seen a thing. Maybe Barkley's just freaking a little, living out in the woods. He's used to the city. I figured if it was raccoons or whatever, the trash cans would be turned over, and I haven't had any of that."
"So, what have you heard?"
Gail scrunched up her face. It might have been his imagination, but Bill was sure he saw a hint of discomfort, maybe even fear, flicker in her eyes. The candlelight at the table seemed to emphasize and harden the lines in her face.
"It just sounds like there's... I don't know, like someone's sneaking around out there. A couple of times I thought I heard, you know, some scratching sounds by the living room window, but when I looked out, there wasn't anything there."
"Scratching sounds?"
Gail nodded. "Yeah, like someone's trying to pry open the window or something."
Bill stared at the center of the candle flame for a moment, letting his thoughts rush. He wouldn't put it past someone like Woody to prowl around someone's house, peeking in windows late at night... especially an attractive, single woman. He felt a sudden wave of protectiveness for Gail but tried not to let it show. Gail struck him as the kind of woman who took pride in handling things for herself.
"Some night, you ought to turn Barkley loose. As small and quaint a town as Thornton is, you know, we have our share of weirdos. Maybe there's a prowler out your way. Barkley could scare him off. Weirder things have happened—"
As soon as he said that, his mind flashed on Lori.
Yeah... weirder things have happened, all right.
Five years ago his wife had been murdered practically right across the road from Gail's house. Even with all the county and state help thrown at him, Thornton's Police Chief hadn't found any trace of the killer. The protectiveness Bill felt for Gail blossomed into near panic when he thought...
Maybe it will happen again.
"Ahh. Barkley's a wimp." Gail laughed and waved her hand. "I think he feels guilty when he scratches his fleas."
Bill laughed along with her, but he thought her laughter sounded a little forced to be convincing. His stomach was knotted with the panicked thought that maybe there was someone prowling around out there. Maybe Watson, not Woody, was a good candidate.
Maybe...
No, the idea was crazy.
...maybe Watson had been involved somehow with Lori's death.
Gail seemed totally unaware of the rising panic he was feeling.
"When my sister was visiting," she said, "this was back when I lived in the city, she brought her cat—just a kitten at the time, and he chased Barkley under the bed and kept him there, cowering all weekend. And you don't want to see him during a thunderstorm."
"Well," Bill said, aware that his voice sounded constricted, "a raccoon or skunk is one thing, but there are other ani
mals around—fishers, for one, that are really vicious. I wouldn't want to see any dog tangle with one of them, so it's probably best that you keep him in at night."
"What's a fisher?" Gail asked.
"An animal... sort of like a weasel. Look—Gail," he said, leaning forward earnestly and gripping her hand across the table. "If you ever get really bothered or afraid out there, I mean really worried or anything, just give me a call, okay? I'll come out. No sweat."
"You're being silly," Gail said, sniffing with laughter. "It's nothing to worry about. Honest."
"Promise me, though, that you'll call if you ever need help." Bill's grip tightened on her hand almost painfully.
"Yeah... sure," she replied, looking at him questioningly; she was surprised by his intensity. "I promise."
"Good," Bill said, finally releasing her hand and turning back to his meal.
After a moment or two of silence, Gail cleared her throat and said, "Well, I got to meet Kip this afternoon. He seems like a very cool kid. Tell me a little bit about Marty."
Bill shook his head. "Marty? He's your typical teenager. No matter what I say to him, he feels it's his obligation to sneer at me. Even if I ask him to pass the butter, he frowns like I told him he has shit on his nose. I know it's just a stage, but..."
"Well," Gail said. "Like what Mark Twain or whoever it was said about parent and how much they learn between the time their kids are eighteen and twenty-five."
"Of course, losing his mother five years ago hasn't helped. I mean, it's got to be tough being a teenager these days anyway. It hasn't been easy on Marty, either, since Lori died."
"I can imagine," Gail said.
They finished their meals and had dessert and coffee, and after a while the slight awkwardness there had been between them concerning Gail's possible prowler smoothed over. But twice more before they left the restaurant, and then again when he left her at her front door, Bill reminded her to call him—no matter what time it was—if she heard any noises outside her house that might mean trouble. After kissing him on the cheek, Gail promised that she would, but as he drove away, Bill found himself wondering if she really meant it.