Biting the Moon (42 page)

Now Mary did turn to look at her. She had a cigarette out and was bending her head toward it, cupping her hand around a match to protect the flame from the wind.

“I'm talking about you. Don't
you
want to know?” She let the wind take the match.

Mary looked at the rock, where a tiny salamander slithered down one side. She did not know what to say because she did not know the answer.

There was a silence then until Marie asked, “Where did she go? Where do you think she went?”

Mary looked off at the mountains and said, “Home, maybe.”

Marie looked puzzled, but she said nothing and smoked on in silence, both of them standing in the wind of an otherwise silent land and both looking toward the mountains.

They turned when they heard Rosella call in the distance, where she stood waving them back.

“I guess the taxi's come,” said Mary.

Marie dropped her cigarette, ground it out, and sighed. “Don't come with me. I just hate good-byes.” She put her arms around Mary, gave her a tight hug.

“Listen,” said Mary. “Are you really going back to your house? Back to Buck?”

“Sure.” At Mary's look, half concern, half surprise, Marie said, “Long enough to pick up my dog.”

Mary watched her walk away, called to her—“
Marie!
”—and, when Marie turned, she yelled, “
Thanks!
”

She sat down on the smooth rock, feeling bereft. For a few more moments she watched the colors diffuse above the mountains, the dying sun behind her reflecting off the western face of the Sangre de Cristos. Even when she was saddest, the slow diffusion and glow of pink, gold, lavender never failed to affect her. But images flooded her mind now—the black panther slumped in that field, the standing waves of the river, the tiger shot in his cage, Harry Wine's blood, the kitten tossed to the dogs—these images rose in her mind as implacable and unalterable as the mountains. She would never be rid of them. She put her hands over her face, cutting off light as if that would cut off recollection, but she would never be rid of these memories. They would never be expunged. Her own words to Marie came back to her:
You didn't want to know. But now you know.

Now she knew.

It surprised Mary that the murder of Harry Wine slaked the newspapers' thirst for the sensational for such a short time. A week, ten days, and the rehashing of the murder was over, at least in the papers. The intense search for Harry's killer that she'd expected hadn't happened. What she had not realized at the time—certainly not at the time of that horrible, bloody shooting (and the motel room surely screaming of their presence)—was that there hadn't been anybody to search for.

Harry had a lot of enemies, but enemies weren't suspects. If the police had found photos—of Brill or any of the other kids—Bonnie would surely be suspected. But there was nothing reported about that at all. There were no actual suspects. When Mary thought about this, it came clear: why would anyone suspect Andi, suspect
them
? They were kids. Kids who'd been on one of his rafting trips, but what else? There were no witnesses. And the people who'd seen them—Brill (who would hardly be counted on to witness anything) and his sister, Hope—wouldn't talk. And Bonnie, of course. Reuel was right about Bonnie: she wasn't going to report anyone who might have taken out the man who had preyed for so long on her children.

Indeed, the more that came out about Harry Wine and his life, the less anyone seemed moved to prosecute whoever had killed him. His dealings with the Quicks became common knowledge. Jack Kite finally managed to shut down their “game hunt.”

Reuel regularly sent her clippings.

Marie sent her news. There was going to be a hearing in a couple of months that she was sure would put an end to the Peaceable Kingdom Animal Hospital. With Andi's snapshot and Mary's evidence, and the testimony of some of the people who'd been there when Andi and Mary had brought Jules in—well, there wasn't much doubt what would happen. Already, business at Peaceable Kingdom had fallen off; the animal hospital was failing. It was only a matter of time.

There was also the evidence of Asa Stamper. There was no one else, since no one would come forth voluntarily and Marie didn't know their
names (except for Buck's); therefore, no one could be subpoenaed. But the prosecuting attorney, a tough woman, was certain they had enough evidence to levy a ruinous fine on Dr. Krueger, even if they couldn't put him away. Though she thought there was even a good chance of both.

Mary laughed. In her mind she could hear Asa Stamper in the witness box, shouting to the attorney, “Lift me up, lady! Lift me up!”

The place hadn't been difficult to find: a gas station and country store—it was the only business along this stretch of state road. But if there had been any doubt, it would have been dispelled when she walked inside and saw the deli counter.

Mary had been here twice before, over a month ago. She had watched him—Andrew, the “sandwich fellow”—while trying not to appear watchful. She had stood then as now, in front of the display case full of sandwiches and salads, pretending to be making up her mind. He had made her a cheese sub, with all of the works, the relish and tomatoes and onions, that she had asked him to put on it.

Andi was right; he was the most wonderful sandwich maker.

She stood at the counter this evening, saying nothing, for she did not want to disturb his sandwich-making. He was carefully layering bread with cold cuts and cheese, when he looked up, saw her, and said, smiling, “Oh. Hello.”

“Hi,” said Mary. “Can you make me another sub like before?” Then she felt ridiculous: how could he possibly remember after a month and God-knows-how-many sandwiches that he had to make?

He cocked his hand at her, shaping a gun (and that made her tremulous, innocent as the gesture was). He said, “Cheese, no meat. Sure.”

While he worked, carefully dicing tomatoes and a cucumber, she asked him, “Have you seen my friend, you know, the blond girl I asked about last time? Have you seen her since?”

He shook his head. “Nope. She hasn't been in, at least not while I'm here.”

This made Mary smile. Since “the sandwich fellow” was the main attraction, even before necessary food, coming when he wasn't here would hardly serve Andi's purpose.

His plastic-gloved hand stopped in midair as if it had forgotten what to reach for—cheese slices? Pickles? He said, “She was so pretty . . .”

Mary didn't care for the past tense. “She
is
.”

He smiled, nodded, slid the sandwich across to her, and she thanked him. She would pay for it at the cash register up front.

Mary ate the sub sitting at one of the three tables placed there for the customers' use. From the refrigeration unit, she'd pulled out a large Diet Pepsi. The sandwich was perfect. It wasn't only that it tasted good, it was easier to eat because he cut it up into manageable bites.

“How's the sub? Is it all right?”

He stood by her chair, still wearing his white apron (somewhat stained) and clutching a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches.

“Sandwich Heaven.”

He smiled widely. “That's just what your friend said. Andi. She said I should open up a place and call it that.”

“She was right.”

He stood there turning his pack of Marlboros in his hand at the same time he seemed to be turning something over in his mind. He looked intense, as if he were framing a question he didn't know whether—or how—to ask. As if he were mustering the resolve to do it. What he did instead was to hold up his cigarettes and say (sheepishly, as if it embarrassed him), “I was just going out for a smoke. Gail”—here
he nodded toward the dark woman—“doesn't want us to smoke in here.” Although Mary said nothing to suggest criticism, he seemed to feel a need to explain, to justify. “It's a really stupid habit. I
am
going to quit, you know.”

Mary thought of her sister, who had tried so many times. “It's not stupid. It's not your fault the tobacco companies set out to addict you. My sister smoked over a pack a day before she—stopped.” She didn't want to add that her sister died then, too.

He left her side, said something to the woman behind the cash register that made her laugh. In a few minutes, Mary had finished the sandwich and Pepsi. She hurried doing it; she wanted to go out and talk to him some more. He had become, and the place had become, a link to Andi.

Mary paid and walked out.

He was leaning against one of the wooden posts that lined the walkway, smoking. When he saw her, he said, as if continuing their conversation indoors, “The trouble is, nowadays a smoker feels pretty much a pariah.”

She did not want to trot out her ignorance by asking what a pariah was. “That's right.”

He looked up at the sky. “What an awesome night.”

“Yes,” she said. Since it almost always was in this country, she thought she failed to appreciate such nights. Chill, with no wind. Stars splashed against the sky, as if a hand had found an overabundance of them—
Oh, look, another bucket of stars
—and tossed them out. The moon, scissored in half and sailing white as an ice floe. It was a night with edges, diamond-hard.

“What were you going to ask me?”

He turned to her. “What?”

“Inside, you acted as if you were going to ask me something or say something, but you decided not to.”

He took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled. “I guess I wonder why you're looking for Andi. Obviously, you're a really good friend, but you don't know where she is. I just wondered why.” He shrugged and smiled. “I mean, does she just disappear?”

“Yes.”

As he laughed in disbelief, he tossed the butt of his cigarette away, and Mary watched its tiny, incendiary arc downward. She would have liked nothing more than to tell him the whole story. But she couldn't, of course. She could tell him the beginning, though, the part about the bus accident, and her amnesia. Then she found herself telling him more—leaving out Harry Wine altogether, of course. Only, without an object for their search, the search itself sounded crazy and incoherent.

An old Chevy drove in, parked, and its driver got out. He wore a heavy wool shirt and a cap with earflaps. They stopped talking until he'd passed, the way people do, as if they wanted to keep their secrets beyond the reach of passersby.

“What a story,” he said, shaking his head in a sort of wonder. “Well, what do you think she's doing now?”

“Saving coyotes.”

He laughed. “You've lost me.”

“I mean—” But she didn't care what she'd meant, only what he'd said:
You've lost me.
She wondered if that weren't the enormous truth of things. When she opened her mouth to try to explain, she realized any explanation would only raise more questions, themselves, perhaps, inexplicable.

He was smoking another cigarette, thoughtful. Then he asked her the same thing Marie had asked: “That bus accident. Wouldn't it be easy enough to find that orphanage? You could find out who she is if you have a picture of her.”

I know who she is.
She didn't say it, though; it made her sound so superior. “Yes, maybe you're right.”

Another car, a mud-splattered Jeep, bumped across the gravel. A weathered-looking woman in jeans hopped out and nodded as she passed them. Mary thought everyone who came here came alone. She wondered if this was a place for loners.

“I guess I'd better get inside, see if anyone wants anything.” He flicked the cigarette away as he'd done before. “I hope you come back.”

He sounded so sincere that Mary's mood lightened. “I will.” She put out her hand. “Well, good-bye.”

After he'd left, she still stood there, looking up at the Sandias. She would go up there. Or she wouldn't—probably wouldn't. And she
wondered: Was she afraid to? And thought, Yes, she was. Yet she was uncertain of what. She remembered their meal at the Roadrunner and Darlene:

“Let's take a kayak,

To Quincy or Nyack,

Let's get away from it all . . .”

The Sandia Crest rose black in the distance backlit by the dead-white moon. Mary remembered Andi spelling it out:
S, A, N, D, I, A.

Her name was buried there.

Read on for a preview of
The Way of All Fish

by Martha Grimes

The sequel to her bestselling novel
Foul Matter

The Way of All Fish
Coming January 2014 from Scribner Books

They came in, hidden in coats, hats pulled over their eyes, two stubby hoods like refugees from a George Raft film, icy-eyed and tight-lipped. They opened their overcoats, swung up Uzis hanging from shoulder holsters, and sprayed the room back and forth in watery arcs. There were twenty or so customers who had been sitting in the café—several couples, two businessmen in pinstripes, a few solo diners—some now standing, some screaming, some crawling crablike beneath their tables.

Oddly, given all the cordite misting the air like cheap champagne, the customers didn't get shot; it was the owner's aquarium, situated between the bar and the dining area, that exploded. Big glass panels slid and slipped more like icebergs calving than glass breaking, the thirty- or forty-odd fish within pouring forth on their little tsunami of water and flopping around in the puddles on the floor. A third of them were clown fish.

All of that took four seconds.

In the next four seconds, Candy and Karl had their weapons drawn—Karl from his shoulder holster, Candy from his belt, Candy down on one knee, Karl standing. Gunfire was exchanged before the two George Rafts backed toward the door and, still firing, finally turned and hoofed it fast into the dark.