MOON FALL (20 page)

Another screech resonated to the north, and Mark suddenly
wished he were at home in his own bed, there in case his father
needed him.

John had stayed home only briefly after leaving Winesap's
Tavern, just long enough to undress, shower, and go to bed.
Then he lay there wide awake, thinking about Gus's revelation
about his father's death. After an hour, he
'
d dressed and gone
down to the sheriff's office
.

When he walked in, the night dispatcher, Bobby Hasse,
looked up in surprise. "What are you doing here this time of
night, John?" he asked, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and
wiping them with a Kleenex.

"Just wanted to look something up
.
Where's Thurman?"

"On rounds. He'll be back soon." Bobby put his glasses
back on. Although he was over thirty, he had
a
baby-faced look
that attracted women like cats to catnip. "Do you want me to
call him for you?" His hand moved toward the radio.

''No. Just wondering." He knew his night man spent time
in his office when
h
e wasn't patrolling
-
be was an aspiring
writer, and the quiet Moonfall nights gave him plenty of time
to work at John's
antique
IB
M Selectric
typewriter
. Thurman was his best
cop
,
and he had John's blessing; in fact, if he was in there
writing, that would have given John an excuse to go ho
m
e
instead
o
f
read about his father's death. He was slightly disappointed
because be dreaded looking at the file. ''Quiet night?"

"One DUI. He's in the cell for the night. CHP will pick him
up in the morning."

"It wasn't my grandfather, was it?"

Bobby smiled. ''No. Some son of a bitch redneck from San
Bernardino
.
Good thing Jeff spotted him, too. He had a rifle
and h
unting gear and a dead doe in his trunk."

John shook his head
.
There was no hunting allowed in tiny
Moonfall County, but the drunk could easily have taken the
deer in the San Bernardino Mountains, a hop, skip, and jump
to the north. There would be no way to tell.

"He didn't have a hunting license," Hasse added, as he
turned a page of the computer magazine he was reading
.

"Good. Did Jeff write him up on that, too?"

Bobby Hasse smiled. "Sure as hell did."

"Good." He glanced at the computer by Bobby. W
in
ged
toasters flew lazily against a black background. The night dispatcher
was the only reason they even had one-
he loved and
understood them and had nagged about being behind the times
until the department bought one. John noticed a stack of files
beside it. "What year are you up to?''

"Just input 1947," Hasse said. "I'll do '48 after lunch." He
nodded at a paper sack on the other side of the desk.

"Have fun. I'll be in my office
.
"

In his office, John saw a sheet of paper in the typewriter and
a half-inch stack beside it
.
A little guiltily, he glanced at the
top page, saw something about an alien invasion. Knowing
Jeff, the aliens were extraterrestrial, not illegal, and it made him
smile and wonder if he might lose Thurman to fame someday.

He went to the files and searched through 1973 until be
found and extracted the report on Henry Lawson's death. At
his desk, he read through it and found Gus had told him the
entire story
.
There wasn't much, and there certainly was no tie
to St
.
Gertrude's. The circumstantial evidence
-
that Henry had
visited the abbey-
wasn't even mentioned. He put the file back
and looked through the '72 file on Greg's death, found nothing,
then looked through everything between, hoping to find something
on St. Gertrude's. It was in vain: if his father had been
inv
estigating the girls' home, he h
ad left no notes about it.

John put his feet up on the desk, leaned back, and closed
his eyes.
Rely on your past experience.
That's what Gus h
ad
sa
id. Both h
e and Frank Cutter had seemed to be encouraging
John's suspicions about St. Gertrude's. Gus, in particular, liked
entertainment and wasn't above exaggerating to get a rise out
of people, but John doubted that the old man would embroider
on his own son's death. He, like Sara Hawthorne, might have
convinced himself that his suspicions were correct
-
but what
if both he and the young teacher were right?

John sighed, wondering why Gus had mentioned the family
tree.
It's probably nothing.
Though his grandfather wasn't
showing any signs of senility
,
he'd always been given to vagaries
and this was probably one of them. Still, John thought, as
he felt sleep
coming on, the old man's words h
ad held a disturbing
ring of truth
.

Midnight, and Minerva Payne sat by the warm wood stove
in her kitchen, drinking a cup of tea. Nothing mysterious and
herbal, just good old English Breakfast.

She'd gone to bed just after ten o'clock, slept soundly for
two hours, then awakened with a start at the screeching of a
nightflyer. Most people thought they were owls or hawks, but
she knew better, and the raucous cries froze her blood as the
thing flew in circles above her house for long minutes before
flying off toward town.

A portent.
Minerva had tied her warm robe around her waist
and pulled on her slippers before going to the kitchen and
stoking up the fire.
Time is running out.

But I'm tired, so tired.
In the old days, she'd had more
enthusiasm and even her repeated failures to stop many of the
deaths hadn't dampened her spirits.
You can't give up now;
lives depend on it.
For the first time in many years she had
two possible adepts: the orphan Kelly Reed, and Mark Lawson.
All the Lawsons were, of course, capable of learning her arts,
but until Mark, they'd lacked the desire. At one time, she
thought Gus Lawson might come to her, but he was ultimately
too involved in his own religion to be open to her beliefs and
practices.

Kelly Reed was especially powerful; she routinely saw the
ghosts and she had a great intuitive gift, but she was also very
weak and unsure of herself. She was a rebel, too, and her
constant rule-breaking at St. Gertrude's had kept her in trouble.
When Minerva tried to talk to her about it, she hadn't gotten
very far. Emotionally, Kelly was a typical adolescent
-
she
thought she knew everything, and she wouldn't let Minerva or
anyone else prevent her from doing what she wanted, whether
it was making faces at the nuns behind their backs or sacrificing
herself for some imagined cause. To make matters worse, she
h
ad an aura of darkness
s
urrounding
her that did not bode well
for her continued well-being.

Mark, at least, hadn't entered the rebellious phase yet, but
h
e was brave to the point of foolishness.
All children believe
they're immortal.
She had seen in his eyes that he was driven
by curiosity-
like a cat, he was fearless if he wanted to find
out about something. His fascination with the rumors about
Minerva had first brought him into her shop, and she had quickly
realized that a way to hook t
h
e boy was to dangle information
under his nose. Mark was interested in formulas, from the one
she used to make toffee, to the ingredients that went into making
a poultice for a toothache. It didn't matter much to Mark what
it was, though he had a predilection for the medicinals; he just
had to
know.
It was his driving force.

She rose, bones creaking, and went to the shelves where her
herbs and oils were stored. Selecting several, she took them to
the table, then lit a squat beeswax candle and recited a short
protection spell aimed at Mark Lawson and his father. As an
afterthought, she recited one for herself. Then, taking a pinch
each of rosemary and monkshood, she began slowly to crumble
the fragrant herbs above the candle flame.

"John Lawson," she whispered, "hear me now, and hear
me well. I am in your dreams, John. I
am
your dreams." The
candle sputtered, then glowed more brightly. ''You must come
to me, John, you must come with open mind and open heart,
or your only son is doomed."

The nightflyer was back, and she did her best to ignore its
horrible cry. "See me, John, know me. Come to me before it
is too late."

They're angry, she thought as the creature screeched again.
She heard scrabbling on her roof and another cry echoed down
her chimney.
I should have spread the salt again.
The evil at
St. Gertrude's had grown in strength in the last few years, as
it always did when the twenty-fourth year drew near, and it
was even stronger
now that Halloween approached. It was
the reason the salt she'd spread earlier was already losing its
potency.

There was scratching on her roof as a second nightflyer
landed. A screech echoed down through her house, chilling her
blood. giving her warning. Minerva, a solitary p
ra
ctitioner, had
never been able to defeat Lucy and her demonic sisters, and
as another screech filled the room, she questioned her powers
more than ever before.
No! That's what Lucy wants. Believe
in yourself. Minerva! You can do it. You
must
do it!

She took a deep breath and began reciting her spell again.
"Hear me, John Lawson. See me in your dreams and I will
show you what you must know."

Gus Lawson and Frank Cutter stayed at W
in
esap's getting,
as they liked to say, shit-faced, until eleven-thirty in the evening,
when pretty Marlene had suggested they'd had enough. Probably,
thought Gus, that was because he'd tried to pat her ruffled
bottom. She hadn't liked that.

It had taken half an hour for Moonfall's sole cab to show
up at the tavern, and he and Frank had enjoyed the wait;
although they often shared a beer or two, they hadn
'
t h
ad a
buzz on like this for years
.
Gus was sitting alone in the back
of the cab after Cutter was dropped at his modem house in the
Heights, an area where all the streets curved and the houses
had centra
l air and heat and swimming pools.

Frank Cutter's house was nicer than Gus's, but it didn't have
a spot o
f character, except for the den,
which was full of
mounted fish, photos of his deceased wife, Flora, and their
children and grandchildren, books, and a Meerschaum pipe
collection that Gus secretly coveted.

After John left, he and Frank had lightened up. Gus knew
he'd upset his grandson, but wasn't really sorry: the youngster
had spent his whole life mired in guilt about his brother, never
suspecting that Gus himself felt the same way about Henry,
John's father, Gus's son. Maybe
h
e shouldn't have told John
he
wouldn't have, if he hadn't been drinking
-
but now he was
glad it had come out. Maybe the knowledge would help John
finally come to grips with Greg's death.

And maybe he'd made things a little more dramatic than he
should have, but deep in his heart, Gus really
did
feel that the
women at St. Gertrude's had something to do with Henry's
death and that the place was cursed. It was something an old
Baptist shouldn't admit, and again, he wouldn't have if he
hadn't been drinking
.
Well, what's done is done.

As the taxi turned onto his street, he realized that what was
really bothering him was that he was a little worried about
what John might do about it, especially after he showed him
the family tree
.
If I show it to him.
Probably it was all
c
oincidence
,
he told himself, as the beer fog began to clear from his
brain; but maybe, just maybe, he
'
d put his grandson in danger,
just like he had his son
.
''You've got a big mouth, Gus Lawson
.
"

'
'What'd you say?" the cabby asked.

"That's the place, there, two houses up," Gus said, pulling
out the twenty Marlene had pressed on him right after he'd tried
to pat her behind. He'd have to send some flowers tomorrow;
otherwise, she might never flirt with him again
.

Taking his change, he walked carefully up the octagonal
paving stones toward the house, fishing in his pants pocket for
his keys
.
He thought he'd left the porch light on, but the place
was dark, and if it hadn't been for the brief glint of headlights
as the cab turned around, he'd have had to try key after key
in the lock. ''Thanks for the favor, Lord," he muttered, as he
walked up the steps and across the wide front porch, the key
ready.

As if in reply, one of those horrible night birds screeched
above, flying close enough for him to hear the heavy beat of
its wings.

Gus turned and gazed at the sky. He'd never seen the bird,
but it was probably some sort of hawk, out looking for a stray
poodle or something.
French cuisine.

He heard the cry again
,
farther away. Sometimes years went by without his hearing one
of the damned things, but in other years, like this one, they
were a frequent sound, especially this time of year. These were
the birds that the gargoyle stories must have been based on;
when he and Caspar Parker were kids, they used to tell each
other the stories about the gargoyles and the old witch in the
woods
-
there'd be
en one then, as well. Minerva, h
e assumed,
was the daughter of that reclusive old woman, and he knew
she was the object of the same stories about the baby-stealing
gargoyles. How birds of prey and missing dogs and chickens,
not to mention the occasional torn and mutilated goat in the
petting zoo, had transformed into gargoyles and stolen babies
and a witch, he had no idea.

He heard one more cry, closer again, but didn't bother to
look, instead quickly unlocking the front door, because you
didn't buy beer, you rented it.

He stepped into the darkened house and pulled the door shut
then flipped on a light, sniffing. There was an odd, mildewed
odor in the room.
Now what?
Maybe Frank's newer house
didn't have character, but it wasn't the pain this old relic was.
Probably the kitchen sink's backed up again.
Crinkling his
nose, he walked through the darkened living room and up the
short hall to the bathroom, where be turned on the light and
relieved himself. As h
e turned on the faucet to wash his hands,
h
e shivered,
h
earing the bird screech again; it sounded as if it
were right outside the window. He turned off the tap and
t
urned,
trying to see through the privacy glass. He jumped as the cry
repeated.

And then it stopped.
Stupid old man, acting like a scared
kid.
He shook his head at his own foolishness.

Back in the living room, be flipped on the lights and the
television but didn't sit down to catch the last of Leno because
the mildew smell was still strong. He went into the kitchen and
the stench was worse there.
Guess I was right about the clogged
drain.

He turned on the cold tap full blast and watched as the water
swirled quickly down the drain. ''Hmm." Next be walked into
the laundry room just off the kitchen and lifted the washer lid,
but there were no wet clothes festering within. Back in the
kitchen, he checked the trashcan, but it was almost empty.

He couldn't think of anything else to check; he'd left several
windows open and whatever it was must have wafted in on the
breeze. It was either dissipating now, or be was used to it, so
he zapped a cup of instant
coffee
in the microwave, carried it
into the living room, and settled in his easy chair in front of
his huge television.

Conan O'Brien was just
sitting
down at his desk. Though
he'd never admit it to anyone, the upstart talk-show host and
his coy sidekick amused the h
eck out of him and he was glad
it was on: at eigh
ty-four, be didn
't require much sleep anymore.

He turned the sound up and settled back, sipping at his
s
teaming coffee as Polly the NBC Peacock began trashing the
other networks. It was Gus's favorite bit, and a moment later
he was laughing aloud.

Suddenly, in syrupy
slow
motion, he heard a dull explosion
and watched the hot coffee spill in his lap as something thunked
into t
he back of his head. It didn't h
urt, but the coffee did, and
for a millisecond, that intrigued him. He felt his head jerk
roughly and looked up to see the television screen just as a big
chunk of something red and white hit the glass and stuck. His
vision flickered as red spots sprayed the screen and the chunk
of white
-
my
head, that's a piece of my head!
-
began
to slip
down the screen.

And then, there was nothing. Nothing at all.