Authors: John R. Maxim
He asked Moon, with his eyes, how much he'd told her.
Moon shook his head. “Just getting acquainted.”
Megan shrugged in agreement.
Fine, thought Michael. Whatever that initial hostility
was about, they seemed to have smoothed it over. He
reached a hand to Megan's cheek. He wiped moisture
away with the tips of his fingers. He told her that he's
glad she stayed. He would go make his call and he'd try
to make it quick.
Megan watched through the small glass window as Fal
lon disappeared down the corridor. She felt the spot where
he touched her.
“How good a friend is this Doyle?” she asked.
Moon smiled. He was beginning to appreciate this girl.
“Real good. In his way.”
“What way is that?”
Moon considered how to answer. “Lawyers
...
the
bottom-feeding kind . . . run these ads on TV. They say,
you got injured, you might be entitled to money
damages.”
She didn't understand.
“Money damages,” he repeated. “That's Brendan
Doyle's way. He's a friend in all the ways that count. But
money damages is how he thinks.”
“And you don't?”
“No.”
“Will Michael?”
Moon shook his head. “It's why
I'm
glad we're talking.
Can you keep him on this island?”
”I think so.”
“Keep him indoors until
I'm
on my feet?”
“How long after that?”
“Until I've finished it.”
“Yes.”
“Miss Cole . . : now tell me about you.”
She looked away.
”I know,
don't I?” he said softly.
Her eyes flashed. ”I have not, damn it, been in prison.”
“No offense meant by that.” He wanted to say that
there's all kinds of prisons. All kinds of injuries. But there
was no need. He had a pretty good idea what kind.
”I need a favor from you,” he said. “Will you take
my word that there's no harm to Michael in it?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that? Yes?”
“I'm wrong sometimes. I was wrong before. You'd
never hurt Michael.”
“Thank you. And it's Moon.”
“Megan.”
He thanked her for that as well.
“When you two leave here, Megan, he's going to go
pick up my car. In the trunk, there's an old sock with
some cuff links, a watch, and a picture in a boxy little
frame stuffed into it. Gettin' sick, I forgot it was there.”
“The picture's of Bronwyn?”
Moon closed one eye. “You knew that from me or
from Michael?”
“He told me. He said a burglar took his only photo
graph of her.”
“But a while ago, you knew that burglar was me.”
“I'm . . . not sure what I knew. I don't always know why I say things.”
And that's a comfort, thought Moon.
”I took those things when I doubted him. I'd as soon he
didn't find that sock. I wish I'd dropped it off the ferry.”
“He doesn't need that picture.”
“I'm grateful to you.”
“He doesn't need another watch, either.”
Michael had started to dial when he heard his name
paged.
He walked back to the nurses station where he was
handed a message from Harold Lovelace. It said, “Man
named John Giordano called, says he's a friend, says he's
arriving by air, early evening. Where do we put him? Hope
your other friend is okay.”
Moon should be fine, thought Michael. Berman says so.
As long as he doesn't get cut. As for Johnny G., Michael
knew that this visit wasn't social. Moon had told him that
Doyle cut them in, that they had snatched one of those
two who weren't muggers after all and, once he talked,
steered Moon to the man who very likely killed Jake.
If it was Julie coming up, it would be to present his
bill. Julie, being Julie, would want a piece of whatever
AdChem has going. Not Johnny, though. Moon says he
wants no part of it.
So why is he coming? Maybe Doyle knows.
He went back to the pay phone and tried his call again.
A man answered, not Doyle. He sounded like a goon. He
said, “Mr. Doyle ain't available. Who's this?” Alarmed,
Michael gave his first name, which the goon repeated
aloud. Sheila Doyle picked up an extension.
“Michael? Oh, Michael, it's so good to—”
“Aunt Sheila, who was that?”
“His name is Emi
l
Julie sent two more just like him
to look after me and Maureen. Did you hear what hap
pened here?”
“Moon told me,” he said.
“Moon's there?”
“He called me,” Michael lied. “He wouldn't say from
where. Are you and Maureen all right?”
”I guess. Thanks to Julie.”
“Is Brendan there?”
“He's on his way to you. He said he's flying up with
Johnny. Did Moon know about Arnie Aaronson?”
“Aaronson? The money manager?”
“They murdered him, Michael. He was asking questions
for Brendan and they killed him. Marty Hennessy found
him. He said he knows who did it. He's looking for a
man named Parker.”
Michael's head seemed to swell. The rage that had been
building now pounded against his skull.
“So am I, Sheila,” he said softly. “So am I.”
He replaced the phone. He stood for a moment, once
again seeing faces in his mind. Parker . . . Hobbs . . . and
the Baron Franz Gerhardt Rast. He might not find Parker
before Hennessy does but he'll damned well start looking
for Rast. Moon says sit tight. Moon says promise me, let
me take care of Rast.
Sorry, Moon. Rast is mine.
“Michael?”
He hadn't seen Megan standing there. He had asked
her, nicely, to leave. This time he would tell her. Get away
from here, Megan. I want you to climb on your boat and
sail back to Woods Hole. Better yet, go sail it around the
world again. I want you to stay far away from me until—
“Forget it, Michael. No chance.”
Moon looked for his clothing, saw it still on the chair. He scanned the shelves of the treatment room. He saw a box of gauze pads. Satisfied, he leaned his head back on
the pillow.
He would need a supply of those pads, he feared, for
when he pulled these tubes out. But they could wait. He
would rest a while longer until Michael was gone.
Megan.
The boat girl did remind him of his Grandma Lucy. But
Megan was different in two ways. One was that, given the
choice, she'd rather not know the things she knew. The
second was that Megan would fret over what she saw, not
sure whether it was fact or fancy or even what it meant.
Old Lucy, being not as bright, never troubled herself too much. She knew what she knew and that was the end of it.
Both of them could read a man's heart, though. They
could see a thing, and the thing could look bad, and yet
they could know that the man doing that thing had no bad
in his heart.
Annie Fallon. That was a
real
bad thing.
How much Megan saw of it, how much she understood
of how Annie died, he didn't know. She never asked a
single question. He almost wanted to tell her all the same,
just so she'd know there was no meanness in it. But she
put a hand on him, shook her head as if to say there was no need. He knew, right there, that she'd never speak of
that grave again.
He, Moon, had only buried Annie. It was Tom, Mi
chael's father, who killed her.
Annie, that day, the day she found that poisoned Val
ium, had had enough. She tried to call her mother, say
that she and Michael were moving in with her, but Tom
kept her from dialing the phone. She started packing bags;
Tom tried to stop that as well. He said he'd handle Brun
ner and Rasmussen. He begged her to give him the chance
but she wouldn't have it. She said she was going to go to
the police, starting with her cousins, and she tried to use
the phone again. Tom ripped it from the wall.
She said if he tried to stop her from leaving she'd
scream until the neighbors called the cops. He let her go
but he was frantic. He chased after her, caught her in the
building's garage just as she was slamming the trunk and
tried to wrest the car keys from her. She did scream. She
kicked and clawed at him. He dragged her into the car, held her tight, tried to quiet her. He held her until she
stopped fighting him.
It was never clear what killed her. There were no marks
on her throat, no blood except from Tom's cut lip, no
sign he'd used his fists. Likely, she suffocated. Not that
it matters.