Blue Moon (10 page)

"Hi!” he said brightly, not wanting to give any clues.

"Hello,” she said with more caution. “What's up?"

"Are you mad at me?"

Despite herself—and she could be a pretty sour person—she laughed. “No. Not really. I mean, there're always some negative feelings, otherwise we wouldn't have broken up. Why?"

"Just wondered."

"We're okay. All's well.” She sounded relaxed, and he could feel the old cordiality returning. After a moment's thought, he told her roughly what had happened.

"So,” he said, wrapping it up. “Have any idea who would want to see me squished? You know pretty much everyone I do."

"No ... not at all. I mean, who'd want to? You're so..."

"Bland?"

"No!"

"Nondescript? Unnoticeable?"

"You know what I mean."

He did. Ask anyone to describe Alex Kincaid, and you'd get a sort of quiet, brown-colored description that hurt almost as much as it was accurate—on the outside, at least.

"Do you think it's connected to your amnesia? Maybe someone from your past is after you,” she suggested.

"I don't really think I'm that kind of person,” he said gently, not wanting to throw words back in her face. He could, easily. She had often called him boring.

"I guess not,” she said.

"Well, thanks. I'm sorry to have bothered you, but I think you've help me sort things out a bit."

"Well, that's okay then,” she said, sounding doubtful.

"Goodnight, Meg. And thanks again."

"Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"Take care of yourself, okay? And call, you know?"

"Don't worry,” he said. “I will."

He stood up, trying to think. Last night and early morning had taken on a dreamy quality now that he was showered, dressed, fed and warm (finally) again. His only reminders were a bit of soreness at the joints.

Tomorrow he'd switch hotels. He would have today, but the manager, seeing how upset he was about having been removed from his room, offered him a free night's stay. He accepted, although he did insist on switching rooms. Common sense suggested Alex tell him to shove it, but the idea of saving forty bucks was really too tempting. He'd check in under a different name tomorrow, always willing to bend the rules when it meant saving himself from any more nasty early-morning surprises.

It was the best he could do, because he had no idea who would have done that to him. He could only try and keep it from happening again.

He waited until six, when the night person came on shift. He called down and got the same unimpressed young woman who had checked him in the night before and should have been on duty until two.

"I was kidnapped from my room last night, and I was wondering..."

"Did they take anything, sir?"

"Well, no, nothing besides me."

"Well, since you've gotten yourself back, there's really nothing we can do, sir. If you like, I could call the police."

"I've already taken care of that,” he lied. “But could you tell me the name of the person who stayed in my room the night before?"

"No, sir. Hotel policy prohibits me from telling you who had your room before you."

He bit his tongue then asked “Can you at least tell me the gender? I just want to know if this was a case of mistaken identity."

She was silent so long he became convinced she'd put the receiver down for good. Then she said, grudgingly, “Female,” before hanging up.

He sighed. Since he wasn't particularly effeminate—sort of a tall stick with reddish-brown hair—he figured that avenue of inquiry was closed.

He hated being stymied like this. The next time he woke up in the middle of the night it might be with a cement block tied around his feet, surrounded by cold water. And he heard that Monongahela River water was especially bad for the lungs.

Bored, he walked down the hill and across the highway to the mall. He'd seen the marquee advertising movies and thought perhaps that would kill some time. He knew the sensible thing would have been to just stayed locked in his room, but he hated being cooped up.

So, he explored the mall a bit, passing more clothing stores than he'd ever have use for and not one lingerie shop to gawk at. He took in a movie, and resisted the temptation to stand on his head in an attempt to break the boredom. He wandered into the bookstore. He hadn't read anything in ages, and paperbacks had become somewhat pricier than he was used to. He was also a little overwhelmed, because most of the authors he remembered really loving were either gone completely or had written so much since he'd last had time to read he didn't know where to begin.

It took him three circuits around the mall before he broke down and bought two books off the bargain table. A couple years ago, reading had been his escape hatch, and he couldn't understand what had happened to break him of the habit. Time, he supposed, and responsibilities.

The third trip into Walden's provided him with something else. Proof that he was being followed.

Alex was standing at the table agonizing over his choices when his eye was caught by his heroine's name on a front cover. He realized where he had seen the picture of the woman in the odd dress before. He smiled—this book had been one of the ones he'd looked into to find a name for himself but had thought Gabriel Churchill was probably too pompous.

A man was reading the book, and he thought it strange to see a man reading the flyleaf of a historical romance. The man laughed at something in the book, and Alex felt insulted.

Gold eyes met his over the book, blinked. He recognized Tark, from the diner. The man turned and took the book up to the counter. Alex picked up another copy. It was a different title from the one he'd bought earlier. He decided on it and a mystery novel.

In snatches, he got a good look at Tark. He was shorter than Alex, and heavier, and older. He was well-dressed and had that air of money that good, constant healthcare and professional hair stylists provided.

Alex decided to go to the food court and get a couple slices of pizza and a soda. His tail sat down a few tables away and began to read. Alex was impressed by the man's self-confidence, because he knew his own wouldn't have allowed him to sit and calmly read a romance in public, the embracing couple on the bright cover clearly advertising its contents.

He ate at a leisurely pace, pleased because he didn't think anyone could make a slice of pizza last fifteen minutes, then cleaned up, threw out his garbage. He walked past the man then stopped, turned around and looked over his shoulder.

Tark stared intently at his book, ignoring Alex.

"Hey,” Alex said. “Why are you following me?"

The man jumped up, shutting his book and putting it in the bag.

"I'm not,” he said coldly, pushing past.

Alex unbalanced, and the man's bag got caught on a chair, falling to the ground on top of Alex's. Alex reached for his bag, watching the man as he stalked up the mall. A quick check on the bag's contents showed the same books he had purchased. He sighed and went the opposite way, wanting to get home before the other took up the trail again, worrying that he'd just made a huge idiot out of himself.

He remembered the conversation between Tark and his friend, and had an uncomfortable feeling he was not so safe after all. It could be just coincidence—the town wasn't so big he couldn't accidentally run into the man at the only mall around.

He did not spend a comfortable night.

She was sorry she hadn't enlisted Alex's help after all—she had bought a fifty-pound bag of dog food and would have loved to have foisted the carrying of it off on him. It wasn't really that heavy, she told herself, just awkward.

She pushed the door open and set the bag down. Alex had put it in the trunk earlier with disgusting ease. It was also the first thing he'd loaded, so she was almost done.

She ran back outside and drove into the garage, made sure everything was locked. Pulling the garage door down and looking up at the deepening twilight, she cursed herself for taking so long with that silly man.

Well, that, she thought, hefting the tote bag full of mail she'd collected, and the fact she'd stopped at a couple of places on the way home.

She had managed to collect her mail just before the post office closed then gave in to the temptation of the used CD shop down the block from the library. Of course, she couldn't pass the library without checking the sale table. Time had gone so quickly. She sighed and headed for the house.

The wind changed direction, and on it she heard a flute playing, the tune soft and longing.

"Dashiel?” she called, but it came out as a whisper. She had locked the door, so if she could get inside she'd be safe, all nice and locked in, and it wouldn't matter if anyone else was here.

She ran around to the front and called Dashiel again. He came up the slope of the driveway as she undid the front door with hands that shook.

"I hope you've attended to business, old boy,” she muttered, barricading them in.

She stood there a long time, looking out the small, square peephole in the shutter. How did I get here? she wondered, passing the time morbidly remembering famous suicides and wondering what their last thought had been. How did I get here? This was not the destination I set out towards.

She pushed the thought away. Groceries were sitting out in the middle of the floor, and the ice cream, soft from being in the trunk, would be near puddle consistency by now.

She wanted to make it at least to another Christmas, when her two closest neighbors did dueling lights, each making a huge display that was a pleasure to watch, a thousand colors dotting the trees in the distance on either side.

She turned on the kitchen radio. She would not think of any of these things; the future would come, and there was nothing she could do about it but pray and try to hang on. She would not think of
him
, wondering if he was still out there, in the woods, watching her home.

"State police have called in the FBI to help them in their search for nineteen-year-old Jillian Keats, whose abandoned car was found along I-81. Allentown Police are asking that anyone who may have seen..."

Libby changed the station, praying that things worked out for this Jillian girl but doubting it.

She emptied blue plastic bags, dealing boxes of TV dinners out like cards. Poultry, beef, pasta, fish and small side dishes went in neat piles on the floor in front of the freezer. When she was sure she was done, she took the one she'd bought for tonight, put in it the microwave and put the rest away in an order she hoped would stay somewhat neat.

She felt eyes on the back of her neck, although everything was shut tight, every blind drawn. This is the worst time to check it, she thought. It would be best to wait until full daylight. She put away some cans, but the thought became an unbearable itch, and it might just drive her mad if she didn't go check.

She opened her closet and took out box after box. Old clothes, kid's books, some family stuff she didn't want to part with but didn't want to use. The floorboards were painted brown and, to the casual eye, looked solid. Libby had sealed off this part of the cellar completely and the only way to get to it was through this trapdoor made of boards whose edges were staggered just like a regular floor so no one would see telltale neat, square lines. It made the trapdoor singularly hard to open, but she managed, getting her fingernails under the edge and lifting.

She backed down the ladder and let the door shut behind her; it was easy to open pushing up. In the dark, she felt around. Mud walls, mostly, except where a slab of limestone, cold, clammy and dusty, jutted out into the room, and the smooth surface of a section of concrete blocks held together by rough, sloppy mortar. Ah, well, it had been her first and only mortaring job, and she hadn't needed it to look pretty.

She could see the room clearly when she reluctantly opened her eyes. The trowel she kept down there reflected dimly in the light where use had not destroyed the finish, and she picked it up from the shelf the limestone slab made. She pressed against the outcropping so that the rounded edge was against the small of her back, and from that point she counted paces. She turned left once and counted a few more. There she knelt, and scraped off an inch of dirt from around an iron plate.

She didn't need to lift it, for the glow in the room grew brighter, and she knew the stone was still there because her eyes reacted to its presence. She lifted the plate anyway and looked at the box. She touched it, and the blue light around her became white. She closed the hiding place quickly, relieved when the glow died down and she was able to see more clearly again.

She sighed and began putting things back the way they belonged. The dirt of the floor was loose, so if she was careful, it wouldn't look any more disturbed than it had before. She walked all over, packing the dirt down. She put the trowel back exactly were she'd found it and climbed the ladder. She washed up then packed the closet again. The inspection had made her feel better, relieved. As long as she did her job and watched after the box, everything would be fine.

Grave-digging was hard work, especially since the grave was a few years old and the earth had become packed down to near rock-hardness.

Sabin put his shovel down and leaned against the ornate stone.

"Keep going,” he said to the man working beside him.

"I'm tired, too,” Tark said.

"Tough. So, do you think he made you?"

Tark looked up. “No, I don't think he knew I was watching him,” he said.

Sabin knew he was lying.

"He's been bothering me,” he said.

"Look,” Tark said reasonably, “he doesn't seem special. You can't just go around killing people because they look sort of like the guy that attacked you."

The look he got made should have made him thankful Sabin wasn't still holding a shovel.

"Do you know what it's like to have electrical current run through you?” Sabin spoke calmly, almost off-hand. “To lie there in pain, unable to let go and let death take you? Feeding yourself only enough magic to stay alive and hoping you'll heal naturally, not daring to use the magic to heal yourself because it might not take and then you'd have no life support? He nearly killed me, and nothing before has ever come close to doing that. Not my wretched uncle, not the years of being trapped in that damn stone, nothing."