Murder by Moonlight Read online

  It’s like the Evil family reunion.

  Maxwell Okey jumps toward Christopher as the now-free-on-bail suspect makes it down the steps to the basement. The big man hugs Christopher, kisses him on the neck. It’s all very Italian touchy-feely.

  Behind Chris is Erin, looking beautiful, young, and chilled in her blue parka and wool skullcap. She and Chris are holding hands as though newly engaged and the world is their oyster for the eating. He’s wearing a navy peacoat and a blue wool cap. He looks healthy and happy. It’s almost like Okey has just run into them at the shopping mall, not inside some rank basement in the woods where two human beings, me included, are about to be slaughtered.

  “Thought you’d never get here, son,” Okey exclaims.

  “Sorry Mr. O.,” Chris apologizes. “We hoofed it from Mom’s house. Gee whiz but I’ve spent too much time away from these woods.” He inhales a deep, satisfied breath of basement air, like we’re not surrounded by damp, moldy cinderblock walls but a stand of tall pines.

  “Well, this is all unexpected. But your new friends here were becoming far too involved in our business. Far too close for comfort. So I decided it was time to do something about them.”

  Chris peers over Okey’s shoulder, spots Doc Robinson.

  I can tell the moment is awkward. More than awkward. Like two ex-lovers meeting up in the same basement for the first time since the dreaded breakup.

  “Glad to hear about the bail, Chris,” Robinson says, pulling a ChapStick from the pocket of his pants, under the apron. He nervously runs the ChapStick over thin lips. When he’s done, he stares down at the now used-up wax stick and discards it on the dirt floor.

  “I certainly appreciate all you’ve done, Dr. Robinson.” A bloated pause. “You know that, don’t you…Dr. Robinson?”

  Erin’s face grows tight. I can tell she’s really squeezing Chris’s hand. Okey is chewing on his upper lip. A viral quiet seems to take over the place. Until Okey says, “Well, why don’t we get down to business and see if we can’t show Chris and Erin a thing or two. In the name of tradition. In the name of the Great Society and Bethlehem, and all those who have passed before us these past three hundred years. What say, shall we get started?”

  Everyone’s eyes light up like we’re about to open Christmas presents.

  That’s when Okey pulls a fireman’s axe off the wall under the staircase.

  I didn’t notice it at first. I was in too much pain to notice it. But the basement’s dirt floor also doubles as a boneyard. All lengths and shapes of dull white bones sticking up out of the earth. There are skulls, too. I recognize the skulls. They’re not human. They’re dog skulls. Some cat skulls added to the mix, also. Maybe the occasional rodent, like a beaver.

  But not far from those are some skulls that I don’t recognize. Some other kind of animals altogether. Maybe deer. All I know is they’re not human.

  There are sea-green surgeon’s aprons and masks hanging by sixpenny nails driven into the concrete-block walls. Besides those hang heavy-duty, black, rubber gloves. The kind that go all the way up to your elbow. The kind that someone might wear if working with barrels of acid.

  The aprons are stenciled with green and pink Pet Sounds Veterinary logos. Lying in a heap below the surgical garments is a collection of small, black, vinyl body bags. Bags that would fit the corpses of animals, as opposed to humans. I realize then that Doc Robinson and maybe Chris have been stealing from the workplace. Stealing the cadavers of animals they put to sleep. Or maybe they bag the animals prior to putting them asleep, that is, if the owner has no interest in being there for the death ceremony. Or maybe they’ve figured out a way to make it seem like they are dead, but not entirely dead yet. That way they’d be able to cart them out to the Boy Scout camp in the woods with no one being suspicious of their motives. They’d be able to slaughter the animals down here or up in the loft or in the kitchen or who the fuck knows where. For fun or ceremony or the devil.

  The devil sounds more like it.

  Ferrance is alive.

  I know this because he starts to moan when Doc Robinson grabs hold of him by the legs, shifts his limp body into the middle of the basement floor. I’m also guessing the reporter is somewhat conscious of what’s happening all around him in this hellhole.

  Ferrance is naked.

  He has begun to shiver. He tries to move his arms and legs, but he just can’t. If I could move them for him, I would. But I’m lying on the dirt floor, on my side, paralyzed. I can’t move my own body, much less help him move his.

  Taking hold of one of the long lengths of chain, Robinson wraps it around Ferrance’s right ankle.

  “That’s it,” Maxwell encourages. “Just like I taught you. Make it tight.”

  The vet takes hold of the remaining length and wraps that tightly around the other ankle. That leaves maybe six or seven feet of chain, which Robinson hands back to Maxwell, who secures it to a black metal hook that dangles from thinner chain coming from a block and tackle.

  Then, pumping the block with the attached handle, the chain quickly goes taut. Ferrance’s legs rise up toward the rafter while his torso, shoulders, arms, and head begin to drag along the hard-packed dirt floor, until they, too, are hanging upside down from the rafter. From where I lie on my side, motionless, I see his eyes go from closed to open to wide open. I see his mouth moving under the duct tape. I hear him trying to scream. But there’s no sound. I see him spread his arms out, like a bird spreading its wings. I see him claw at the dirt floor with his fingers. The sound of the clawing fills my ears. It makes me shiver like his fingernails are being dragged down the length of a chalkboard.

  “This is precisely how I would have chosen to handle circumstances with Mom and Dad, Christopher,” Okey says while he works. “You know I’m a stickler for doing things the right way, the way that’s been passed down for generations. The way our forefathers did it while they were founding Bethlehem. But I also know how important it was to you that it all happen in their beds. I know it had to look like a break-in or an assassination. So you could get your money.”

  “So the Great Society could get the money, too, Mr. O.! And you, too.”

  “Yes, yes, Chris. That gesture was appreciated.” Shaking his head, disgusted. “But I shouldn’t have allowed it. Now look what’s happened! You’re suspected in a murder you didn’t actually commit with your own hands, and your mother is still alive. Christ, I even had to lie to the cops, mouth off about seeing your Jeep outside the house on the night of the killing. I had to make it all look good and believable, not only for the cops but for our boy Moonlight here. No, I should have insisted things be done the right way, the way the Great Society has been doing them for so many centuries. Steal them away in the night and bring them here. It would have been easier and cleaner if they’d simply gone missing. Forever.”

  “Maybe so, Mr. O. But it was my choice,” Chris says. “That’s how it had to be. In their bed. I take full responsibility for it. The money is important for my future, for my life. It’s the money Dad has always owed me, the money he cheated his whole family out of for so many years. And believe me, Mr. O., I haven’t forgotten. When the time comes, the Great Society will get what I promised.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t do better for you, Chris,” Robinson chimes in. “Really sorry. I feel like this is all my fault.”

  “You did the best you could do, Doc,” he says, his blue eyes now glued to the vet. “Hell, I was there, too! Anyone would’ve thought they were dead when we left. It was your first time, so I understand. And it’s still going to be OK. She was totally out of her mind afterward; it’s true, she really has no recollection of the event. None whatsoever. She just loves me. Believes in me. It’s why she hired Moonlight. I’m still her baby, you know. Her innocent baby.”

  Robinson bows his head, nods. I know then without a doubt that Chris was present and accounted for when his parents were attacked with a fireman’s axe, but that he was not alone. And maybe he didn’t ac
tually swing the axe, but he might as well have.

  “I appreciate those kind words, Chris,” Robinson offers. “You know how I feel about you. That I would do anything for you, even if it meant taking that axe to your mother, your father. When it happened that night, I was so excited for you and for us. But I was also scared as hell. And when finally, I got sick…” Shaking his head. “It was just…just…too damned much blood, you know. I just…” Pausing again. “I just never expected it to be like that. The blood, the wounds, the sounds of the dying. I just never expected…” Picking up his head, painting on a smile of confidence. “I’m working on things now. Accepting how things have to be if I’m to be one of the people, one of the Great Society.”

  “I can see that, Doctor,” Chris says. “I’m going to work on things, too. Soon as I can get beyond this legal mess. Soon as I’m really free and we have the money. We will all belong to the GS Erin, too.” Turning, Chris plants a kiss on Erin’s mouth. As he does so, Robinson looks away, as if it pains him to watch the young couple.

  Maxwell gives the block and tackle handle one more crank until Ferrance is dangling a good six inches off the floor, upside down. He then lets go of the handle, turns, and approaches a dark part of the basement beneath the wooden staircase. When he comes back with the axe gripped in both his hands, Robinson’s face lights up.

  “And the scoutmaster says?” Maxwell sings.

  Chris comes to attention, big smile plastered on his face. He brings his right hand to his forehead and issues Okey a three-fingered salute. “Eagle Scout Christopher Parker reporting for duty, sir!”

  Robinson issues the same, at-attention, three-fingered salute. “Eagle Scout Robinson reporting for duty, sir!”

  “Eagle Scout Robinson.” Okey smiles. “You’ve been chosen to perform this afternoon’s honors, on behalf of our Bethlehem forefathers and the Great Society.”

  Robinson lowers his hand, reaches into his pocket, pulls out a fresh ChapStick. Breaking the plastic seal, he tosses the small piece of translucent plastic to the dirt floor. It hits me then, almost as hard as those stair treads did when Okey tossed me down the steps: that little bit of red and clear plastic is identical to the plastic I picked up behind the toilet in the Parkers’ upstairs bathroom. The piece of plastic that got mixed in with the chunk of puke that must have come from Robinson’s guts once he started in on Christopher’s parents with the axe.

  I have no idea what the “Great Society” is, or what it stands for, or how long it’s been around. But I know that it’s evil, and you must kill to be in it. Doc Robinson experienced his first human kill on the night of September 15th, and he must have done it not just for the warped Society but also out of blind love for, if not obsession with, Christopher.

  Okey hands Robinson the fireman’s axe. It’s a new axe, straight from the local Home Depot, the finish on the handle glossy, the combination axe head/claw tool identical to one a fireman might use to break down a door on a burning building. The top half of the axe head is painted bright red—fire engine red—while the lower half is exposed steel. It looks very sharp and machine-tooled.

  The axe looks heavy in Robinson’s small hands. But you can tell he knows how to grip it, that all his years of Eagle Scout training in the woods have prepared him for this, that all his hours killing animals have honed his psycho-killer talents. What he’s about to do must be some kind of penance or Society ceremony to free him of his guilt in botching the hatchet job he did on the Parkers. This is his chance to do the same kind of job on Ferrance and, no doubt, on me, and prove that he won’t get sick. Prove that he’s capable of performing a ritual bloodletting without it getting to his sensitive nerves. That he is worthy of admittance into the Bethlehem Great Society.

  Ferrance is squirming where he hangs upside down off the beam. He’s squirming and screaming a muted mix of shrieks and words into the duct tape. His eyes are wide and milky and full of fear. When his bowels let go I feel my own tears press against the backs of my eyes. My heart pounds inside my throat. My lungs feel like they’ve been robbed of all breath, the empty space filled with concrete. Temples pound like double bass drums.

  Ferrance and I are both going to die now.

  Him first.

  Okey goes back to the dark place under the stairs. “Hey, wait up, Doc,” he calls back over his shoulder. “Don’t forget these.”

  He returns with a cardboard box. Reaching into the box, he hands the vet a translucent mask. The very kind of full-face mask a pathologist might use to protect his or her face during an autopsy.

  Robinson lowers the axe, leans it against the block wall. He gives his perpetually dry lips one last shot with the new ChapStick. Then puts the mask on his head, pulls the shield over his face. With open hands, he smoothes out his Pet Sounds surgical gown.

  Maxwell also places a mask on his face, as do the smiling Chris and Erin. He then assumes a strategic position behind Robinson. “We’re ready, Doc,” he says. “Make us proud, now. Make the Great Society proud.”

  Grabbing the axe handle with both hands, the vet assumes a position a few feet from Ferrance’s hanging body. He raises the axe the same way a baseball player raises the bat for a pitch that’s about to be thrown his way. Inhaling, he cocks the axe back, takes careful aim.

  He swings.

  And by the grace of God, I pass out.

  ____

  When I come to, Ferrance continues to hang from the hook by his legs. In terms of signs of life, all he can manage now are quick little jolts of movement. I’m not sure they’re voluntary. He’s either in shock or he’s already dead.

  “One more will do it,” Maxwell offers.

  “And I know what to go for,” Robinson says, his clothing so sweat-soaked even his Pet Sounds surgical gown is soaked through with a combination of blood and saltwater.

  Aiming the bloody axe head low, this time crouching, like a golfer setting up a chip shot, he brings the axe up and swings down hard from the side, severing Ferrance’s head from his body. The head, dead weight, drops to the floor like a melon and rolls for maybe a foot before it stops, eyes wide open, staring at us.

  As the hanging body bleeds out, Okey and Robinson remove their blood-soaked greens and toss them into a fifty-gallon drum. They pull off their masks, toss them in also. Christopher and Erin follow suit.

  Joining hands, they all stare down at the bloody floor. And they proceed to pray, reciting prayers never taught to me in Catholic grammar school. Prayers only a member of the Bethlehem Great Society would be privy to, in a language only they would understand. Latin, Greek, Aramaic…I have no idea. Only that it sounds ancient and that the words represent ideas that only they can believe in. That is, except for the devil himself.

  When they’re through praying, Okey puts on a second set of Pet Sounds greens. Chris puts on his first. That’s when I realize something entirely profound: Christopher Parker has become my destiny.

  My entire life…the whole fucked-up forty-plus years of it…has led me to this very place. This rancid basement filled with blood and bone. Christopher is about to hack me up with an axe or, at the very least, observe a good hacking by Okey for purely academic purposes. Wow, what a novel way to go out. Okey and/or Chris will attempt to do a very good job at the hacking because Chris ultimately wants entry into the Great Society just like old Doc Robinson did, and it will depend upon his performance now or sometime in the future. I am to become a sacrifice of some kind and Chris will be the executioner. They will be the evil gods who will enjoy the honor of snuffing out my ninth and last life.

  Doc Robinson and Erin have settled themselves in with, get this, cups of hot cocoa from Okey’s thermos. They’re chatting it up, their hands wrapped around the steaming Styrofoam cups for warmth, like they’re standing at a high school football game. Okey even hands out little white paper napkins, in case a little chocolate gets on Erin’s lips or fingers.

  Meanwhile, the unemployed mechanical engineer/troop leader is all business about lower
ing what’s left of the mutilated Ferrance down from the beam, dragging the torso, then the separated arms, and finally the head off to the side. He hoses off the chain, removing it along with the block and tackle from the beam, setting it all up again just a few feet from the pool of blood. Clearly, he wants to start all over again with a clean chain and a dry piece of basement earth. How thoughtful and engineer-like efficient.

  ____

  Okey strips me naked without the use of a blade.

  His efforts are precise and practiced, like he’s about to field dress a deer he just shot. He and Robinson join together to wrap the chain tightly around my ankles. Then they hoist me up by my legs the same way they did Ferrance before me.

  It’s strange because I can’t say that I’m afraid anymore. I can’t say that I’m in any pain. I know exactly what’s about to happen to me. I only wish to die a quick death. I’m not sure what to feel. I want to cry and scream but at the same time I want to laugh aloud at the absurdity of it all. Part of me…the built-in shit-detector part of me…knows all too well that what’s happening is the real deal. But another part of me is convinced that I’m caught up in a dream and that as soon as they start swinging, I’ll wake up in my bed. I’m hoping for the latter, but if I were a betting man, I’d bank on the former.

  Christopher stands contemplatively, attentively; the student and Great Society wannabe, watching Maxwell work. I look up at the engineer with my head hanging upside down, the blood rushing to my brain.

  Chris reaches underneath his green Pet Sounds gown, pulls out a Snickers bar, unwraps it, and, lifting up his translucent face shield the same way you do a welder’s mask, consumes it in three big bites. “Jeez Louise, I get so fucking hungry sometimes.”