by S. W. Capps
“Hey, Jul,” he hollered, spying a phone booth. “I’ll be right there.” The napping camera op waved from the car, still catching up on two weeks’ lost sleep.
Stacy stepped in the booth. It was ninety degrees inside and smelled like skunk. He checked his watch—now that Katie anchored the news, she didn’t leave for work till two. He fed the machine and dialed.
“Oh…hi, sweetie.” She sounded surprised.
“I had some time between interviews, so I thought I’d call.”
“I’m glad you did.” She didn’t sound glad. “So are you and Julius all settled?”
“We’ve still got some boxes to go through, but at least the microwave’s up.”
“Yeah, I heard about all the problems.”
“Yeah.” Conversation wasn’t exactly flowing. “Listen, I need to ask something. But you’ve got to promise it stays right here.”
“Oh, God, not another crazy arson theory!”
“First off, they’re not crazy. Second…” He stopped himself, having no desire to argue again. “Look…” He took a skunk-tinged breath. “…Julius and I ran into someone the other night. At a bar. And he said things, like he knew us or something.”
“You’re a public figure, Stacy. Our viewers know all sorts of things about us. Why the other night, Larry and I—”
“The guy said he used to work at Channel 8. As a lawyer. And he talked about the fires like—”
“I knew it!”
“Just hear me out, will you?”
There was silence, followed by a dubious sigh. “What was his name?”
“Trevor Carson.” More silence.
“Never heard of him. He was probably just yanking your chain.”
“I don’t think so. When he sang the last—”
“Sang? What are you talking about?”
God, this was going to sound stupid! “He didn’t …talk about the fires exactly. He sang about them—”
“How much sleep did you get the night before you went to that bar?”
“What’s that got to—?”
“And you were drinking, right?”
Sweat gathered at the small of his back. “Look, Katie, if you’re insinuating—”
“I’m not insinuating anything. I just know when you’re tired or drunk—”
“I had one beer!”
“Well, you still might’ve heard wrong. Or misinterpreted what he said. Even if you didn’t, you need to be careful who you go striking up conversations with. There are crackpots all over Texomaland.”
“I didn’t—”
“Hold on…” He heard a voice beneath hers. “…Larry wants to talk to you.”
“Larry? What the hell’s he doing there?”
“He stopped by with the head-shots for the billboard campaign. You should see them. They look fabulous.”
“Stacy. Larry Toole.” His voice sounded more strained than usual. “I just got word. The Dexter County Sheriffs made an arrest in the McDermott’s case. There’s a two o’clock press conference in Cottonwood. I need you to meet Brannuck there.”
Stacy scribbled directions, his dementia story a memory. “On our way.”
***
“Well, if it ain’t the Great 8 twins!” Marv Bridges smiled, happy to see his old friends from Channel 8. He’d been put in charge of today’s press conference, about to deliver a bombshell.
“How are you, Marv?” Stacy and Julius climbed out of the Escort.
“Not s’good since m’buddies packed up an’ moved ta Clarion.” He paused to spit. “But I’m gettin’ by.”
Stacy and Julius smiled. “Heard you made an arrest in the McDermott’s case.” Bridges nodded, swapping chew for a Winston. “Can you give us a name?”
“Now, that’d ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?” Bridges lit his cigarette, dropping the match in the creek below. The Clear Boggy Bridge—scene of the crime—was three miles from town but felt like a thousand. Giant oaks lined both sides of the blood-red road, the old bridge a paradigm of rust.
The perfect place for a murder.
Bridges looked at Stacy. It was the first time he’d seen the kid since his blowout with Kaye. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about what she said. And though it pained him to admit it, she’d struck the nail dead center. Part of him had died with Jake. And he didn’t know if that would ever change. But, like his wife, he was beginning to miss the ‘old Marv’ something awful. His sincerity. His bad temper. Even his ability to create some good old-fashioned mischief. As smoke filled his lungs, he cut his eyes from Stacy to the bridge. A thought came—a mischievous thought.
“You two ever hear ’bout the legend a’ Clear Boggy?”
Like every good fisherman, Bridges held his line, waiting for a nibble.
“What legend?” Julius spoke up.
Bridges set the hook. “Just an ol’ yarn. Doubt we got time for it anyhow.”
“Sure we do.” Stacy glanced up the road. “The other crews aren’t even here yet.”
The undersheriff’s mind flashed back to his son’s thirteenth birthday. He and his friends were old enough for a little adventure, Jake insisted. Why couldn’t they spend the night at the old Rimshaw place? After all, the abandoned farmhouse was only a half-mile away. Kaye put her husband in charge of talking them out of it, but Marv opted for a different approach. “Ya’ll know ’bout old man Rimshaw?” He waited till they reached the door, sleeping bags in hand. “Sliced his own throat in the upstairs bedroom. Ghost still walks the place, lookin’ for his head. Have fun, fellas.”
They were home in half-an-hour.
“All right, but we gotta make this quick.” Time to reel them in. “It all happened ’round the turn a’ the century. Young girl, lived up the road a piece, got herself pregnant. Didn’t wanta shame her folks, so she kept the pregnancy a secret.”
He blew smoke, the Channel 7 news van cruising to a stop.
“Nine months pass, with nobody knowin’ a thing. Then she goes into labor. It was a stormy night, clouds swallowin’ the moon, wind blowin’ like a hurricane. ’Round midnight, she sneaks out, amind ta have the baby all by herself. Made it far as ’is ol’ bridge ’fore she collapsed. Gave birth right over there.” He pointed to an ancient oak. “That’s when she did somethin’ terrible.”
Their mouths hung like bass.
“After she had the baby, she kissed it on the forehead…” He drew on his cig, a pronounced glint in his smoke-gray eyes. “…an’ tossed it in the river.”
“Jesus!” they whispered.
“Terrible’s it was, that woulda been that. But as she started home, she heard somethin’. Real faint at first, but it got louder.” Stacy and Julius gulped. “It was the sound of a baby cryin’. Way off in the pitch-black night. Longer she listened, louder it got. When they found her the next mornin’, she was lyin’ under that tree, babblin’ like a lunatic. Spent the rest a’ her life in an institution’s what I hear.”
The crew from Channel 2 roared up in a cloud of dust. Time to go for the kill.
“Legend has it, if ya come out here on a stormy night, an’ stand in the exact middle a’ that ol’ bridge, ya can still hear the baby cryin’. Lonesome an’ low. A sad little voice lost forever on the water an’ wind.”
He shrugged, tossing his cigarette.
“Maybe that’s what drove our killer ta take the life a’ that poor little convenience store clerk. Right here in the very same spot.” Stacy and Julius looked at each other. “C’mon fellas. We got us a press conference ta go ta.”
As he walked away, he smiled—maybe there was hope for the ‘new Marv’ yet.
They crossed the bridge, joining the other crews. Billy Nemetz of the Avalon Herald was there, too, along with Diana Grimm of the Clarion Gazette, and D.A.s from Coal, Dexter, and Quintoc Counties.
Bridges waved to Ross Barton, the prosecutor in the Viola Dern trial, then began. “Thank you for joining us on short notice, folks.” The tension in the air was thicker than sorghum. “A
s you know, in February, we found the body of nineteen-year-old Shelley Plunkett under this bridge. The woman had previously been abducted from McDermott’s Convenience Store.” His eyes scanned the crowd, offering no hint of what was to come. “The Dexter County Sheriff’s Office, in cooperation with Coal and Quintoc Counties, has conducted a thorough investigation, interviewing more than thirty witnesses. The result is today’s arrest, our suspect charged with robbery, kidnapping, and first-degree murder.”
He paused to make sure everyone was listening.
“The name of the accused is Nate Shefler of Avalon, Oklahoma.”
There was a collective gasp. The people on this bridge had worked with the man, covered events just like this one with the unassuming radio jock. Shocked, but never at a loss for words, they fired off questions like guided missiles, Bridges taking them all.
As the event wound down, Brannuck rolled up in the truck. “Ya’ll better call Toole. He’s champin’ at the bit.”
Stacy excused himself. “Mobil 6 to Base.”
“What have you got?”
“They arrested Nate Shefler, Larry.”
“Are you kidding me?” Toole laughed like a madman. “I love this fucking job!”
***
As Stacy watched the ten o’clock news, Julius organized VHS tapes. He wasn’t kidding when he said he owned every Undersea World episode. The compilation rivaled his NIGHTTIME FUN collection, which now included footage of campers consorting in front of their tents and couples defiling the fifty-yard line at the local field.
“Toole re-wrote my intro again!” As Stacy popped the tab on his sixth Brown Derby, the scanner blipped, then fell silent.
“Why do you still watch, dude?” Julius shoved the last tape in place. “All it does is gets you riled.” He raised a hand, Stacy tossing him a beer. They’d moved past buzzed an hour ago and were well on their way to shit-faced.
“You know what I hate most?” Julius shrugged, grabbing his guitar. “I hate the hype. Everything we cover’s so sensationalized by the time it airs, I barely recognize it.”
Toole followed the Nate Shefler story with a murder in Wilson and a shooting in Leon. Not to be outdone, Katie detailed an assault in Hugo and a stabbing in Gainesville.
“I hate ratings!” Julius ignored him, tuning his instrument. “If it’s not blood and gore, it’s sex.” Toole returned from the break with a team coverage report on strip clubs.
“From G-strings to T-storms.” Nice segue, Larry!
Thad stood in front of a new green screen. “There’s a storm headed our way, with strong winds and a chance of rain. But don’t let that keep you from watching the end of the newscast.” He tendered his best porcelain smile. “The Great 8 News Team is giving away another trip to the Arbuckle—”
Stacy killed the TV, guitar replacing prattle. A half-hour passed, the wind getting stronger, the case of beer lighter. The phone rang at 10:50.
“Hello, Stacy.” Katie’s tone was all business.
“Whass going on?” He tossed another empty on the pile.
“I’m calling to…are you drunk?”
He didn’t appreciate the accusation—even if it was true. “We’ve got the day off tomorrow…maybe you could come up?”
“I’ll be in Oklahoma City. Larry and I are going live from the capitol.”
Larry and I? It was starting to sound like a broken record.
“I called to update you on Trevor Carson. I asked Larry—”
“You what?” He shot to his feet.
“I asked Larry if he ever—”
“I specifically asked you not to say anything.”
“I know you did. But I figured—”
“Dammit!” He kicked the pile at his feet, cans flying everywhere.
“I didn’t call to argue, Stacy. You wanted to know if Carson worked at Channel 8. I found out for you. Why does it have to be this big secret anyway?”
“I have my reasons.”
“And let me guess, you’re unwilling to share them.” When he didn’t answer, she soldiered on. “Larry said a man by that name worked in the legal department, years ago. But he was delusional. That’s why Wilhelm fired him. And no one’s seen him since.”
“I’ve seen him.”
“And heard him, too—singing about the fires, right? Think about it, Stacy. He was crazy then. He’s crazy now. Forget about him.”
Stacy wasn’t about to forget.
Despite Toole’s best efforts to discredit the man, he’d just confirmed his story.
The reporter hung up, Julius studying him. “What’s up with you two anyway?”
Stacy peered out the window. As wind rattled the glass, he turned. “What do you say we go to the bridge?”
***
It was a miracle they found the Clear Boggy at all, an even bigger miracle they weren’t arrested. Taking the Escort was Stacy’s idea— “We can monitor the CB that way!” But as they stumbled from the car, a bottle of whiskey in tow, both realized it was a bad one.
“How’d I let you talk me into this?” Julius seized the bottle, the air electric. “This is ten times worse than cow tippin’!”
“Shhhhhh.” Stacy lumbered up the road, on edge but doing his best to hide it. He knew the minute he heard Bridges’ story, he’d have to check it out, alcohol giving him the extra boost he needed. “We’re journaliss, right?”
Julius didn’t respond, his head on a swivel.
“If there’s anything to this bridge legend, we’re gonna find out.”
“Ask me, some things are better left unknown.”
“Don’t be a wuss.” Stacy took the bottle, moving past the oak.
“Better a live wuss than a dead duck!” They started to giggle, the laughter ending when they reached the bridge. It was a simple structure. In the shroud of night, it looked like a tunnel. Sinister. Foreboding. “I don’t hear nothin’. Let’s go home.”
Stacy grabbed him by the coattails. “We gotta stand in the exact middle. Thass what Bridges said.” He looked to the pit-black center. “You go firss.”
“Why the hell should I go first?”
“If I take the rear, nothing can sneak up on you.”
“That’s the dumbest thing—”
“Juss go!” Stacy pushed him, the wind blowing in fitful gusts. Their gaits grew stiffer with every step, their footfalls shorter. When they reached the center, neither knew what to do. A minute passed. They stood in darkness. Listening.
But there was no ghostly voice. No baby’s cry.
Julius snatched the bottle, relief washing over him. “Now can we—?”
Stacy shushed him again, still listening. But they heard nothing but the sound of wind, and water fifty feet below. “Well, I guess—”
Waaaaaaaa.
They looked at each other, hearts in their throats. “Dude—” The sound came again—could this really be happening? As they pondered the question, it came again, louder and longer.
Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
Julius bolted first, followed by Stacy a millisecond later, the bottle dropped in haste. They’d never been so scared in their lives! As Julius ran, Stacy passed him like a white Carl Lewis. But he tripped near the oak, Julius landing on top of him. The last time they found themselves like this, Dick Wilhelm was shooting at them.
But this was worse.
“Get off me!” Julius screamed, caught in a tangled web of arms and legs.
“You get off me!” Stacy fired back.
The cry came again—Waaaaaaaaaaaaa—the ‘ghost baby’ right on top of them!
That’s when Stacy noticed the branches. High up in the tree.
“Let’s go, dude…” Julius wiggled free. “…we gotta—” He paused to see what Stacy was looking at. Directly above, two limbs rubbed together when the wind hit just right, the wood-on-wood friction creating a perfect crying sound.
Goddammit, Marv!
They laughed for ten minutes, each claiming the other was more frightened than he was. Unf
ortunately, the adrenaline stole their buzz. But they still had half a bottle of whiskey, if they could just find it. Stacy walked back to the bridge, Julius joining him. In the absence of light, searching was difficult. But Julius—used to seeing the world through a black-and-white viewfinder—made short work of it.
“There, dude.”
Stacy picked it up, unscrewing the cap. The wind had died some. They heard water chuckling below. “Well…” He offered Julius a drink. “…now we know.”
“Not sure knowin’ was worth it.” The cameraman sipped.
“It’s always worth it.” Stacy leaned against the rail, eyes far away. Hundreds of questions swirled, one pressing. “What do you think Carson was trying to tell us?”
Julius shrugged, handing the bottle back. “Who knows? Dude was crazy.”
“I don’t think so, Jul.” He took a swig. “I think he knows who the Torch is.”
“Come on, Stace. You sayin’ some drunk in a two-bit shitkicker bar knows more than your buddy, Maghee?”
“I think he knows something.” Julius reclaimed the bottle. “Maghee thinks the Torch could be an ex-employee, right?” As the man drank, Stacy searched the darkness. He’d considered this axiom before, but he’d always talked himself out of it. “What if it’s a current employee?”
Julius nearly choked. “Are you nuts?”
“Carson said, ‘Look within.’ Remember?”
“Dude said lotsa things…or sang ’em anyway. That don’t make ’em true.” He looked away, shaking his head, then floated an idea of his own. “Fine…you want theories? What if Carson’s the Torch?” Stacy had thought of that. “I mean, dude fits the profile. Male. Loner. Feels like the world—or at least Channel 8—screwed him.”
“He fits the profile. But he didn’t do it.”
Julius frowned. “If you ask me, we ain’t gettin’ paid enough to worry ’bout it.”
Stacy couldn’t argue, but he had another question. The one that kept him up at night. The one he’d been afraid to ask—until now. “What if Larry Toole’s the Torch?”