By the Light of the Moon (17 page)

“Shep is scared.” The kid’s averted face had faded as pale as whatever haunting spirits he might have glimpsed.

“Your hands are clean, no germs, just you and me, nothing to be afraid of. Okay?”

Shepherd didn’t reply but continued to shake.

Resorting to the singsong cadences with which his brother most often could be calmed in moments of emotional turmoil, Dylan said, “Good clean hands, no dirty germs, good clean hands. Gonna go now, go now, hit the road now. Okay? Gonna roll. Okay? You like the road, on the road again, on the road, goin’ places where we never been. Okay? On the road again, like old Willie Nelson, you and me, rollin’ along. Like always, rollin’. The old rhythm, the rhythm of the road. You can read your book, read and ride, read and ride. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Shep.

“Read and ride.”

“Read and ride,” Shep echoed. The urgency and tension drained out of his voice even though he still shivered. “Read and ride.”

As Dylan had calmed his brother, Shep had continued to dry his hands with such energy that the towels had shredded. Crumpled rags and frayed curls of damp paper littered the floor at his feet.

Dylan held Shep’s hands until they stopped trembling. Gently, he pried open the clenched fingers and removed the remaining tatters of the paper towels. He wadded this debris and threw it in the nearby trash can.

Placing a hand under Shep’s chin, he tipped the kid’s head up.

The moment their eyes met, Shep closed his.

“You okay?” Dylan asked.

“Read and ride.”

“I love you, Shep.”

“Read and ride.”

A pinch of color had returned to the kid’s wintry cheeks. The lines of anxiety in his face slowly smoothed away as crow tracks might be erased from a mantle of snow by a persistent breeze.

Although Shep’s outer tranquillity became complete, his inner weather remained troubled. Shuttered, his eyes twitched behind his pale lids, jumping from sight to sight in a world that only he could see.

“Read and ride,” Shep repeated, as if those three words were a calming mantra.

Dylan regarded the bank of toilet stalls. The door of the fourth stood open, as he had left it after he’d checked on the nature of the partitions. The doors of the two middle stalls were ajar, and that of the first remained tightly closed.

“Read and ride,” said Shep.

“Read and ride,” Dylan assured him. “I’ll get your book.”

Leaving his brother beside the towel dispenser, Dylan retrieved
Great Expectations
from the shelf above the sinks.

Shep stood where he’d been left, head still raised even though Dylan’s supporting hand had been removed. Eyes closed, but busy.

Carrying the book, Dylan went to the first stall. He tried the door. It wouldn’t open.

“Here, there,” Shep whispered. Standing with his eyes closed, arms slack at his sides, and hands open with both palms facing front, Shepherd had an otherworldly quality, as though he were a medium in a trance, bisected by the membrane between this world and the next. If he had risen off the floor, his levitation would have conformed to his appearance so completely that you would not have been much surprised to see him floating in the air. Although Shep’s voice remained recognizably his own, he almost seemed to speak for a seance-summoned entity from Beyond:
“Here, there.”

Dylan knew that no one could be in the first stall. Nevertheless he dropped to one knee and peered under the door to confirm what he understood to be a certainty.

“Here, there.”

He got up and tried the door again. Not just stuck. Locked. From the inside, of course.

A faulty latch, perhaps. Loose, the drop bar might have fallen into the latch channel when no one had been in the stall.

Maybe Shepherd had
approached
this first compartment, as Dylan had seen him do, but had found it inaccessible, and had at once moved to the fourth without Dylan noticing.

“Here, there.”

The chill found bone first, not skin, and radiated through Dylan from the core of every limb. Fear iced his marrow, although not fear alone; this was also a chill of not entirely unpleasant expectation and of awe inspired by some mysterious looming event that he sensed much in the manner that a storm petrel, winging under curdled black clouds, senses the glorious tempest before being alerted by either lightning or thunder.

Strangely, he glanced at the mirror above the sink, prepared to see a room other than the lavatory in which he stood. His expectation of wonders outstripped the capacity of the moment to deliver them, however, and the reflection proved to be the mundane facts of toilet stalls and urinals. He and Shep were the only figures occupying the reversed image, though he didn’t know who or what else he might have expected.

With one last puzzled glance at the locked stall door, Dylan returned to his brother and put one hand on his shoulder.

At Dylan’s touch, Shepherd opened his eyes, lowered his head, let his shoulders slump forward, and in general reassumed the humble posture in which he shuffled through life.

“Read and ride,” Shep said, and Dylan said, “Let’s roll.”

Chapter Twenty

J
ILLY WAITED PENSIVELY NEAR THE CASHIER’S STATION
, by the front door, gazing out at the night, as radiant as a princess, perhaps the heir of a handsome Roman emperor who had ventured in conquest south of Sidra’s shores.

Dylan nearly stopped midrestaurant to study her and to lock in his memory every detail of the way she looked at this moment in the dialed-down, bevel-sheared light from the cut-glass ceiling fixtures, for he wanted to paint her eventually just as she stood now.

Always preferring to remain in motion in any public place, lest a hesitation should encourage a stranger to speak to him, Shepherd allowed no slightest pause, and Dylan was drawn after his brother by their invisible chain.

Bringing hand to hat brim, a departing customer graciously tipped his Stetson to Jilly as she stepped aside to give him easier access to the door.

When she looked up and saw Dylan and Shep approaching, palpable relief chased the pensive expression from her face. Something had happened to her in their absence.

“What’s wrong?” he asked when he reached her.

“I’ll tell you in the truck. Let’s get out of here. Let’s go.”

Opening the door, Dylan put his hand on fresh spoor. Bleakness, an oppressive sense of solitude, a dark-night-of-the-soul loneliness pierced him and filled him with an emotional desolation as blasted, burnt, and ash-shrouded as a landscape in the aftermath of an all-consuming fire.

He tried immediately to insulate himself from the power of the latent psychic print on the door handle, as he had learned to do with the restaurant menu. This time, however, he wasn’t able to resist the influx of energy.

With no memory of crossing the threshold, Dylan found himself outside and on the move. Even hours past sundown, the mild desert night withdrew the banked heat of the day from the blacktop, and he detected the faint scent of tar under the kitchen odors that rose from the restaurant roof vents.

Glancing back, he saw Jilly and Shep standing in the open door, already ten feet behind him. He had dropped Shep’s book, which lay on the pavement between him and them. He wanted to retrieve the book and return to Shep and Jilly. He could not. “Wait here for me.”

Car to pickup to SUV, he was impelled to venture farther into the parking lot, not with the urgency that had earlier caused him to turn the Expedition on a dime and leave nine cents change, but with a nonetheless motivating perception that an important opportunity would shortly be foreclosed if he didn’t act. He knew that he wasn’t out of control, that on a subconscious level he understood exactly what he was doing, and why, as he had subconsciously understood his purpose when he had driven pell-mell and hell-bent to the house on Eucalyptus Avenue, but he
felt
out of control just the same.

This time the magnet proved to be not a grandmotherly woman in a candy-striped uniform, but an aging cowboy wearing tan Levi’s and a chambray shirt. Arriving just as the guy settled behind the wheel of a Mercury Mountaineer, Dylan prevented him from shutting the door.

From the psychic trace on this door handle, he again encountered the heart-deadening loneliness familiar from the imprint back at the restaurant, a despondency bordering on despair.

A lifetime of outdoor work had given the man in the Mountaineer a cured-leather face, but the decades of sun that crimped and cockled his skin had not left any light in him, and the years of wind had not piped much life into his bones. Burnt out, worn thin, he seemed to be a scraggy gnarl of tumbleweed tenuously rooted to the earth, waiting only for the gust that would break him loose from life.

The old man didn’t tip his Stetson as he’d tipped it at Jilly upon leaving the restaurant, but he didn’t react with irritation or alarm, either, when Dylan blocked the door. He had the look of a guy who had always been able to take care of himself, regardless of the nature of the threat or tribulation—but there was also about him the aura of a man who didn’t much care what happened next.

“You’ve been searching for something,” Dylan said, although he had no idea what words were coming from him until he’d spoken them and could afterward review their meaning.

“Don’t need Jesus, son,” the cowboy replied. “Already found Him twice.” His azurite-blue eyes took in more light than they gave out. “Don’t need trouble, either, nor do you.”

“Not something,” Dylan corrected. “You’re looking for someone.”

“Isn’t just about everybody, one way or another?”

“You’ve been looking a long time,” Dylan said, though he still had no idea where this might be leading.

Through a squint that seemed wise enough to filter truth from illusion, the old man studied him. “What’s your name, son?”

“Dylan O’Conner.”

“Never heard of you. So how’d you hear of me?”

“Didn’t hear of you, sir. I don’t know who you are. I just…” Words that had come without volition now failed him on command. After a hesitation, he realized that he would have to tell a piece of the truth, reveal part of his secret, if they were to proceed. “You see, sir, I have these moments of…intuition.”

“Don’t count on it at the poker table.”

“Not just intuition. I mean…I know things when there’s no way to know. I feel, I know, and…I make connections.”

“Some sort of spiritist, you’re sayin’?”

“Sir?”

“You’re a diviner, soothsayer, psychic—that sort of thing?”

“Maybe,” Dylan said. “It’s just this weirdness that’s happened to me lately. I don’t make money at it.”

Those worn features that seemed incapable of a smile might have formed one, although it was drawn lightly, as with a feather on the weathered sandstone of his face, and was so short-lived that it might have been only the tic of a wince. “If what I’m hearin’ is your usual pitch, I’m amazed you don’t have to pay folks to listen.”

“You think you’ve come to the end of whatever road you’ve been following.” Once more Dylan was unaware of what he would say before he said it. “You think you’ve failed. But maybe you haven’t.”

“Go on.”

“Maybe she’s near right now.”

“She?”

“I don’t know, sir. That just came to me. But whoever she is, you know who I mean.”

That analytic squint fixed Dylan once more, this time with a certain merciless quality like the piercing scrutiny of a police detective. “Step back a piece. Give me room to get out.”

As the old man exited the big Mercury SUV, Dylan surveyed the night for Jilly and Shep. They had ventured a few feet farther from the restaurant since he’d last seen them, but only far enough for Jilly to retrieve the copy of
Great Expectations
that Dylan had dropped. She stood at Shepherd’s side, watchful, in the wound-tight posture of one who wondered if this time, too, there would be knives.

He looked out toward the street, as well. No black Suburbans. Nonetheless, he sensed they had stayed too long in Safford.

“Name’s Ben Tanner.”

When Dylan looked away from Shep and Jilly, he discovered the old man offering one worn and callused hand.

He hesitated, concerned that a handshake would expose him to a supercharged version of the bleak loneliness and the despondency that he had sensed in Tanner’s psychic imprint, emotion a thousand times more intense by direct contact than what he’d experienced by exposure to the spoor, so powerful that it would knock him to his knees.

He couldn’t remember if he had touched Marjorie when he’d found her standing beside the pill-littered kitchen table, but he didn’t believe he had. And Kenny? After administering baseball-bat justice, Dylan demanded handcuff and padlock keys from the pants-wetting knife maniac; however, after producing the keys from a shirt pocket, Kenny had given them to Jilly. To the best of Dylan’s recollection, he had not touched the vicious little coward.

No strategy to avoid Tanner’s hand would leave their fragile rapport undamaged, so Dylan shook it—and discovered that what he had felt so poignantly in the man’s latent psychic imprint could not be felt in equal measure, or at all, in the man himself. The mechanism of his sixth sense was no less mysterious than the source of it.

“Come down from Wyoming near a month ago,” Tanner said, “with some leads, but they had no more substance than gnat piss.”

Dylan reached past Tanner to touch the handle on the driver’s door.

“Been rattlin’ from one end of Arizona to the other, and now I’m on my way home, where maybe I should’ve stayed.”

In the psychic trace, Dylan felt again the geography of a burnt-out soul, that continent of ashes, that despondent world of soundless solitude he had encountered when, hand to door, he had left the restaurant.

Although he had not consciously framed the question, Dylan heard himself asking, “How long has your wife been dead?”

The reappearance of the intimidating squint suggested that the old man still suspected a con, but the pertinence of the question lent Dylan some credibility. “Emily’s been gone eight years,” Tanner said in the matter-of-fact tone with which men of his generation felt obliged to conceal their tenderest emotions, but in spite of the squint, those azurite eyes betrayed the drowning depth of his grief.

To have known by some form of clairvoyance that this stranger’s wife was dead, to have
known
it rather than merely to have suspected it, to
know intimately
the devastation that this death had wrought in Tanner, made Dylan feel like a brazen intruder exploring the most private spaces of a victim’s house, like a sneak who picked the locks on diaries and read the secrets of others. This repugnant aspect of his uncanny talent far outweighed the exhilaration he had felt after the successful confrontation at Marjorie’s house, but he couldn’t suppress these revelations, which rose into his awareness like water bubbling at a wellhead.

“You and Emily started looking for the girl twelve years ago,” Dylan said, though he didn’t know to what girl he referred or yet grasp the nature of their search.

Grief made way for surprise. “How do you know these things?”

“I said ‘girl,’ but she’d have been thirty-eight even then.”

“Fifty now,” Tanner confirmed. For a moment he seemed to be more amazed by the number of lost decades than by the knowledge that Dylan had acquired by divination: “Fifty. My God, where does a life go?”

Releasing the door handle, Dylan was drawn away from the Mercury by an unknown but more powerful attractant, and once again he was on the move. Almost as an afterthought, he called back to Tanner, “This way,” as though he had a clue as to where he might be going.

Prudence no doubt counseled the old man to climb in his truck and lock the doors, but his heart was involved now, and prudence had little influence with him. Hurrying at Dylan’s side, he said, “We figured we’d find her sooner than later. Then we learned the system was dead-set against us.”

A swooping shadow, a
thrum
overhead. Dylan looked up in time to see a desert bat snare a moth in midflight, the killing silhouetted against a tall parking-lot lamp. This sight would not have chilled him on another night, but chilled him now.

An SUV in the street. Not a Suburban. But cruising past slowly. Dylan watched until it passed out of sight.

The bloodhound of intuition led him across the parking lot to a ten-year-old Pontiac. He touched the driver’s door, and every nerve end in his hand received the psychic spoor.

“You were twenty,” Dylan said, “Emily just seventeen, when the girl came along.”

“We had no money, no prospects.”

“Emily’s parents had died young, and yours were…useless.”

“You know what you
can’t
know,” Tanner marveled. “That’s exactly how it was. No family to back us up.”

When the faintly fizzing trace on the driver’s door did not electrify Dylan, he moved around the Pontiac to the passenger’s side.

At his heels, the old man said, “Still, we’d have kept her no matter how hard things got. But then in Emily’s eighth month—”

“A snowy night,” Dylan said. “You were in a pickup truck.”

“No match for a semi.”

“Both your legs were broken.”

“Broke my back, too, and internal injuries.”

“No health insurance.”

“Not a dime. And I was a year gettin’ back on my feet.”

At the front door on the passenger’s side, Dylan found an imprint different from the one on the driver’s door.

“Broke our hearts to give that baby up, but we prayed it was the best thing for her.”

Dylan detected a sympathetic resonance between the psychic trace of this unknown person and that of Ben Tanner.

“By God, you’re the true thing,” the old man said, abandoning his skepticism more quickly than Dylan would have thought possible. Songless for so long, hope—that feathered thing perched in his soul—was singing again to Ben Tanner. “You’re real.”

No matter what might come, Dylan remained compelled to follow this incident to its inevitable conclusion. He could no more easily turn away than a rainstorm could reverse course and pour upward from the puddled earth into the wrung-out thunderheads from which it had fallen. Nevertheless, he was loath to raise the old man’s hopes, for he couldn’t foresee the end point. He couldn’t guarantee that the father-and-child reunion that seemed miraculously in process was, in fact, destined to occur this night—or ever.

“You’re real,” Tanner repeated, this time with a disquieting reverence.

Dylan’s hand tightened around the Pontiac door handle, and in his mind a connection occurred with the solid
ca-chunk
of railroad cars coupling. “Dead man’s trail,” he murmured, not sure what he meant, but not thrilled by the sound of it. He turned from the car toward the restaurant. “There’s an answer here, if you want it.”

Seizing Dylan by the arm, halting him, Tanner said, “You mean the girl? In there? Where I just was?”

“I don’t know, Ben. It doesn’t work that way with me. No clear visions. No final answers till I reach the end. It’s like a chain, and I go link by link, not knowing what the last link is until I’ve got it.”

Choosing to ignore the warning implicit in Dylan’s words, the old man said wonderingly, “I wasn’t actually looking for her here. Not in this town, this place. Pulled off the road, came for dinner, that’s all.”