MOON FALL (30 page)

John walked into Franklin's Pharmacy, an antibiotic prescription
for Mark clutched in his hand. The store looked the same
as it had when he was a kid,
with a rainbow of antique apothecary
jars in the windows, a counter full of penny candy, and
an old-fashioned soda fountain.

Beano himself was behind the pharmacy counter at the rear
of the shop. His dark hair was cut short, and he was as round
as ever; his white coat had popped a button. When he looked
up and saw John, he nodded hello as if they were nothing more
than fleeting acquaintances. Beano had retreated more than any
of them after Greg's death, and completely broke relations after
Doug Buckman's death.

John put the prescription down on the counter and pushed
it across to Franklin. He read it, then nodded. ''This will only
take a minute." He turned and began working. ''Heard about
the Parker boy," he said over his shoulder.
·

''News travels fast."

''Heard your boy got a chunk taken out of him."

"Just a nip. He's fine. Frank just prescribed the drugs as a
precaution."

Beano nodded, but said nothing until he brought the container
of pills back to the counter. "So, was it one of those damned
hawks? Been hearing them a lot lately."

"From the description the boys gave, it's probably an owl."
He paused. "You've been hearing them, too, huh?"

"Yeah." Beano scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I don't
remember them being this noisy since we were kids."

"Around the time of Greg's death we heard them a lot,
remember?"

Beano eyed him. "Yeah. I remember."

"What else do you remember?" John asked lightly.

"What do you mean?" Beano's tone was suspicious.

John told him Gus's eavesdropping story. ''What do you
think, Beano? Did we go there?"

"Hell, no, we didn't go there. Thinking that way is what
made Doug crazy enough to kill himself."

"Well, then, you and Gus almost agree on something."

Beano glowered at him from beneath his dark brows. ''Doug
and I were like this," he said, crossing his fingers tightly. ''Until
Greg died, just like this. Then he just kept going on about all
that St. Gertrude shit, and I couldn't stand being around him."
He leaned forward on his elbows. "Doug told me he saw one
of those things, but I think he was full of shit."

''Why do you think that?"

''Remember my big brother, Brian?"

"Sure."

"He claimed the same thing, and you know how full of shit
he was."

"When?"

"He claimed it was the year he left for college, '71, I guess.
He said it to scare me."

"How come you never told us?"

"Because it was a load of bullshit. I wanted to go to St.
Gertrude's to check out the girls, and if you guys knew about
the birdies, you wouldn't have gone."

"But Beano, I remember you saying he said we shouldn't
go."

"Yeah, well, I guess I was a kid back then, so I believed
him a little." He grunted, his face reddening. "I didn't tell you
about the bird because it sounded too stupid. Guess we missed
our chance to see some pussy. If Brian wasn't dead already,
I'd like to give him a piece of my mind. Christ, you know what
that son-of-a-bitch said?"

"What's that, Beano?"

"He said it wasn't a bird."

"What was it?"

"Claimed it was a gargoyle. I can't believe he scared me
with that bullshit now. He just wanted to keep all the pussy
lookin'
for himself."

"A gargoyle?" John asked, interested.

''Yep. Doug said the same thing. Those must be godawful
ugly owls; that's all I can figure."

''They must be."

Beano put the pills in a bag, clearly done with the conversation.
''Tell your
granddad
his pills are ready. I called him a
couple times, but he didn't answer."

''I'll take them to him. I'm going by his place right now to
check on him. Haven't heard from him for a few days."

''He's probably off fishing somewhere."

"Probably." John paid for the pills and left for Gus's house.

Last night, Kelly had been too nervous to sleep, and now
she fought the almost overwhelming urge to take a nap. She
h
ad no intention of giving in to the desire because she wanted
to be so exhausted by the time Sister Regina came to take away
her light
bulb that she wouldn't care it was gone.

Nothing had happened during the night, but the utter darkness
had seemed filled with evil, and Kelly had trembled beneath
the thin blanket, awaiting the sound of the crying ghost. It
never came, and now she almost wished it had: it wouldn't
have been as bad as the waiting.

Her stomach rumbled and she was very thirsty; lunch had
been a cup of water and a stale bran muffin. She tried not to
think about her hunger as she sat down at the table and began
examining the schoolwork Sister Regina had delivered a few
minutes earlier.

There was a copy of
The Scarlet Letter
to read with her
English assignment, some pages of Latin, and way too much
algebra. Then she found what she was looking for: Miss Hawthorne's
history assignment. She read the sheet and noticed that
the report on Thomas Jefferson had been hurriedly written at
the bottom in a different color ink.

Hoping to find a personal note hidden in the book, she flipped
through it and found the last part stuck together. She could tell
that something was hidden in it. Casually she stretched, looking
around at the camera she knew was hidden behind a portrait
of a naked female saint being eaten alive by rats. She knew it
was a stationary mount, and after making sure it wouldn't be
able to see what she had on the desk if she was careful, she
turned casually back to the desk.

She looked through the rest of the assignments, then sighed
aloud-she figured they could hear her if they could see her
and
picked up a pencil. She opened the Jefferson book and
pretended to read, all the while using her fingernail to poke a
hole in the pulpy paper. After a moment, she exposed the
hole and saw the amulet. Elated because Miss Hawthorne had
obviously visited Minerva. she curled her fingers around the
necklace, drew it out and dropped it in her pocket. She'd put
it around her neck when she couldn't be seen, after the light
was taken away from her.

John pulled up in front of Gus's house feeling slightly embarrassed.
The old man would tease him mercilessly for worrying
about him, but there was no hiding it from him, no saying he
was just in the neighborhood. Gus would
know
-
he
always
did.

He climbed out of the cruiser and checked the mailbox by
the driveway, mildly alarmed to find an electric bill, a couple
letters, one perfumed, and some ads inside. Gus's mail was
delivered in the morning and the old man was usually prompt
about retrieving it: he loved those perfumed notes from his
lady pen
pals.
Don't jump to conclusions. He probably
did
go
fishing today.

He took the mail, then started up the path, pausing to snag
a rolled-up sales flyer, then climbed the porch steps and knocked
on the door. "Gus? Gus? You home?"

The drapes were drawn, but that wasn't unusual. Gus didn't
like to answer his door, and if Jehovah's Witnesses had been
prowling around, he became militant about it. He could hear
the television playing inside as he knocked again, but that didn't
mean much, either; Gus usually left it on whether he was in
or out. After knocking and calling out once more, he went back
down the steps and around the house to the small garage. It
was padlocked shut, but he cupped his hands and peered inside.
Gus's Oldsmobile was parked within.

John's stomach twisted; then he reminded himself that, like
as not, Gus had gone fishing or shopping or whatever, with a
friend who had done the driving.
Still, as he walked back to the front door and pulled his keys
from his pocket, he couldn't shake his nervousness. He found
the right key, then pulled open the screen door and tried knocking
one last time. No answer.
You should have called him
Saturday when he didn't show up for lunch.

The lock turned and John pushed open the door. Cool, fetid
air wafted out. ''Dear God," he choked, recognizing the smell.
''Oh, dear God."

He took his gun from its holster, then forced himself to step
inside the darkened house. "Gus?" The smell of blood and
death choked him as his eyes went to the only bright spot in
the living room
-
the television set.
General Hospital
was on,
but parts of the screen were obscured by dark spatters and
drips, and gobbets of something thicker. On the floor in front
of the set he could make out a lumpy puddle of dried gore.

Lifeless fingers were just visible on the arm of the easy chair
facing the television, and he dreaded what was to come. It was
almost a relief as he made his way along the wall of the living
room and into the hallway beyond to check the rest of the
house for intruders before he faced the chair.

There was no sign that anyone had been in any other rooms,
and finally, he was satisfied that he was alone. He walked slowly
back into the living room, his legs rubbery, his heart jittering
as he forced himself to go straight to the easy chair
.

The top of Gus's head was gone, the jagged edges of his
skull jutting up like a broken eggshell. Flies crawled sluggishly
on what remained inside.

"God," he moaned and raced to the bathroom, barely making
it to the toilet before his lunch came up. That hadn't happened
since the body in the trunk when he was a rookie. He rinsed
out his mouth and pulled himself together, then returned to the
living room, trying not to think of the corpse in the chair as
his grandfather, but as a homicide under investigation.

Obviously, a shotgun had done the damage. Probably a cutoff,
definitely from behind at close range. The body would have
been thrown forward
-
there were stains on the rug confirming
that. But the killer had put the body in an upright position, one
hand resting on the armrest, the other in its lap, loosely holding
the TV remote. Whoever did this had a perverse sense of humor.

He walked out onto the front porch and took deep lungfuls
of fresh air, then called in the crime on his cell phone.

The day of Gus's funeral dawned foggy and cold, and as the
casket was lowered into the grave, John rested his hand on
Mark's shoulder. The little cemetery, which had served Moonfall
since pioneer days, was filled with
living
friends and neighbors,
and in a way, that only made him feel worse. He had let Gus
and the whole town down because he and his deputies hadn't
been able to
turn
up a thing. Not a footprint, fingerprint, or
suspect
-
not a damned thing.

Mark nudged him, and he realized everyone was waiting for
him to act. He stepped forward and scooped up a handful of
dirt, then sprinkled it in the grave. "Ashes to ashes," he said
and choked on the words.

The next moments were confusing as everyone came up to
offer his sympathy. He shook hands and nodded and said ''thank
you" more times than he could count, and even found some
trace of amusement in the sheer number of grieving older
women, many of them from out of town, who threw red roses
into the grave. Gus had always brought his dates a red rose,
and now he was smothered in them.

"John, I'm real sorry about Gus." Caspar Parker shook his
hand solemnly. "You let me know if there's anything I can
do."

John looked at the old man, Gus's best friend, Pete Parker's
great-grandfather, the mainstay of Moonfall. There was true
kindness in the eyes of this man and it surprised him since
he hadn't gotten to the bottom of his great-grandson's death.
"Thanks. Is the Haunt still on?"

"Pete would want it that way," Caspar said, loosening his
tie. "But now, with G
us's death, the violence of it-
I
don't
know."

"Please, go ahead with your plans. Gus wouldn't want it
any other way."

Caspar nodded, then looked down at Mark. "You still want
to help?"

"Can I, Dad?"

“
Of course you can." Mark was part of the reason he wanted
the Haunt to run as scheduled: it would give the boy something
to concentrate on.

Caspar stood beside the grave a long moment, hat in hand,
then walked slowly toward the cemetery gate.

"How are you two holding up?" Frank Cutter asked as he
stepped forward.

John turned toward him and realized that the cemetery was
nearly deserted. Only Minerva Payne lingered, twenty feet
away, at the grave of Jeremiah Moonfall. "We'll survive,
Frank."

“
Terrible thing," Cutter said.

"Yeah."

"A
few of us are going to have a l
ittle wake at Winesap's
tonight, raise a few glasses in Gus's honor. It's what he would
want. Care to join us?"

"Uh, no," John said, glancing at Mark.

“
Dad? Corey asked if I could spend the night," Mark said.
"I said I didn't think I could, but I'd like to, if you want to
go out."

''Well, sure, I guess."

“
It'll do you both good to get out," Cutter said.

John nodded, his eyes on Minerva Payne, who was walking
purposefully toward them. ''Minerva, thank you for coming."

"You're welcome," she said, then turned to Mark. "I hope
you'll come visit me
sometime
soon."

"I will."

"I have to do some heavy cleaning at the Gingerbread House
next week. Would you be interested in working for me after
school?"

"Yeah. Can I, Dad?"

He nodded, realizing Minerva's intentions
-
keeping the boy
occupied
-
matched his. "Just so your homework gets done."
As he spoke, the old lady shot him a subtle wink, and for the
first time since Gus's death, he actually suspected that life might
go on.

"Sheriff," she said, drawing an envelope from a pocket in
her dark dress. "This is for you. No, no, don't open it now.
But come see me next week, after you've perused it."

He nodded. "I'll do that."

Gentle rain began to fall, not much more than a mist, and
Minerva pulled her shawl closer around her.

"Can I give you a lift?" Frank Cutter asked.

"Yes, that would be very kind of you." She stepped forward
and kissed Mark lightly on the forehead, then rested her hand
briefly on John's. "Take care," she told them. "Be careful."
With that, she turned and took Cutter's arm, and they walked
slowly away, leaving John and Mark alone.

"Why can't you find the killer, Dad?" the boy asked softly.

The question tore him apart. "Mark, I won't stop looking
until I do find him. I promise."

Mark didn't reply. He was staring at the grave, silent tears
that had been held back throughout the services, now coursing
down his cheeks. John felt his own tears spill, and didn't bother
to wipe them away.

"It must've been horrible finding him like you did," his son
murmured at last.

"Yes. But no worse than you went through when you found
Pete."

Mark looked up at him. ''Thanks, Dad."

"For what?"

"For-
I don't know. For everything. For not punishing me
when Pete died. For being nice to Minerva. For not dying."

The tears came harder, mingling with the rain, and John put
his arm around Mark's shoulders, drew him close, suddenly
wondering how he'd survive if something ever happened to
the boy.