The Moon Sisters (15 page)

This is how bad things happen, I thought, as my anxiety found a real reason to surge inside me.
Knife out, in my side, across my throat, done
.

“You’re the girl from the restaurant, right?” he asked. “The one with the watch?”

I covered my watch with my hand, sure he’d take it after killing me. Someone would find me someday, a hollowed-out shell, a few teeth and eye sockets. They would never know my name.

He whistled. “Hellooo, anybody home? What are you doing out here, a pretty young thing, all alone in the woods?”

When he leaned forward, I reached reflexively for my backpack, my fingers contracting around a strap. But I knew there was nothing inside the canvas that could help me. My defenses in this scenario would be basic and minimal; I could kick him in the groin, scratch him with my stub nails, scream.

“Put down your knife,” I said.

Though my voice sounded far less commanding than I would’ve liked, he held both empty hands in the air like a duet of white flags.

“Now, don’t be scared. I’m not gonna hurt—”

“Throw it down,” I said, my voice rising in pitch. “Do it, or I will claw your face off.”

“Now, now, keep your shirt on,” he said.

“I mean to.”

His eyes widened. “Wait a minute, miss, you’ve got me all wrong. This here’s a fishing knife.”

“Well, since there aren’t any fish here just now you shouldn’t have a problem setting it down, right?” I said.

He lowered one hand slowly, unbuckled the knife—“For shit’s sake”—then tossed the blade with a smooth motion so that it hit the ground between us in a puff of dirt, an earthy sigh.

“Why are you here?” I asked. His appearance could hardly be coincidental.

He shook his head. “I’m looking for somebody, tracking a boy with”—his fingers danced in the air—“skin colorings. Maybe you’ve seen him?”

I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to lead this stranger toward my sister and her unmissable guide until I understood what this was about. He reached for his pocket.

“Keep those hands where I can—”

“Calm yourself, missy. I’m thinking a picture’s worth a thousand.” With slow and careful fingers, he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, then held it up for me to see. There, on glossy paper and in living color, was the photo of a familiar inked-up male. Above his head, a single word blared in bold black type:
WANTED
.

“Is that official?”

“Official enough. These here are scattered all around the state, all the way to Kentucky.”

“Hobbs is wanted?”

The man smiled, revealing a set of coffee-stained teeth. “You
have
seen him! Where’s he gone, then? I got business with—Whoa, whoa,” he said, moving his poster-holding hand behind him as I took a step forward with my fingers outstretched.

“What did he do?” I asked.

“Just a minute now.”

“What did he do?” I repeated, my words as pointed as the knife I pinned under my foot.

The man refolded the paper with one hand, his eyes never leaving mine. “Nothing so bad as what you’re thinking,” he said. “It ain’t a cop poster, is it?”

“Tell me, or I don’t help you.”

He laughed. “I’ll find him with or without you, and that’s the truth,” he said, tucking the page back into his pocket. “But I don’t want you afeard for your life, either.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Again, he laughed. “Sure you’re not, but you can know he isn’t a rapist or murderer or anything so unsavory as that. He’s a thief, see? And it’s me who’ll bring him to justice if there’s any justice to be had.”

“If there’s a reward to be had, you mean.”

His smile faded. I looked him over again, took in the dirty ripped clothing, the grime—evidence of a hard life. Much harder than mine. At least we’d eaten three meals a day, had a roof over our
heads. Clothes that were well-kept and well-fitted most of the time, too. Laces on our boots instead of ropes. Sure, he’d be hungry for a reward.

“Who’s after him, if not the cops?” I asked. “What did he steal?”

“Nosy one, ain’t you?”

“And you’re evasive. What did he steal?”

His lips jutted out, like he was kissing the air and it tasted sour, but he remained quiet.

“Listen,” I said. “I hate his guts, I want him gone, and I might be inclined to help you if you’re honest with me now.”

“
Hate
’s a mighty strong word,” he said.

“Mighty true, though.”

The corners of his eyes creased. “And how do I know you’re not gonna turn around and tell him everything I might tell you, missy?”

he said. “I’ve built a trust.”

“Well, now you’ll have to trust me, won’t you?” I said, and crossed my arms over my chest. “What did he do?”

He regarded me. I regarded him back.

And then his features relaxed, and he flapped his lips like a horse. “Tough bird for a young thing,” he said, shifting his backpack. “No wonder the crow listened to you.”

“So?”

“It’s over coins, if you have to know.”

I leaned a little further into the conversation. “What sort of coins?”

“The sort you collect, what do you think?”

Quarters, dimes, or silver dollars, Hobbs didn’t strike me as the kind of guy to collect coins. But did it matter? This stranger had just provided me with a powerful weapon. Being rid of Hobbs meant Olivia would rely on only me again. She’d have to listen to me, too, because I didn’t have a clue how to get to the glades by foot. We’d go home. Today. Then the feeling inside me, the swelling, blistering cauldron of nameless anxiety, would fade into nothing.

“I’ll show you where he is,” I said, “but you have to take him straightaway.”

“What do you mean, ‘straightaway’? I can’t drag him off by the hair now, can I?”

Why not? I wanted to ask. This man was bigger than Hobbs—just as tall maybe, but stockier.

“These things ain’t so easy,” he said. “Can’t spook him. Gotta reel him in nice and slow-like. That’s my way.”

He nodded, seemed pleased with himself and his plan. I did not share this satisfaction.

“Your way sounds like it’s going to take longer than I want it to take. I want this finished today. I don’t want to go another step with him by my side.” Or Olivia’s.

He grunted. “You’re like a hotshot.”

“What?”

“A fast train. Too fast for this old man,” he said. “I like things done a certain way, see? That’s how I do business.”

I wanted to grab at his doughy face, knead it until it suited. “This is important. He’s manipulating my sister.”

“Sister?” His voice sparked with interest. “The black-haired girl from the train, with the big eyes and lashes?”

“That’s her,” I said.

“Well, well. Yeah, I see some resemblances.” He dragged a palm over his scruffy chin. “It’s the sister that’s the problem. I had things all squared up in Jewel, with a plan to get Hobbs where I wanted him to go. And then your sister showed up, and there went my plan. She’s leading him way off course.”

“You have that backward,” I said. “Hobbs is the one throwing things off course.”

He scratched his ear. “Well, don’t matter much who’s throwing who, does it? Point is, we have something in common here, don’t we? A need to get them away from each other. Now, I can’t make any promises that we’ll find a town today, miss, though we might. I
can’t right predict what we’ll find around a bend, because this ain’t my part of the state, see?”

I could hear that in his voice, that he was from somewhere south of Tramp and by a long mile. But I needed something to cling to, if not a promise.

“I want the poster,” I said.

“No way.”

“Not to call him in but to show my sister. If she knows that he’s—”

“No,” he said. “The poster stays between us or there is no deal whatsoever, and that is right final. Right final.”

I gritted my teeth. I would not be controlled by this new person. Neither could I afford to lose a golden opportunity just now. I’d have to play things just right.

“Then I’m keeping the knife,” I said, covering the blade more completely with my foot.

He reared back as if I’d whopped him on the chin. “Now wait a minute, I—”

“Two strange men with two women out in the forest,” I said. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask that I have a weapon on my side, if it turns out you’re not as straight-up nice as you want me to think.”

“I’d never, I’m not that kind of a—”

“I’m sure you’re not,” I said. “I still want the knife. Call it insurance.”

His face turned whiter still before he grumbled, “Take it, then, but if I catch a fish you’re cleaning it, missy.”

“We’ll see.” I scooped up the knife.

His name, he said, was Red Grass, and his plan was simple. Get to civilization as soon as possible, then make the necessary call to turn in Hobbs. I’d take charge of a Hobbs-less Olivia after that.

This was Red Grass’s Plan A.

This was not my Plan A.

My Plan A was to extract whatever common sense lay dormant in my sister, make it rise up, realize, and repent. Now. Today. This
hour. And then we could go back, back, and I could stop berating myself over why I didn’t know my own feelings, because what I’d feel then would be … relief.

Common sense. It had to be in there somewhere.

I led the way out of that nook in the forest, past tall weeds with purple flowers that scratched my ankles all over again. I felt a touch of dread when I didn’t see Olivia right away, but then I heard voices and found the path that led down to a stream, and found my sister.

In the water. In her underwear. With Hobbs.

Red Grass saw, too, of course. “I’m thinking this isn’t going to be easy,” he said.

Loath as I was to admit it, I had a feeling he was right.

CHAPTER TEN

Another Way to Look at Things

   OLIVIA   

I
never knew either of my grandfathers.

Papa’s father died when he was just a baby. Dušan and Babka had come to America when they were barely out of their teens. Before that, her last name was Pekár, a word that means
baker
, which she said was a sign if ever there was one. (Dušan’s last name was Moon, because his father was Scottish, but that’s another story.) Babka might’ve gone back to her native country after Dušan died so young, raised Papa with the help of her own mother, but she decided to stick with the business and make it a success. She has a few pictures of Grandpa Dušan, and they’re all dark and grainy. He had a beard. He wasn’t thin, but he wasn’t fat, either. Babka says he was her missing part, and made her laugh all the time.

Mama’s father, Orin, was a different story. There was only one photo of him that I’d ever seen, and most days that stayed overturned in my parents’ bedroom. In the picture, he wore a dark sweater with a white shirt peeking out at the top, a little like a priest. I knew Mama never spoke to him, but she wrote to him in secret. It was eons ago that I made the discovery, after my knee smashed up
against the loose floorboard under her desk while playing hide-and-seek with Jazz.

A stash of letters.

Those are private
, Mama said when I asked her about them.
Please leave them alone
.

I listened, for the most part, even though I burned with curiosity and knew well enough how to steam open an envelope. (Boil some water in a pot. Hold the envelope, gummy side down, over the steam until you can wiggle a pinky under the sticky flap. Separate the edges real slow, so the paper doesn’t rip. You’re in.)

Finding the letters kick-started a sort of obsession with my grandfather when I was younger.

What’s Grandpa Orin like?
I’d ask my father.

A hard man
, he’d say.

Strong?

Too strong
.

Tall?

Over six feet
.

Back then—I might’ve been seven—I thought Grandpa Orin was like Superman, and so I pictured him bending steel with his pinkie fingers and saving the world. Maybe that’s why Mama couldn’t see him again, I told myself, because he was so busy and important. Maybe that’s why she slept with her bedroom window cracked most of the time, because she knew he’d fly to our house one night and take those letters himself.