Bad Moon (Kat Campbell Mysteries) (35 page)

Looking toward the road again, he saw he was gaining on the truck, slowly but surely. Once a half mile apart, he was now a quarter mile behind the rig and gaining. But Nick knew it might not be enough. Once the truck got to the interstate, there’d be more traffic to deal with and the chances of actually getting Ken to stop would drop dramatically. If he was going to halt the rig, it had to be in the next minute or so.

He flicked on the headlights, flashing them in the hope Ken would see them and stop. When that didn’t work, he honked the horn, slamming the heel of his hand until there was a steady blare.

Up ahead, the rig grew closer. Nick was right on its tail. He muttered at it through gritted teeth. “Stop, you motherfucker. Why don’t you stop?”

He knew the answer. The interstate was right ahead. Nick could see the overpass up ahead as the highway crossed the road. Just before that, the entrance ramp veered right, sweeping upward to meet it.

An orange light flared in the back of Ken Olmstead’s truck. It was the turn signal, blinking steadily as the truck edged toward the entrance ramp.

Gripping the wheel to steady himself and the car, Nick lifted himself up from the seat until he was standing on the gas pedal. The car jerked forward, engine revving in protest. He ignored the sound, swerving to the right. He hit a rumble strip on the road’s shoulder, tires buzzing, car vibrating. Then he was off the road, bouncing through weeds with the rig right next to him.

Nick blasted the horn again. The orange flames on the side of the rig were about six inches from his window. Then they receded a bit, falling behind until they were parallel with his back windows.

He was passing the rig.

With a grunt and one last stomp on the gas, Nick pulled ahead of the truck. He veered back onto the entrance ramp, the rig’s grille perilously close to his rear bumper. Up ahead, the ramp flattened out, connecting with the highway. It was his last chance to stop the truck.

Nick slammed on the brakes. His tires squealed along the road as momentum propelled the car forward. When his front wheels gripped the road, the back ones kept going, screeching along the asphalt. Nick felt his seat belt tighten across his chest, pinning him back down to the seat as the car rotated.

It came to a stop in the middle of the ramp, perpendicular to the road. To his left, the approaching rig also slammed on its brakes. The engine, going so fast for so long, shuddered at the sudden deceleration. The truck followed suit, swerving back and forth unsteadily.

Nick slid across the front seat, banging his right knee on the steering column. The pain that shot through his entire body made him want to stop. But he couldn’t stop. The truck, brakes screaming, was just outside the window, getting closer, closer, closer. He scrambled into the passenger seat, lunging for the door handle.

He tugged on it and the door flew open. Nick slithered out of the car, hoping he could roll away from the inevitable impact.

It never happened.

Lying on the ground, he looked to his car. It was still in one piece. Sitting up, he saw the truck on the other side of it. It had come to a stop inches away. Somehow, a collision had been avoided.

That didn’t make Ken Olmstead any less pissed off. Hopping out of the rig, he marched around Nick’s car, shouting, “What the hell are you doing? I could have goddamn killed you and myself in the process.”

Nick climbed to his feet. It was hard without the cane, which was still inside his car, but he managed. Standing with his weight on one leg, he faced Ken Olmstead.

“I’m Nick Donnelly.”

Ken gave him a blank stare. “So?”

“I was hired to find Charlie,” he said. “And I did.”

Kat found herself in a small entrance foyer that led to other points inside Glenn Stewart’s house. Directly in front of her was a staircase that rose to the second floor. To the right sat a darkened dining room. To the left, a soft red light glowed from a parlor. Kat followed it, just as another shriek sliced the air.

Glock still raised, she pushed into the parlor. It was remarkably clean, considering the house’s exterior appearance, and decorated in an Asian theme. A bamboo screen covered one corner. On the walls were watercolor images of mountains and pagodas. Red Japanese lanterns hung from the ceiling, providing the glow.

The only piece of furniture not fitting in with the décor was a small bookshelf pushed against the wall. Kat saw volumes of Shakespeare, modern classics, even a copy of
The Art of War.
One shelf was devoted to the works of a single author—Eric Olmstead. Glenn owned a copy of every book he had written, all in pristine condition.

James was on the floor in front of the bookshelf. Sitting on his shoulder was a slithery mass of brown and black fur. A ferret, which scurried across the back of his neck to his other shoulder. When the animal’s bushy tail brushed his face, he shrieked once more with delight.

“James?”

He froze when he saw her. “He told me to come in.”

“It’s true,” Glenn Stewart said. “I saw him and urged him to come inside.”

His voice rose from a dim corner behind Kat. He was a shadowy figure, sitting in an overstuffed chair with ethereal stillness.

Kat stepped in front of her son. “James, let the animal go.”

“But, Mom—”

“Let it go!”

James released the animal, which skittered past her legs. The ferret jumped into Glenn’s lap, where it received a tender pat on the head.

“They’re gentle creatures,” he said. “A little rambunctious, but nothing too bad. This one lost his companion just the other day. He’s still grieving.”

Kat glanced back at James. “Little Bear, I need you to get up and go to the door.”

James didn’t protest. Frightened and confused, he climbed to his feet and hovered by the doorway, waiting for further instructions.

“Now, go to the hallway,” Kat told him. “Wait by the door. If something happens to me, run outside to Eric’s house and tell him to call Carl. Understand?”

James’s reply was a scared and silent yes.

“Good. Now go.”

Kat waited until James was gone before pointing the gun in Glenn Stewart’s direction. “What the hell were you doing with him?”

“I know you mistrust me,” Glenn said. “But he was perfectly safe. In fact, he’s safer here than he is out there.”

“What’s out there?”

“Danger, of course. A world of danger.”

“Is that why you don’t go outside?”

“Partly,” Glenn said. “But looking like I do, I suspect most people would prefer me to stay inside.”

It was too dark to see him clearly. All Kat could make out was a silhouette, shoulder rising and falling as he continued to pet the ferret.

“You don’t look too unusual to me,” Kat said.

She detected a note of amusement in Glenn’s response. “You’re very kind. But you’ve yet to see the full picture.”

He stood. Kat took a cautious step backward and aimed the Glock at Glenn’s chest, prepared to shoot if necessary. But there didn’t seem to be a need. All he did was move forward into the light, giving her a clear view of his face.

From the nose down, Mr. Stewart looked normal. Handsome even, with full lips and sharp cheekbones that narrowed to a strong jaw. Above the nose, it was a different story. The left side of his face boasted a thin brow and an eye colored a startling shade of blue. The eye on the right was missing. So was the brow. In their place was a patch of skin as smooth as wet clay. Rising above it was a thick, pale scar that sliced through his forehead and into his hair.

Kat kept her gaze steady. “What happened to you in Vietnam?”

“My Lai happened. I assume you’ve heard of it.”

Kat certainly had. In March 1968, hundreds of civilians were killed by a unit of the United States Army. The victims were unarmed. Many of them were women and children.

“Some people think you shot yourself,” she said. “That true?”

“I don’t suppose it really matters now. The important thing is what happened to me afterward.”

“
M
ặ
t tr
ă
ng vinh quang,
” Kat replied. “You learned about that in the hospital?”

Glenn nodded. “It opened my eyes to so many things, even though it’s a very misunderstood religion.”

“I can see how people wouldn’t get that whole human sacrifice part. Is it true?”

Glenn’s voice was pained as he said, “It is, I’m afraid. There are some who used to practice such things. But I’m not one of them. Most good followers aren’t.”

“Then what do you believe in?”

“That life is sacred. Including my own. That one needs to find peace with himself before he can find peace with the world. I’m still working on that, even after all these years. And that no matter what we do, bad things exist in the outside world. I should know. I’ve seen them.”

“In Vietnam?” Kat offered.

“Yes. There, of course. But also here, in Perry Hollow. On this very street, in fact.”

“Did you see anything the night Charlie Olmstead was taken?”

“I did,” Glenn said. “I lied to your father about it. Not because I wanted to, mind you. I needed to. For the sake of everyone on this street.”

“What did you see?”

“Sit down,” Glenn said. “And I’ll tell you.”

*

It felt weird having a brother again. Good but weird—like a recurring daydream you can’t believe is actually coming true. Eric couldn’t stop grinning. And crying. He felt overjoyed, despondent, thrilled, and subdued all at once.

“I don’t know what to talk about,” Eric said. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Family,” Charlie suggested. “Are you married? Do you have kids?”

“Divorced. No kids. You?”

“Divorced. A daughter, although it’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”

They went back and forth like that, swapping forty-two years’ worth of information about jobs, homes, likes and dislikes. Eric learned that Charlie was a mechanic in Chester County who liked country music, Harleys, and a good bourbon. He told Charlie about the highs and lows of a writer’s life, about living in Brooklyn, about the famous people he’s met. They learned their differences—Charlie was an ace centerfielder in high school, Eric not an ace at any sport—and their similarities, such as the fact that both of their ex-wives were named Laura.

Then the topic turned to Eric’s family, whom Charlie insisted on calling Ken and Maggie Olmstead.

“I heard Maggie passed away,” he said. “How did she die?”

The mention of his mother made Eric sad again. She would have loved to have witnessed this conversation. The fact that it was her final wish made it all the more poignant.

“Cancer. Ovarian.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. From what I remember, she was a great lady.”

“What else do you remember about living here?” Eric asked.

Charlie mulled the question over, hand absently stroking his chin. Watching him, Eric saw traces of the boy he had known only through decades-old photographs. Same awkward ears. Same sad eyes. Same crooked smile when he said, “I remember Mrs. Santangelo’s cookies. Are the Santangelos still around?”

“They are,” Eric said. “So is Glenn Stewart.”

“The Clarks are long gone, right?”

“Of course. But you—”

Eric halted when he realized Charlie still didn’t know that Mort and Ruth Clark had been his maternal grandparents. He didn’t have the heart to tell him just yet. They’d have plenty of time to discuss things that happened before he was born and after he left.

“Did you know,” Charlie said, “that the Clarks had a bomb shelter built under their yard?”

“Really?”

“That’s another thing I remember. I used to play in it when I was a kid. And the falls. Jesus, when I was ten, I loved walking out on that bridge and seeing Sunset Falls.”

“It’s still there,” Eric said. “The bridge, too.”

Charlie’s face lit up. “We should go there.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Come on.”

He was off the couch in a flash, heading toward the back door. Eric followed, at first with reluctance. But his attitude began to change once they were in the backyard, rushing through the grass. By the time they crossed onto Glenn Stewart’s property, he was having a blast.

Charlie was faster than he was, practically sprinting across Mr. Stewart’s yard. He seemed to know so much more than Eric did about the area, from the Clarks’ bomb shelter to the place where Glenn buried his pets. (“I’d spy on him when he did it,” Charlie said as they passed the spot Eric had dug up the night before.)

Running behind him, struggling to keep up, Eric felt annoyance and admiration in equal measure. He was jealous of what Charlie knew and glad he was sharing it with him. He was in awe of him and just a little bit intimidated. In short, for the first time in his life, he knew how it felt to have a big brother.

They hurried around the far side of Glenn Stewart’s house, the roar of Sunset Falls growing louder. Eric glimpsed it through the trees, a heady tumble of whiteness stretching three stories.

“I’d go this way to sneak out to the falls,” Charlie told him as they emerged at the end of the cul-de-sac and headed through the trees. “That way no one could see me.”

Since Eric had traversed the grown-over path earlier in the week, he went first. Charlie followed close behind, peeking over his shoulder for glimpses of the waterfall itself.

“There’s the bridge,” he said excitedly. “I figured they’d have torn it down by now.”

“They’re going to soon,” Eric said.

His brother slapped him on the shoulder. “So that’s all the more reason to take one last trip across it.”

They had come to the sawhorse blocking the bridge. Charlie leaped over it. Eric ducked beneath it. Yet another difference between the two.

“Be careful,” Eric warned as Charlie hurried onto the bridge itself. “It’s not stable.”

Charlie heeded the warning, stepping carefully onto the bridge’s first few boards. “Can it hold two people?”

“Two, yes,” Eric said. “Three, probably not.”

By that time, he was on the bridge, too, trying to follow Charlie’s footsteps. He stepped over the gaping hole that Kat fell through a few days earlier. Some of the other planks creaked beneath his weight, and the entire bridge shimmied slightly, but overall, it seemed stable. At least stable enough to hold them up as they stood shoulder to shoulder against the railing, watching the inexorable flow of the creek.