By the Light of the Moon (18 page)

“Ben, listen, I said there’s an answer here, but I don’t know if the answer is the girl herself. Be prepared for that.”

The old man had taken his first taste of hope not a minute ago, and already he was drunk with it. “Well, like you said, if this isn’t the last link, you’ll find the next one, and the one after that.”

“All the way to the last link,” Dylan agreed, recalling the relentlessness of the compulsion that had driven him to Eucalyptus Avenue. “But—”

“You’ll find my girl, I know you will, I know.” Tanner didn’t seem to be the type who could flip from despair to joy in a manic moment, but perhaps the prospect of resolving fifty years of regret and remorse was sufficiently exhilarating to effect an immediate emotional transformation even in a stoic heart. “You’re an answer to prayers.”

In truth, Dylan might have been at least mildly enthusiastic about playing hero twice in one night, but his enthusiasm curdled when he realized how devastated Ben Tanner would be if this chase didn’t have a storybook ending.

Gently, he broke the old man’s grip on his arm and continued toward the restaurant. Since there was no turning back, he wanted to finish this as quickly as possible and put an end to the suspense.

Jinking bats, now three in number, frolicked in their aerial feast, and the paper-fragile exoskeleton of each doomed moth made a faint but audible crunch when snapped in those rodent teeth: entire death announcements in crisp strokes of exclamatory punctuation.

If Dylan had believed in omens, these lamplit bats would have warranted a pause for consideration. And if they were an omen, they certainly didn’t portend success in the search for Ben Tanner’s girl.

Dead man’s trail.

The words returned to him, but he still didn’t know what he ought to infer from them.

If a chance existed that the old man’s long-lost daughter would be found inside the restaurant, then perhaps it was equally likely that she was dead and that who waited to be discovered instead at the end of this particular chain was the physician who had attended her during her final hours or the priest who’d given her last rites. No less possible: She might not merely have died; she might have been murdered, and at dinner this evening might be the policeman who had found her body. Or the man who had murdered her.

With the buoyant Ben at his side, Dylan paused when he reached Jilly and Shep, but made no introductions, offered no explanations. He handed his keys to Jilly, leaned close, and said, “Get Shep belted in. Get out of the parking lot. Wait for me half a block that way.” He pointed. “Keep the engine running.”

Events in the restaurant, whether they proved to be good or bad, might cause sufficient commotion to ensure that the employees and the customers would be interested enough in Dylan to watch him through the big front windows when he left. The SUV must not be near enough for anyone to read the license plates or to discern clearly the make and model of the vehicle.

To her credit, Jilly asked no questions. She understood that in his
stuff
-driven condition, Dylan couldn’t do other than what he was impelled to do. She accepted the keys, and she said to Shep, “Come on, sweetie, let’s go.”

“Listen to her,” Dylan told his brother. “Do what she says,” and he led Ben Tanner into the restaurant.

The hostess said, “I’m sorry, but we’re no longer seating for dinner.” Then she recognized them. “Oh. Forget something?”

“Saw an old friend,” Dylan lied, and headed into the dining area with the confidence that although he didn’t know where he was going, he would arrive at where he needed to be.

The couple sat at a corner table. They appeared to be in their middle to late twenties.

Too young to be Ben Tanner’s daughter, the woman looked up as Dylan approached her without hesitation. A pretty, fresh-faced, sun-browned brunette, she had eyes that were a singular shade of blue.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” Dylan said, “but do the words
dead man’s trail
mean anything to you?”

Smiling uncertainly but as though prepared to be delighted, the woman glanced at her companion. “What’s this, Tom?”

Tom shrugged. “A setup for some joke, I guess, but it’s not my joke, I swear.”

Turning her attention to Dylan once more, the woman said, “Dead Man’s Trail is a desert back road ’tween here and San Simon. Just dirt and tire-snapped rattlesnakes. It’s where me and Tom first met.”

“Lynette was changing a flat tire when I saw her,” Tom said. “Helped her tighten the lugs, and the next thing I knew, she used some hoodoo or other to make me propose marriage.”

Smiling affectionately at Tom, Lynette said, “I cast a spell on you, all right, but the purpose was to turn you into a warty toad and make you hop away forever. And here you are instead. That’ll teach me not to slack off on my spellcastin’ practice.”

On the table, two small gifts, as yet unwrapped, and a bottle of wine indicated a special evening. Although Lynette’s simple dress appeared inexpensive, the care with which she had done her makeup and brushed her hair suggested she’d worn her best. The aging Pontiac in the parking lot further supported the conclusion that an evening as fancy as this must be a rare treat for them.

“Anniversary?” Dylan asked, relying on deduction rather than on clairvoyance.

“As if you didn’t already know,” said Lynette. “Our third. Now who put you up to this, and what’s next?”

Surprise froze her smile when Dylan briefly touched the stem of her wineglass to reacquaint himself with her psychic imprint.

He felt again the unique trace that had been on the passenger’s door of the Pontiac, and in his mind another connection occurred with the
ca-chunk
of coupling railroad cars. “I believe your mother told you that she was adopted, told you as much as she knew.”

The mention of her mother thawed Lynette’s smile. “Yes.”

“Which was nothing more than her adopted parents knew—that she’d been given up by a couple somewhere in Wyoming.”

“Wyoming. That’s right.”

Dylan said, “She tried to find her real parents, but she didn’t have enough money or time to keep at it.”

“You knew my mother?”

Fully dissolve a heavy concentration of sugar in an ordinary bowl of water, suspend a string in this mixture, and in the morning you will find that rock-sugar crystals have formed upon the string. Dylan seemed to have lowered a long mental string into some pool of psychic energy, and the facts of Lynette’s life crystallized on it much faster than sugar would separate from water.

“She died two years ago this August,” he continued.

“The cancer took her,” Tom confirmed.

Lynette said, “Forty-eight is too young to go.”

Repulsed by the continued invasion of this young woman’s heart, but unable to restrain himself, Dylan felt her still-sharp anguish at the loss of her beloved mother, and he read her secrets as they crystallized on his mental string: “The night your mom died, the next-to-last thing she said to you was, ‘Lynnie, someday you should go lookin’ for your roots. Finish what I started. We can better figure where we’re goin’ if we know where we come from.’”

Astonished that he could be privy to the exact words her mother had spoken, Lynette began to rise, but at once sat down, reached for her wine, perhaps remembered that he had put his fingers to the stem of the glass, and left the drink untouched. “Who…who are you?”

“There in the hospital, the night she died, the
last
thing she ever said to you was…‘Lynnie, I hope this won’t count against me wherever I’m goin’ from here, but as much as I love God, I love you more.’”

By reciting those words, he wielded an emotional sledgehammer. When he saw Lynette’s tears, he was appalled that he had broken her pretty anniversary mood and had knocked her into memories unsuitable for celebration.

Yet he knew why he’d swung so hard. He had needed to establish his bona fides before introducing Ben Tanner, ensuring that Lynette and the old man would more immediately connect, thereby allowing Dylan to finish his work and to slip away as quickly as possible.

Although Tanner had hung back until now, he’d been near enough to hear that his dream of a father-daughter reunion would not become a reality in this life, but also that another unexpected miracle was here occurring. Having taken off his Stetson, he turned it nervously in his hands as he came forward.

When Dylan saw that the old man’s legs were shaking and that his joints seemed about to fail him, he pulled out one of the two unused chairs at the table. As Tanner put his hat aside and sat down, Dylan said, “Lynette, while your mom hoped one day to find her blood kin, they were looking for her, too. I’d like you to meet your grandfather—your mother’s father, Ben Tanner.”

The old man and the young woman stared wonderingly at each other with matching azurite-blue eyes.

While Lynette was silenced by her astonishment, Ben Tanner produced a snapshot that he had evidently fished out of his wallet while standing behind Dylan. He slid the photo across the table to his granddaughter. “This is my Emily, your grandma, when she was almost as young as you. It breaks my heart she couldn’t live to see you’re the image of her.”

“Tom,” Dylan said to Lynette’s husband, “I see there’s but an inch of wine left in that bottle. We’re going to need something more to celebrate, and I’d be pleased if you’d let me buy this one.”

Bewildered by what had happened, Tom nodded, smiled uncertainly. “Uh, sure. That’s nice of you.”

“I’ll be right back,” Dylan said, with no intention of keeping that promise.

He went to the cashier’s station by the front door, where the hostess had just paid out change to a departing customer, a florid-faced man with the listing walk of one who had drunk more of his dinner than he had chewed.

“I know you’re not serving dinner any longer,” Dylan said to the hostess. “But can I still send a bottle of wine to Tom and Lynette over there?”

“Certainly. The kitchen’s closed, but the bar’s open for another two hours.”

She knew what they had ordered, a moderately priced Merlot. Dylan mentally added a tip for the waitress, put cash on the counter.

He glanced back at the corner table, where Tom, Lynette, and Ben were intensely engaged in conversation. Good. None of them would see him leave.

Shouldering through the door, stepping outside, he discovered that Jilly had moved the Expedition from the parking lot, as he had requested. The SUV stood in the street, at the curb, half a block north.

Angling in that direction, he encountered the florid-faced man who had left the restaurant ahead of him. The guy apparently had some difficulty remembering where he’d parked his car or perhaps even what car he’d been driving. Then he focused on a silver Corvette and made for it with the hunched shoulders and the head-down determination of a bull spotting a matador with unfurled cape. He didn’t charge as fast as a bull, however, nor as directly, but tacked left and right, left and right, like a sailor changing the course of his vessel by a series of maneuvers, singing a slurred and semicoherent version of the Beatles’ “Yesterday.”

Fumbling in the pockets of his sport coat, the drunk found his car keys but dropped a wad of currency. Oblivious of the money on the blacktop behind him, he blundered on.

“Mister, you lost something,” Dylan said. “Hey, fella, you’re gonna want this.”

In the melancholy mood of “Yesterday,” singing mushily of his many troubles, the drunk did not respond to Dylan, but weaved toward the Corvette with the newfound key held at arm’s length ahead of him, as though it were a dowsing rod without which he would be unable to find his way across the last ten feet of pavement to his vehicle.

Picking up the wad of cash—Dylan felt a cold slippery twisting serpent in his hand, smelled something goatish and rank, heard an internal buzzing as of angry wasps. At once he knew that the drunken fool lurching toward the Corvette—Lucas something, Lucas Croaker or Crocker—was more despicable than a drunk, more sinister than a mere fool.

Chapter Twenty-One

E
VEN DRUNK AND STUMBLING, THIS LUCAS CROCKER
should be feared. After casting aside the wad of cash saturated in repulsive spoor, Dylan rushed him from behind, with no further warning.

Crocker looked flabby in his loose-fitting slacks and jacket, but he was as solid as a whiskey keg, which in fact he smelled like. Body-checked forcefully, he slammed against the Corvette hard enough to rock it, and slobbered a final word of Beatles’ lyrics against the glass even as he broke the driver’s-side window with his face.

Most men would have gone down, stayed down, but Crocker roared in rage and reared back with such Brahman power that he appeared to have been invigorated by the rib-cracking impact with the sports car. He pistoned his arms, jabbed with his elbows, thrashed, bucked, and rolled his meaty shoulders like a rodeo beast casting off a flyweight rider.

Far from flyweight, Dylan was nonetheless cast off. He staggered backward, almost fell, but stayed on his feet, and wished that he had kept the baseball bat.

Nose broken, face cracked in a crimson grin, Crocker rounded on his adversary with diabolic delight, as though stimulated by the prospect of having his teeth knocked out, excited by the certainty of greater pain, as if this were
just
the kind of entertainment that he preferred. He charged.

The advantage of size would not have been enough to spare Dylan ruinous injury, and perhaps the advantage of sobriety wouldn’t have been enough, either; but size and sobriety
and
raw anger gave him a precious edge. When Crocker charged with drunken enthusiasm, Dylan lured the man by making a come-on gesture, stepped aside almost too late, and kicked him in the knee.

Crocker sprawled, rapped the pavement with his forehead, and found it less accommodating than a car window. Nevertheless, his fighting spirit proved less breakable than his face, and he pushed at once onto his hands and knees.

Dylan drew courage from the volcanic anger that he’d first felt upon seeing the beaten boy shackled to the bed in that room divided between books and knives. The world was full of victims, too many victims and too few defenders of them. The hideous images that had passed into him from the wad of cash, sharp images of Lucas Crocker’s singular depravity and cruelty, still ricocheted through his mind, like destructive radioactive particles. The righteous anger that flooded Dylan washed before it all fear regarding his own safety.

For a painter of idyllic nature scenes, for an artist with a peaceful heart, he could deliver a remarkably vicious kick, place it with the accuracy of any mob enforcer, and follow it with another. Sickened by this violence, he nonetheless remained committed to it without compunction.

As Crocker’s broken ribs tested how resistant his lungs were to puncture, as his smashed fingers fattened into unclenchable sausages, as his rapidly swelling lips transformed his fierce grin into the goofy smile of a stocking doll, the drunk evidently decided that he’d had enough fun for one evening. He stopped trying to get to his feet, collapsed onto his side, rolled onto his back, lay gasping, groaning.

Breathing hard but unhurt, Dylan surveyed the parking lot. He and Crocker were alone. He was pretty sure that no traffic had passed in the street during the altercation. No one had seen.

His luck wouldn’t hold much longer.

The keys to the Corvette gleamed on the pavement near the car. Dylan confiscated them.

He returned to the bloodied, gasping man and noticed a phone clipped to his belt.

In Crocker’s boiled-ham face, cunning little pig eyes watched for an easy opportunity.

“Give me your phone,” Dylan said.

When Crocker made no move to obey, Dylan stepped on his broken hand, pinning the swollen fingers to the blacktop.

Cursing, Crocker used his good hand to detach the phone from his belt. He held it out, eyes wet with pain but as cunning as before.

“Slide it across the pavement,” Dylan directed. “Over there.”

When Crocker did as instructed, Dylan stepped off his injured hand without doing further damage.

Spinning, the telephone came to rest about a foot from the wad of currency. Dylan went to the phone, plucked it off the blacktop, but left the money untouched.

Spitting out broken teeth or window glass along with words as mushy as his smashed lips, Crocker asked, “You aren’t robbing me?”

“I only steal long-distance minutes. You can keep your money, but you’re going to get one hell of a phone bill.”

Having been sobered by pain, Crocker was now bleary-eyed only with bewilderment. “Who
are
you?”

“Everybody’s been asking me that same question tonight. I guess I’ll have to come up with a name that resonates.”

Half a block north, Jilly stood beside the Expedition, watching. Perhaps, if she’d seen Dylan getting his ass kicked, she would have come to his aid with a can of insecticide or aerosol cheese.

Hurrying toward the SUV, Dylan glanced back, but Lucas Crocker made no attempt to get up. Maybe the guy had passed out. Maybe he had noticed the bats feeding greedily on the moths in the lamplight: That spectacle would appeal to him. It might even be the kind of thing he found inspiring.

By the time Dylan reached the Expedition, Jilly had returned to the front passenger’s seat. He got in and shut his door.

Her psychic trace upon the steering wheel felt pleasant, rather like immersing work-sore hands in warm water enhanced with curative salts. Then he became aware of her anxiety. As if a live electrical wire had been dropped into the hand bath. With an act of will, he tuned out all those vibrations, good and bad.

“What the hell happened back there?” Jilly asked.

Handing the phone to her, he said, “Get me the police.”

“I thought we didn’t want them.”

“Now we do.”

Headlights appeared in the street behind them. Another slow-moving SUV. Maybe the same one that had earlier drifted by well below the speed limit. Maybe not. Dylan watched it pass. The driver didn’t appear to be interested in them. A true professional, of course, would conceal his interest well.

In the backseat, Shepherd had returned to
Great Expectations.
He seemed remarkably calm.

The restaurant fronted on Federal Highway 70, the route that Dylan wanted. He headed northwest.

After using the telephone keypad, Jilly listened, then said, “Guess the town’s too small for nine-one-one service.” She keyed in the number for directory assistance, asked for the police, and passed the phone back to Dylan.

Succinctly, he told the police operator about Lucas Crocker, half drunk and fully thrashed, waiting for an ambulance in the restaurant parking lot.

“May I have your name?” she asked.

“That’s not important.”

“I’m required to ask your name—”

“And so you have.”

“Sir, if you were a witness to this assault—”

“I committed the assault,” Dylan said.

Law-enforcement routine seldom took a strange turn here in the sleepy heart of the desert. The unsettled operator was reduced to repeating his statement as a question. “You committed the assault?”

“Yes, ma’am. Now, when you send that ambulance for Crocker, send an officer, too.”

“You’re going to wait for our unit?”

“No, ma’am. But before the night’s out, you’ll arrest Crocker.”

“Isn’t Mr. Crocker the victim?”

“He’s my victim, yes. But he’s a perpetrator in his own right. I know you’re thinking it’s me you’ll want to be arresting, but trust me, it’s Crocker. You also need to send another patrol car—”

“Sir, filing a false police report is—”

“I’m not a hoaxer, ma’am. I’m guilty of assault, phone theft, breaking a car window with a man’s face—but I’m not into pranks.”

“With a man’s face?”

“I didn’t have a hammer. Listen, you also need to send a second patrol car and an ambulance to the Crocker residence out on…Fallon Hill Road. I don’t see a house number, but as small as this town is, you probably know the place.”

“You’re going to be there?”

“No, ma’am. Who’s out there is Crocker’s elderly mother. Noreen, I think her name is. She’s chained in the basement.”

“Chained in the basement?”

“She’s been left in her own filth for a couple weeks now, and it’s not a pretty situation.”

“You chained her in the basement?”

“No, ma’am. Crocker wrangled a power of attorney, and he’s starving her to death while he gradually loots her bank accounts and sells off her belongings.”

“And where can we find you, sir?”

“Don’t you worry about me, ma’am. You’re going to have your hands full enough tonight.”

He pushed
END
, then switched the phone off and handed it to Jilly. “Wipe it clean and throw it out the window.”

She used a Kleenex and disposed of it with the phone.

A mile later, he handed the keys to the Corvette to her, and she tossed those out the window, as well.

“It’d be ironic if we were stopped for littering,” she said.

“Where’s Fred?”

“While I was waiting for you, I moved him into the cargo space, so I could have legroom.”

“You think he’s okay back there?”

“I braced him between suitcases. He’s solid.”

“I meant psychologically okay.”

“Fred’s highly resilient.”

“You’re pretty resilient yourself,” he said.

“It’s an act. Who was the old cowboy?”

As he was about to answer her question, Dylan suffered a delayed reaction to the confrontation with Lucas Crocker and to the purity of evil that he’d experienced so intimately from contact with the wad of money. He felt as though clouds of frenzied moths swarmed within him, seeking a light they couldn’t find.

Already he had driven through the dusty outskirts of Safford and into relatively flat land that in the night, at least, seemed almost as devoid of the human stain as it had been in the Mesozoic Era, tens of millions of years ago.

He pulled onto the shoulder of the highway and stopped. “Give me a minute. I need to get…to get Crocker out of my head.”

When he closed his eyes, he found himself in a cellar, where an old woman lay in chains, caked with filth. With an artist’s attention to minutiae and to the meaning of it, Dylan furnished the scene with baroque details as significant as they were disgusting.

He had never actually seen Lucas Crocker’s mother when he had touched her son’s dropped money in the parking lot. This cellar and this wretchedly abused woman were constructs of his imagination, and they most likely in no way resembled either the real cellar or the real Noreen Crocker.

Dylan didn’t
see
things with his sixth sense, not any more than he heard or smelled or tasted them. He simply, instantly
knew
things. He touched an object rich with psychic spoor, and knowledge arose in his mind as though summoned from memory, as though he were recalling events that he had once read in a book. Thus far this knowledge had usually been the equivalent of a sentence or two of linked facts; at other times, it equaled paragraphs of information, pages.

Dylan opened his eyes, leaving the imagined Noreen Crocker in that squalid cellar even as the real woman might at this very moment be listening to the approaching sirens of her rescuers.

“You okay?” Jilly asked.

“I’m maybe not quite as resilient as Fred.”

She smiled. “He’s got the advantage of not having a brain.”

“Better get moving.” He popped the handbrake. “Put some distance between ourselves and Safford.” He drove onto the two-lane highway. “For all we know, the guys in the black Suburbans have a statewide alert out to law-enforcement agencies, asking to be informed of any unusual incidents.”

At Dylan’s request, Jilly got an Arizona map out of the glove box and studied it with a penlight while he drove northwest.

North and south of them, the black teeth of different mountain ranges gnawed at the night sky, and as they traveled the intervening Gila River Valley here between those distant peaks, they seemed to be traversing the jaw span of a yawning leviathan.

“Seventy-eight miles to the town of Globe,” Jilly said. “Then if you really think it’s necessary to avoid the Phoenix area—”

“I really think it’s necessary,” he said. “I prefer not to be found charred beyond recognition in a burnt-out SUV.”

“At Globe, we’ll have to turn north on Highway 60, take it all the way up to Holbrook, near the Petrified Forest. From there, we can pick up Interstate 40, west toward Flagstaff or east toward Gallup, New Mexico—if it matters which way we go.”

“Negative Jackson, vortex of pessimism. It’ll matter.”

“Why?”

“Because by the time we get there, something will have happened to make it matter.”

“Maybe by the time we get up to Holbrook, we’ll have gotten so good at positive thinking that we’ll have thought ourselves into being billionaires. Then we’ll go west and buy a mansion overlooking the Pacific.”

“Maybe,” he said. “One thing I’m buying for sure, soon as the stores open in the morning, wherever we are.”

“What’s that?”

“Gloves.”