MOON FALL (25 page)

"How did you get down there? It's so steep," Mark asked,
trying not to cringe
.
He sat in a chair, his head lowered, as
M
inerva Payne stood over him,
cleaning the wound on his
neck not with herbs and poultices, but with plain old hydrogen
peroxide. She daubed up the excess before it could drip, and
it hurt like crazy
.

"I have my ways," she said. "No, don't turn your head."

''What ways?" he persisted, determined to keep thinking
about things other than Pete Parker's bloody, eyeless face
.

''Magic."

''Really?"

"Don't tu
rn
your head. And no, not really. You know better
than that, don't you?" She chuckled
s
oftly. "Do you think I
hopped on my broom and flew down?"

"No, of course not."

"I came down the same way we came up
.
Do you
remember?"

He tried to think, but th
e
peroxide felt like those little scrubbing
bubbles on the bathroom cleaner ad were eating his flesh,
and he couldn't get the image out of his head. Between that
and all the other images s
tu
m
bling through his brain, he couldn't
remember how he'd even ended up in Minerva's house. "I
don't remember," he said at last.

''We walked to the end of the meadow and came up where
it's not so steep. There, I think this is clean enough, and it's
stopped bleeding. It looks worse than it is
.
I'm just going to
tape some gauze over it."

''Thanks," he said. He raised his head when Minerva finished
taping. "I don't need the doctor now."

"You should have a tetanus shot, Mark, and I think maybe
Dr. Cutter will want to sew it up. He might want you to take
some antibiotics."

Mark had no use for shots or pills, and he'd thought Minerva
didn't, either. He turned to stare at her. "But you're a healer.
I thought you didn't believe in doctors. Or antibiotics."

''Of course I believe in antibiotics." She smiled gently. ''The
healers knew about them long before modem medical science
carne along. I could pack your wound with myrrh or maybe
penicillin mold from bread. Would you like that better than
taking Dr. Cutter's pills?"

''Better than a
shot," he replied.

Minerva crossed to the stone fireplace and stoked the embers
of a dying fire, then added some kindling and a small log from
a brass basket on the hearth. The fire carne back to life, and
satisfied, she seated herself in her rocking chair.

"Not me," she said. "I'll take the shot. Modem science may
have its drawbacks, but it's also made some improvements on
the natural medicinals. There are times, and this is one of them,
when Dr. Cutter's methods are preferable to mine."

''I doubt it," Mark grunted.

"Believe me, child, if I sewed that wound up, you'd be
screaming. With Frank Cutter, you won't feel a thing."

Mark shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. But it's a big hole. How
can he sew it up?"

''It feels bigger than it is," Minerva said bluntly, ''and there's
plenty of skin to pull together."

They sat quietly a few moments; then Mark broke the silence.
"How did you find us?"

"You might say that you called me to you."

''Huh?"

"I sensed you. I've told you, Mark, you have the same gift
in your blood. Your terror was difficult to ignore."

"I don't get it."

"Haven't you ever known the phone was about to ring? Or
that maybe something was going to happen before it did?"

"Yeah, the phone, a lot. One day when I decided to play
hooky
, some kids got killed at school. And I knew about the
last earthquake about half an hour before it happened, but
nobody believed me."

“I
believe you. You and your father both have the ability,
I've told you that. I possess the same talent, so I knew something
was wrong. I decided to close the Gingerbread House early
and come back to the house because I thought you might be
here."

''I was in the forest."

She nodded. "Yes. When I carne closer, I realized that. Plus,
I heard the nightflyer."

"It's a dayflyer, too," he said sourly.

''Yes, I suppose it is, but very rarely. Only when the time
has come."

"I never know what you're talking about."

Another gentle smile. "It's a bad year for nightflyers."

"When was the last bad year?"

"Nineteen seventy-two." She stared at him.

Suddenly, realization dawned. ''When my uncle was killed?"

Solemnly, she nodded. "The cycle is twenty-four years.
You'll have children
of your own
the next time it happens like this, the next
time the
y fly by
daylight."

"What are they?"

"A kind of night hawk."

"Bullshit."

Minerva's eyes opened wide a moment, then she laughed.
"Bullshit, indeed."

Mark studied her, more surprised at her use of the word than
his own. ''I saw its face."

"I know."

"Did you see it, too?"

"Over the years, I've glimpsed them occasionally, but never
quite so well as you."

"Did you see it today?"

''Briefly, as it took off."

''It had a beak."

"Some do, some don't."

"Is it a bird?"

"It has wings
-
it must be, don't you think?"

"Bats have wings ... and
rabies,
" he added, suddenly worried.

She nodded. "They do. But it's no bat."

"Gargoyles fly, too," he said, watching her closely.

"So they do," she agreed, her expression never changing.
"So they do."

"Do you know what they say in town?"

Minerva smiled bitterly. ''I think so, but tell me."

"That the gargoyles steal babies and bring them to you to
bake into pies."

"Yes, I knew about that." She snorted softly. "An old enemy
began that particular rumor."

"Who?"

"The headmistress at St. Gertrude's."

Mark's eyes widened now.
"Mother
Lucy?"

Minerva looked at him
s
harply. ''How do you know her
name?"

''Kelly told me." Suddenly, the entire
s
tory of his day began
spilling out of him, and with every sentence he felt b
e
tter.

Sara didn't know what to make of John Lawson as she
drove back down the tree-shrouded lane toward St. Gertrude's.
Personally she liked him, and she knew the feeling was mutual;
he'd asked her to go to dinner with him and wasn't put off
when she couldn't set a date because she didn't know her
schedule.
He gave her his home phone number and suggested
she
call him when she could.

She thought he was shy, pleasant, and sincere, and when he
talked about his son, his pride and love were obvious. Profes
sionally,
though, something was going on with the man that
kept him from making any commitments regarding an investigation
into Jenny Blaine's death. Maybe it was just caution
-
she
could certainly understand his position
-
but she had a feeling
there was more to it than that. There was a haunted quality to
his questions and comments, and he had been agitated by their
discussion of dreams and memories. And even though he didn't
say anything, she thought he had something more on his mind
as well.

She reached the abbey and slowed. taking the rutted left fork
toward the garage, wondering how she should proceed with
her investigation. Tomorrow, she'd begin teaching, and that
would cut into her time, but it might be helpful as well. She
hoped to make friends with some of the nuns-
a hard task, to
be sure, but she thought she might be able to get the loquacious
Sister Bibi to talk about the old days.

"Damn!" Sara slammed on the brakes as a girl in blue darted
out from between the bushes, right into her path. The car jerked
to a halt as the girl fell before it. Thank God, there was no
fateful
thunk.

Sara jumped from the car. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." The girl scrambled to her feet, pushed her red hair
from her face. "Miss Hawthorne!"

"Kelly! What's going on?" She took in the skinned knees,
the tearstained face.

''You've got to help me." Tears ran down her cheeks, making
tracks in the dust. "They're going to put me in solitary. Mother
Lucy has Mark Lawson's jacket and I tried to get it for him
and she caught me."

"Mark Lawson? The sheriff's son?"

Kelly nodded. then looked over her shoulder, toward the
bushes. "I have to get to Minerva's. Please say you didn't see
me.
Please!
Minerva will let me stay with her. Just don't tell!"

"Who's Minerva?"

Suddenly Basil-Bob Boullan crashed through the bushes.
"There you are, you little brat!"

"Ask Mark!" Kelly cried, as she started running for the
woods
-
but she was too late. Boullan took a running leap and
tackled her.

"Hey!" yelled Sara. "That's no way to treat a child!"

Boullan rose, holding Kelly's arm twisted behind her. ''Take
it up with the Mother Superior," he said, smirking at her.
"She'll set you straight."

"Miss Hawthorne!" Kelly cried as Boullan propelled her
toward the bushes.

"Don't worry, Kelly," she called after the girl. As she and
Boullan disappeared through the hedges, Sara climbed back
into the car. "I'll do something," she said softly. "I promise."

Poor Mark.
John Lawson hadn't been able to get his mind
off his son during lunch with Sara Hawthorne, or after, back
at the station, and now he knew why. Corey Addams, frantic
and hysterical, had raced into the office less than twenty minutes
after John returned, and it took
all his patience to
calm the boy enough to get a garbled story out of him. Corey
had insisted that Pete Parker had been killed by a giant bird
that had also taken a bite out of Mark, who had been taken
away by the old witch.

After he'd called Cutter and the paramedics, he set off for
the Falls, Deputy Griffin trailing in his own cruiser with the
doctor. John hadn't known what to expect concerning his son,
so he sent Griffin and Cutter to the Mezzanine, where Corey
said the Parker boy's body was located, then led the ambulance
crew as far down the dirt road to Minerva Payne's as possible.
They h
ad come the last eighth of a mile on foot, the two
paramedics towing along a stretcher while John, too anxious
to wait for them, trotted ahead.

When he arrived at the cottage, Mark himself opened the
door. He was pale and had a bandage on the back of his neck,
but he threw his arms around his father and clung to him so
tightly that John knew he'd be fine. The paramedics arrived a
moment later and inspected the wound, confirming what John
already knew. He questioned Mark briefly and gently, then sent
him along with the med tech
s to Frank Cutter's office to await
the doctor's return.

Now he
s
at opposite Minerva Payne, sipping hot t
e
a as if
nothing unusual had happened ... but it had. Wyn Griffin had
let him know by cell phone that Pete Parker was very, very
dead, evidently the victim of an animal attack. Frank Cutter
h
ad already left the scene to take care of Mark before the other
boy's body arrived for examination.

"More tea?" Minerva asked, as he set his cup down on the
gleaming oak dining table.

"Yes, please." He was cold despite the cozy warmth of the
cottage. He wat
ched as the old woman poured
from a
delicate porcelain pot, her hands steadier than his own.

She poured more for herself, then replaced the teapot on a
woven trivet. "You have a fine son," she said gently. "He's
special, you know."

John shook his head. "I'm surprised at his behavior, though.
Sneaking around the abbey, then going to the Falls." He paused,
studying Minerva. Despite himself, he liked her and understood
why his son thought so highly of her. "He said you told him
about my brother, and that you warned him to stay away from
the Falls. I thought you'd made a huge impression on him."

"Perhaps, for a little while, but children believe they're
immortal," Minerva told him. ''And of course, no boy can
resist an adventure, not even one like Mark. If it helps, I don't
think he wanted to go to St. Gertrude's, but the other boys
wou
ld have called him a coward if h
e' d refused. I'm sure you
understand that."

''I understand it all too well."

"Don't be too hard on him, Sheriff."

"He's suffered enough," John replied, and meant it.
"Finding a body, especially that of someone you're close to,
well, no one should have to go through such an ordeal. I'm
just glad ... " Embarrassed, he let his words trail off.

"You're glad it wasn't your son who was killed," Minerva
finished.

"The Parkers will be devastated," John said, more to himself
than to Minerva. He felt selfish, first, for being relieved that it
was Pete who'd been killed, not Mark, and second, for dreading
the house call he would have to make later today. He cleared his
throat. "How did you happen to be at the scene, M
r
s. Payne?"

“
'Minerva," she corrected. ''I closed my shop early. I heard
the nightflyers screeching
.
"

"Nightflyers?"

''The creatures that killed Pete Parker."

"You've lived in this forest most of your life. Have you ever
seen them? Are they some kind of hawk?"

"I've seen them only from a distance. And I don't know
what they are. Night hawks, or some other bird, or creatures
of myth and
s
uperstition, I wish I knew. They don't come from
this forest, though, Sheriff. Look to the woods on the other
side of the west fork of Moonfall Creek for their home."

"You mean they live on St. Gertrude's land?"

Minerva nodded. "So far as I know." She gave him a small,
sly smile. "The nuns probably keep them as pets, don't you
think?"

"I wouldn't be surprised." He inhaled the rich, clean aroma
of the tea and took a sip. "You heard the birds, and that worried
you enough to close your shop on a Sunday?" That was odd
behavior for any shopkeeper.

''Not by itself, but I couldn't get your son off my mind. The
two seemed connected. So I followed my instincts."

Since he'd been worrying about Mark for no apparent reason,
he couldn't argue about intuition. ''Connected? How could they
be connected?"

"I don't know. I only feel these things, just as you do. As
your son does."

"What are you saying?"

"You're an excellent sheriff, like your father before you,
and that's because you are
aware.
"

"Aware of what?"

"Most people have only a little tuition and rarely pay it
any attention." She chuckled. ''Those who have it a little
s
tronger call it either good luck or bad luck, depending on how
they use it. But you, like Mark, and your father and grandfather,
and his father before him, have inherited it to a very high
degree."

"I don't think so."

''Can you deny you were worrying about Mark before you
knew anything had happened to him?"

He had no answer. "Did you know my father?" he asked
instead.

"Not as
w
ell as I'd have liked. Like you, he was afraid of
me. Afraid of what I represent."

"What are you talking about?"

"You've been afraid of me since the moment you saw me
watching you from the bridge the day your brother died." She
hesitated. ''If I had forced your father to listen to me, we might
have stopped it then. Now it's happening again."

"What's happening?"
She's senile ..
.

"The cycle." She cocked one eyebrow. "And I know what
you're thinking."

"Telepathy, huh?" he asked, disappointed that this woman
who seemed so fascinating, was probably losing her mind.

''No, John, not telepathy. Logic."

He looked up, surprised at his name and her crisp answer.

"You think I've lost my marbles, don't you?"

He started to shake his head.

"Don't you?"

Her bright eyes trapped him and wouldn't let him go.

"Well ... "

"It's all right, I don't blame you. That's why I'm not going
to explain about the cycle. I want you to look at it in black
and
white. Do you have a copy of your family tree?"

"What?" he asked, surprised that she would bring this up
on the heels of Gus's similar statement.

"Surely you have a copy of your family tree. One that goes
back to Tobias, the first Lawson to settle here."

''My grandfather does. He mentioned it the other night, said
he wanted me to take a look at it for some obscure reason."

"Gus doesn't believe, but he
knows.
Look at it, John," she
said urgently. ''And look at it soon. Then come back and see
m
e. It's important to your son's
safety. And your own."

"What are you saying?"

"You'll see it in the blood if you look hard enough ... if
you open your mind to the possibility that coincidences aren't
always flukes, but are vectors waiting to happen. Or
to
be prevented.
It all depends on how well you listen to your inner
voice. How many possibilities you allow yourself to consider.
Never forget that history repeats itself."

''Minerva." he said, again at a loss for an answer. ''Why
are you so interested in my son?"

"You'll see that in your tree as well. If you look for it. If
you can accept it. And it will explain why you shouldn't feel
guilty about your brother, either. It was a vector that no one
could stop. I tried to tell you about Gregory in your dreams
the other night, but you wouldn't let me in. Listen to me. You
can stop it this time, John.
You can stop it.
"

"You were the one who found Lenore Tynan, aren't you?"
He didn't know why he said it, but he felt it was true.

"Yes, but I'm admitting that only to convince you to listen
to your intuition."

"Why did you claim it wasn't you?"

''There are enough rumors about me as it is. That those
nightflyers bring me babies, that I cast spells. That I'm a witch."

"Are you?" Another unplanned question, but he forged
ahead. "A witch, I mean?"

"If that's what you choose to call me. I prefer the term
'healer.'" She smiled softly. " 'Witch' has such negative connotations.
These
days, people think it means a S
atanist, but it
doesn't. To be a
Satanist
, you first have to be a Christian."

"You're an
atheist
?"

She laughed. "Not at all. There's a bit of God in all of us,
in every creature and every tree. An
atheist
believes there is
no god as strongly as a Christian believes God requires one to
be Christian.''

"Gus is Christian, but he doesn't believe that.''

She nodded. ''Gus is a wise man. Gus is Christian for the
same reason that other open-minded people are
-
it's the religion
of this land. What do you believe, John?"

''I've never had much use for church." He felt himself blush.
''I think God is a personal thing. I guess I feel closest to God,
or whatever it is, w
hen I'm out fly-fishing. That
sounds
ludicrous, but
-
"

''Not at all. You commune with God through nature, as I
do. It's not surprising. Who taught you fly-fishing?"

"Gus.'' He paused, then felt himself smile. "He says it's
good for the soul.''

"You see? It's all in the interpretation."

"Do you cast spells?" he asked, uncomfortable talking about
his beliefs, or lack of them, with the old woman.

"And dance by the light of the moon, or fly on my broom?"
She shook her head. ''No flying, but my husband and I used
to dance in the moonlight." A coy smile let him see the young
woman she once was. ''Waltzes. Strauss, not Liszt, I assure
you."

"Your husband?
"

''He died a very, very long time ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, but he had a good life. We had good children."

''Where are your children now?"

"All gone."

“
I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry." He could feel the heat
in his face. ''I have no business asking you questions like that."

''It's perfectly all right. My children are gone now, but some
of their children are still alive."

"Do they ever visit?" Ever since his childhood, he'd thought
of Minerva as the old witch in the woods, without husband or
children, and though it was childish of him, the knowledge that
he'd been wrong, that everyone he knew had been wrong about
her, fascinated him.