Babe Mooth
When “Bud” Abbott finally struck again, it was crowded and boring in the HooseCows office. Hank James was glad when Taylor Nickles had a phone call to answer. The office comfortably seated two people, but ever since “Bud” Abbott had disappeared, Taylor had insisted on having John Todd in the office, too.
Taylor slammed down the phone, stopped, and glared at the wall. Again, Hank was glad. It had been a tense and bland day, because their series with the Mason City Ugly Birds was canceled. In fact, all future series with the Ugly Birds were canceled because the team had quit playing, due to the death of player (and family member) Chuck Swede in an on-field promotional event involving dynamite.
No one had told the HooseCows this, though. They had driven to the ballpark to find it mostly empty, with a few confused fans sitting in the stands and looking at their watches. In a scene that would have been funny if it had happened to anyone else, Hank James and the rest of the team sat on the bus as it pulled up to manager Dom Swede’s house and Taylor got out and knocked on his front door. They watched as the door opened only far enough for Dom to stick his finger out and point it threateningly in Taylor’s face a half dozen times. Then, the door was slammed shut, Taylor got back on the bus, and they went back home without any games to play. The only one who was relieved was Sean Martin, who had been pressed into being the catcher in “Bud” Abbott’s presence, and was not succeeding in this role.
“I think ‘Bud’ went and got that girl he was stalking at our home games,” Taylor said, his jaw barely opening to spit the words out. “That was Janesville High School’s principal. They want to know why we authorized our mascot to come visit their volleyball practice.”
From the way Hank could see rage in Taylor’s eyes, he knew the man had never called the authorities about “Bud” or the bodies Hank and Mickey had found outside of Denver, Iowa. The bodies the authorities had not found on their own, as of yet.
“The guy who does Babe Mooth is at his family’s cabin in Minnesota this week,” Hank said.
“You know who’s in that costume,” Taylor rasped. He leaned forward. “Think about it.”
They all three rode out to Janesville in Taylor’s truck, with Hank stuck uncomfortably in the middle seat. Highway 218 was mercifully free of law-enforcement, and they weren’t pulled over for speeding. The highway was made for speeding, as long as you could switch between the left and right lanes to avoid aging farmers who insisted on driving one mile under the speed limit in the fast lane. Hank looked out the window at the tall corn, the small ponds, the abandoned barns, and the isolated bunches of trees. If someone created a landscape for disposing of bodies, they’d design Iowa.
Taylor turned the car left, passed a gas station, and almost slowed to a stop in front of the small high school. Hank grabbed the manager’s shoulder and pointed down the street. There was an old iron bridge ahead in the road. It had been barricaded off and was clearly far from safe. Despite it’s proximity to the school, the trees and dip down to the river made it a convenient and secluded place for someone to take a potential victim.
“We found the last girl by water,” Hank said. “He’s gotta be down there.”
He didn’t tell Taylor the other reason he knew the catcher had taken his prey by the water. He didn’t tell Taylor he had seen a small, ghostly shimmer that just barely formed the shape of a small boy pointing in that direction. The ghosts face was turned down, and by that, Hank knew the girl was already dead.
Taylor parked the truck and they scrambled out of the vehicle and moved toward a small footpath to the left side of the bridge. The crows were screaming, and the path was steep. They were halfway down when they first saw the black-and-white clothes of Babe Mooth, now covered in clotting red blood. Behind Hank, John Todd slid on the path and said, simply: “No.” Hank looked behind him and blocked Todd’s progress.
“You can’t help her now,” Hank said, trying to find some sort of half-smile that might help, and failing. “You should go back up the hill. Seeing this is going to hurt you.”
Hank reached out a hand, and John Todd swatted it away and exhaled loudly through his nostrils. Hank shrugged, because it was all he could do, and they continued down the path to meet Taylor, who had already reached the bottom. They stood with their sneakers getting muddy and forced their eyes to look at the scene before them.
It was easy to guess what had happened. Dressed in the mascot’s costume, “Bud” had been able to walk right into the school and get attention from a group of high school girls, who assumed this had all been approved by the adults in their lives. Somehow, he must have got the girl outside. Maybe he offered her something. Then he overpowered her, took her down to the river, and then it all ended in this sad image Hank would never be able to forget.
“Bud” Abbott was still in the Babe Mooth costume, and he was soaked in blood and clumps of hair. Hank could hear his muffled cries through the mascot’s cow-shaped head. The dead girl in front of him was dressed in her volleyball uniform, and Hank couldn’t bear to notice more about her than that. In one of the costumed killers paws was the teddy bear “Bud” Abbott had been keeping in his locker. In his other paw was a tube of lipstick. “Bud” had not been able to apply the lipstick correctly with his costume on, and it was smeared all over the face of the teddy bear. “Bud” kept rocking back and forth.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Taylor told Hank, without even looking at him. John Todd had wandered off into the bushes. From the sounds Hank heard, it was clear the pitcher was trying not to vomit. “But we still don’t call the cops. This needs to be handled in-house, by the team. This kind of thing especially.”
From the tone in Taylor’s voice, Hank almost started to feel sorry for “Bud.”
