MOON FALL (40 page)

"You were right," Sara told John, as she sat down beside
him in Frank Cutter's office. "He's a gem."

John squeezed her hand, glad to see the calmness in Sara's
eyes. Even when she'd seemingly relaxed in the bath, he'd
detected a trace of hysteria in them, and being a white knight,
as she'd called him, had been extraordinarily difficult in the
face of her passion-
and his. He'd had to keep reminding
himself the passion wasn't coming from the right place, and if
it hadn't been for the visual reminders of what she'd been
through, he would probably have given in. "Frank's one of the
good ones," he told her.

The door opened and Cutter walked in and sat down at his
desk. "You said Dr. Dashwood treated the bite, Miss Hawthorne?"

"That's what he told me."

"Then I'll be looking into the state of his license tomorrow.
You are very fortunate John brought you in. He was right. You
were headed for blood poisoning, but the injection and the
antibiotics should take care of things. I want to see you again
in three days, though." He paused, pulled an amber pill bottle
from his pocket. "Pharmacy's closed by now. These are on the
house." He pushed them across the desk.

"Thank you, Doctor. Now, will you please tell John I'm all
right?"

"She'll be all right, John." Cutter glanced from one to the
other, then smiled benignly at Sara. ''Do you want me to get
personal with this big lug in here?"

"Yes," she replied firmly.

"All right. First, the bite on your breast. I don't understand
why you believe a human isn't responsible
-
it was made by
human teeth." He paused. "Do either of you want to explain
that to me?"

Sara looked at John. "Just accept it for now," he said. "I
don't understand it, either, but I believe Sara." He almost added
that it might have something to do with magic, but he stopped
himself. He didn't need to open that can of worms.

Cutter folded his hands on his desk. "All right, I'll accept
it for now. The bruising is consistent with large hands. There
is evidence of penetration by a large object, human or manmade.
There's bruising, swelling, and some vaginal tearing,
which is healing nicely. Don't have sexual relations for another
week, and I think you'll be fine."

John felt his face redden and he couldn't meet Frank's gaze.

"I've taken blood and I'll have the tests back by the time I
see you again, but so far, everything looks good. You're not
pregnant, by the way."

"I told you, it wasn't a man who did this."

John nudged her with his knee. "Sara was told that it was
likely that a woman assaulted her with a dildo." He nudged
her again and she remained silent, thank God.

"Sounds reasonable. Now, would you two like a cup of
coffee? Got a whole pot full at my house."

John glanced at his watch. It was eight-thirty. "Sara?"

"Yes, I'd like that."

''Let me call home and leave Mark a message, in case he
beats us back." Frank pushed the phone over to John and he
made the call. Then he rose and joined Sara and the doctor at
the door just in time to hear Cutter say, ''When John was born,
he was blond from head to toe. Had fine blond down all over
his body, and until it fell out, the family cat seemed to think
he was her kitten. She was always trying to groom him."

''Thanks a lot, Frank. Shall I tell Sara about your birthmark?"

He grinned at Sara. ''Rumor has it, it
'
s
a perfect profile of
Elvis."

John Lawson wasn't home. Richard Dashwood had broken
into the house after making sure it was empty, and the ease of
entrance had been surprising. Most likely, Lawson arrogantly
assumed nobody would dare break into the sheriff's house. He
hadn't even bothered to use the deadbolt on the front door. A
quick flick of a credit card was all it took.

The lights were on, the drapes closed, so Dashwood prowled
through the house. The man had common tastes: light oak
furnishing, distastefully modem, with a television taking center
stage. The kitchen was a sterile white, the pantry full of canned
soup and the refrigerator held canned ham and leftover pizza,
peanut butter and jelly. The freezer was, of course, loaded with
frozen dinners, which, in Dashwood's estimation, was reason
enough for the man to die.

His bedroom had, of all things, a large waterbed with a bright
spread patterned with geometric blues and greens. It clashed
with the curtains. The boy's room was done in Early Adolescent
Rubble. The bathroom was steamy, the towels damp.
Lawson's office showed little more of the man's personality.
The desk held a PC clone with bouncing eyeballs on the screen.
He pressed a button with a gloved finger and some obscure
computer war game came up, a little square box in the middle
of the screen asking if he wanted to play again. ''Cretin," he
muttered. Checking the drawers yielded little of interest, except
a small roll of twenty-dollar bills stuck in with a package of
pencils and several boxes of paper clips. He didn't touch any
of it.

More interesting were the bookshelves that lined the room.
The man could, at least, read. Criminology books of all kinds
lined one wall, history books, another. Lawson had an interest
in the Civil War, just like every other would-be intellectual
these days.

Another set of shelves held an eclectic mix of nonfiction,
everything from cryptology to Egyptology, and the last case
held fiction, mostly paperbacks. John Lawson was the ultimate
common man. He favored Nero Wolfe, Tony Hillerman, and
Larry McMurtry. At least there weren't any of those tacky
horror novels on his shelves. Dashwood smiled to himself.
Perhaps if the sheriff had read a little Poe or King, he'd have
some clue as to what he was getting into.

The phone rang. He stared at the answering machine on the
desk. It was on, and on the fourth ring, it picked up and rattled
off an insipid message, then beeped. John Lawson's voice came
over the speaker.

"Hiya, Mark. It's about eight-thirty, and I'm at Dr. Cutter's
with Sara Hawthorne. She had a little accident, but she's fine
now. We're going to his house for coffee-
we have some things
to talk over with the doctor. We won't be too late, though. Do
me a favor, son, and check and make sure the guest room's
made up. Sara's going to spend the night at our house. If you
need me, the doc's number is in the Rolodex on my desk.
Remember to lock the doors and do your homework. 'Bye."

"Damn it." The dullard of a sheriff had already talked. If
he killed Lawson now, he'd have to kill the doctor as well, and
there was always the possibility he'd alerted his deputies. But
as it was, Lawson didn't really have anything except a Valium
-
popping
woman claiming she'd been raped by a ghost. He
decided it would be best to let Lawson live another day or two.
Dashwood whirled, hearing a noise in the living room.

"Dad?" called a boy's voice. "Dad? You here?"

He smiled to himself. At least something had gone according
to plan. He pulled a small bottle of chloroform and a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, poured a little on the cloth. Taking
Lawson's son would get the man's mind off Sara Hawthorne,
and it would also take care of the most difficult aspect of the
All Hallow's Eve preparations: procuring the boy.

He stepped behind the door and waited. It didn't take long
before the boy walked up the hall and entered the office. Without
looking around, he went straight to the flashing answering
machine and pressed the button. As soon as Lawson's voice
started prattling on, Dashwood crossed the room in three long
s
trides and clamped the cloth over Mark's mouth. The boy
s
truggled hard, but Dashwood kept his grip, and finally the boy
went down in a heap.

Leaving him there, Dashwood went to the boy's room, found
a backpack, and took jeans, shirts, socks, and underwear from
his drawers, stuffing the bag with them. Then he took an extra
blanket from the boy's closet and quickly fashioned a long
lump under the bedspread that resembled a sleeping body.

Going to the kitchen, he looked in the cupboards, found a
container of Slim-Jims and half a dozen Twinkies, and threw
them in, too, then carefully shut the cupboard doors. Returning
to the office, he removed the roll of twenties from the de
s
k
and shoved it into the bag.

Last, but not least, he entered the guest room and made up
the bed for Sara Hawthorne. When he finished, he messed it
up a little, so that it would look like the work of an adolescent
boy.

Now came the hard work. He dragged the boy out of the
office and hoi
s
ted him over his shoulder fireman
-
style, then
snagged up the backpack. He walked boldly out the front door,
locking it behind him. The street was quiet, and he made it to
the BMW without being seen.

"No arguments, Sara," John said, as they pulled into the
driveway. "You can't go back to the abbey. You're sleeping in
our guest room."

"John, I have to go back. I promise, all I'll do is get Kelly
to Minerva's so she's safe, hand in my resignation, and grab
my stuff."

"You're stubborn," he said, as he unlocked the front door
and ushered her inside. ''I could put you in protective custody,
you
know."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Don't tempt me." The clock chimed eleven. "Mark?" he
called, then turned to Sara. ''We're late. He might already be
asleep. Just let me check on him; then we can resume our
argument."

She smiled and sat down on the couch.

Mark's room was dark, but a stray beam of moonlight shone
across the bed, revealing his son's sleeping form. John was
sorry
they were so late getting back
;
he and Sara had told the
doctor enough wild tales to fuel conversations for years to
come,
but
he was not sorry Mark was already asleep. It made
everything
much easier.

He left Mark's room and checked the guest room. Mark had
made the bed and even turned back the covers. It was a little
messy, but John was impressed; for Mark, this was exquisite
work. And it meant he approved of Sara.

"You have to stay," he said, returning to the living room.
"Mark's made up the guest room for you."

"I'm willing to stay the night," she said. "I just have to be
there in the morning."

''About Kelly," John began.

"What?" She was suddenly alert. "I've neglected her for a
week. Lord, John, I just remembered. I promised to drive her
to Minerva's last Sunday, and then the ... incident occurred
and I forgot all about her. Is something wrong?"

"No, but I don't think you need to worry. The girl gets
around. Minerva says she's been visiting her. I'll go over in
the morning and ask Minerva to keep her until we can sort
things out."

"Do you think Minerva's safe out there?"

''I know it sounds strange, but yes, I do. And I think anybody
who's with her is safe." He studied her. "Where's your magic
necklace?"

Sara laughed. ''It disappeared that night."

"We have an extra. It's in my bedroom. I'll get it for you
when we turn in."

She smiled. "You're taking this pretty seriously now, aren't
you?"

"It can't hurt," he said lightly.

"If we can get Kelly out of there, then put St. Gertrude's
under investigation, I'll be very satisfied, but I still wish I knew
what really happened to Jenny."

"We may never know, but I'm going to do my best to find
out for you. You just let me handle that part."

''I have to get my things."

"That's fine. I'll go with you."

"Okay. Then I'm going with you to Minerva's."

He opened his mouth to object, then realized they'd run out
of reasons to spar. "Sure. I'd like that."

Sara lifted an eyebrow. "What happened to the he
-man
routine?"

Grinning, he pushed his hair away from his forehead. ''Simple.
You stopped talking like Wonder Woman. Want some hot
milk or something?"

''Hot chocolate?" she asked.

"I think we can manage that."

Soon, they sat at the kitchen table sipping steaming mugs
of chocolate made Sara's way; so strong he could barely drink
it. ''You really are addicted to chocolate," he mused, adding
a spoon of sugar to his mug.

"We all have our vices. John, do you know if Dr. Cutter is
right about that history teacher retiring from Moonfall High at
the end of the semester?"

"Frank Cutter is all-knowing."

''Do you think I'd have a chance at the post?"

''Are you kidding? With your background, you'd be in like
flint." He tried to suppress a sudden yawn. The day was catching
up with him.

"I'm tired, too," she said, rising. "Are you done with that?"

He nodded, and she took his cup, drained the bitter chocolate,
then set both mugs in the sink and filled them with water.

"John? You don't happen to have an old T-shirt or something
I can wear to bed, do you?"

"How about a pajama top? Mark gives me pajamas every
year in the hopes I'll start wearing them to bed." He realized
what he'd said, and added, "I wear shorts."

She followed him past Mark's closed door to his bedroom.

He gave her a long pale blue pajama top, then guided her to the
guest bathroom where he showed her hotel soaps, toothpaste,
shampoo, and even a new toothbrush sealed in plastic.