Ghost Moon (7 page)

CHAPTER 11

Jeanerette, Louisiana—April 14, 1971

IT WAS THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, AND SOMETHING was outside her bedroom window. Becca Eppel heard the faint crunch of footsteps in the pea gravel her mother used for mulch around the shrubbery, followed by rustling in the shrubbery itself, and then a thumping sound as whatever it was hit repeatedly against the glass. She was too afraid to look. It might be a werewolf, which was the monster she feared most of all, trying to get in. Or a vampire—her big brother, Daniel, thought vampires were scarier than werewolves—or even Frankenstein, although they both agreed that Frankenstein wasn’t as scary as the other two because he was easier to outrun. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to know about it. She huddled on her side, her knees drawn up to her chest and her back to the window, hoping that whatever it was would go away.

But the thumping continued.

Becca wished she could go to her mother. But her mother was in the hospital having another baby. Number five, like they really needed more kids in the family. Daniel was nine, she was eight, David was six, Mark was three, and then this baby, a girl who didn’t have a name yet. She’d been born that morning. Dad had taken them all to the hospital so they could see her through the glass window. She and Daniel and David had all looked at each other and rolled their eyes when Dad said, ‘‘Isn’t your sister beautiful?’’ because that skinny little bald-headed baby was about the ugliest thing any of them had ever seen. But they hadn’t let Dad see. He might get mad. Dad was like that. He got mad at the stupidest things.

That baby girl was going to have to share her room, because they were the only two girls. She and her mom had already rearranged everything to make room for the crib, and a little chest with a pad on top for changing the baby’s diapers.

Becca didn’t want to share her room with a loud, smelly baby. She knew how babies were from Mark. Basically, all they did was poop, puke, and cry.

Thump. Thump.

Becca shivered. Mrs. Granger from across the street was sleeping in her parents’ bed. She was staying with them while her mom was in the hospital, because her mom needed her dad with her. Which was okay, except Mrs. Granger was about a hundred and smelled like cabbage and hardly ever smiled.

No matter how scared she got, Becca couldn’t go to her.

But maybe she could go to Daniel. He would tease her for being a baby, but that was better than being ripped to shreds by a werewolf.

Thump, thump.

Becca couldn’t stand it any longer. She eased the bedclothes away from her face. If she was going to make a run for the room the boys shared, she wanted to take a good look around first. Maybe something was already in her room, but hadn’t noticed her yet. Maybe it would see her only if she moved.

Their house was a three-bedroom brick ranch house, and her window looked out into the backyard. Mrs. Granger hadn’t pulled the shade down like Mom always did at night, and moonlight poured right in through the window. Her bedroom wasn’t really that dark at all, Becca discovered, peeking. The moon made an awful lot of light.

She could see the thing at the window.

Becca’s eyes widened, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. It wasn’t her imagination at all. Although it was just a black shape with the moonlight pouring in around it, she could definitely make out two pointy ears.

Sylvia. Her cat. In all the confusion of her family going to see her mom at the hospital earlier, Sylvia must have slipped out the door. Now she was sitting on the windowsill, asking to be let in.

Even as she watched. Sylvia butted her head against the glass.

Thump.

Smiling with relief, Becca got out of bed and crossed to the window. Her bare feet padded silently over the hardwood floor. She was wearing only a T-shirt and panties because of the heat, and her long light brown hair was twisted up on top of her head in a bun, but she was
roasting
. If her mom had been home, they would have gotten out the fans, hot as it was, but Mrs. Granger had opened up all the windows instead, saying the night air would be cool enough. Well, Becca couldn’t sleep with only a screen between her and whatever monsters lurked in the night, so she had shut her window and paid the price in sweat.

Now she unlocked the window and raised it, then lifted the screen, too, just enough for Sylvia to swarm in along with a breath of relatively cool air. The breeze felt so good on her overheated skin that Becca stood there for a minute, wishing she was brave enough to just leave the window open and go back to bed. After all, the windows were open everywhere else in the house. But she was not. Just because Sylvia wasn’t a werewolf didn’t mean there wasn’t a werewolf out there.

There was a full moon tonight.

Sighing, Becca closed and locked the window again, then bent to pick up her cat. Sylvia was weaving around her legs.

‘‘What a smart girl.’’ Becca stroked the animal, who began to purr and butted her chin with a cold nose, and turned to head back to bed.

She wouldn’t be afraid with Sylvia to sleep with her, she thought.

She was still smiling faintly when something grabbed her from behind and yanked her back against a warm, strong, adult-size body. Hard arms, bare and hairy with gloves on the hands, wrapped around her. A werewolf? No . . .

Sylvia leaped for safety. Becca tried to scream. As her mouth opened, a sick-smelling rag was clamped down over her face, suffocating her.

Becca never even managed to make a sound.

It had been a long time. Almost two years. Carrying the little girl’s limp body to his van, he quivered with anticipation. He didn’t know how he had managed to hold out for so long. The need to do this had been building up inside him, spiraling tighter and tighter until he could hardly stand it. He’d fought it, he really had. But when he’d seen this little girl, and followed her home, and realized that he
could
do it, that it would be easy, his control had snapped. He just couldn’t resist, couldn’t hold out anymore. And it wouldn’t be like the last time. The last time had been messy, with newspaper headlines and a circus of a trial that had resulted in the girl’s father being convicted of murder—well, he had learned from his mistakes. He should never have taken Missy back to her bed. With this girl he’d do better.

Nobody—except him—would ever see her again.

CHAPTER 12

EVEN AFTER SHE FINALLY DRIFTED OFF, OLIVIA slept fitfully. For a moment or two after she awoke, hazy remnants of the night’s dreams floated through her mind. Her mother had appeared in one, sitting in the small wooden rocking chair in the corner of the bedroom softly singing a lullaby to the little girl, Olivia, in the bed. The smell of her perfume—White Shoulders, Olivia remembered with sudden clarity—had been the most magical thing in the world. But another dream had been terrifying. Olivia wasn’t quite clear on what had happened in it, although she had a vague impression that it involved the lake and a voice calling to her from its depths.
Run away. Run away
. Except for the voice, the details were lost in the mists of sleep. Not that she wanted to remember anyway. Her morbid fear of the lake was not something she wanted to dwell on, waking or sleeping.

Olivia rolled onto her back, determinedly banishing the last cobwebs of sleep from her mind. They were dreams, nothing more, and she was glad to let them go. She glanced at her daughter. Sara lay sprawled on her stomach, deeply asleep, her arms outflung and one bare brown foot thrust out from beneath the covers. Olivia smiled. Even as a baby, she had never been able to keep Sara’s feet covered at night.

Beyond Sara, a few slivers of pale, early-morning sunlight filtered through the crack in the curtains. Olivia thought almost longingly of turning onto her side and going back to sleep. But she knew as well as she knew her own name that she would sleep no more that morning. Therefore, she crept from bed without waking Sara and was in the kitchen at ten minutes before seven, according to the big clock that had hung above the stove for as long as she could remember. Wide awake but fighting the incipient pangs of a headache, she turned on the coffeemaker and looked over at the chalkboard next to the telephone for any messages.

There were none, which Olivia supposed was good news.

A knock sounded at the door. The curtains were still drawn over the wall of windows, leaving the kitchen gloomy and concealing the identity of the visitor. Who on earth would come over so early? Still clad in the chenille robe and gown that Martha had loaned her, Olivia considered ignoring the brisk taps. Then it occurred to her that perhaps some family member had been locked out. Or maybe it was news of Big John. If he died, would they call, or would they send someone like a friend or a priest to break the news?

That thought made Olivia’s heartbeat quicken with dread. Pushing her hair back from her face with one hand, she hurried to the door, then hesitated with a hand on the knob. Instead of opening it, she parted the curtains slightly so that she could check the identity of the visitor first.

There, on the wide veranda, bathed in bright shafts of morning sunlight, stood Lamar Lennig, her cheap black suitcase and Sara’s cheap red one at his feet. He was gazing off toward the lake, which gave her a moment to study him. An inch or so less than six feet tall, he was broad-shouldered and muscular-looking in jeans and a white T-shirt. His black hair was long enough so that it curled into small, flat ringlets at the nape of his neck, and his features, just as she recalled them, were bluntly good-looking. He had matured physically from the teenager she remembered, although she would have recognized him anywhere. Relief made her feel suddenly limp: No one in the family would ever dream of using Lamar as a bearer of bad tidings.

He must have felt her eyes on him, because he glanced at her then, just as she was considering letting the curtain drop back into place again. She was not exactly dressed to receive visitors, she thought, especially not a visitor like Lamar Lennig. As a teenager, he’d been the local hunk, and the girls had made collective fools of themselves over him. As the hot-to-trot daughter of the town’s preeminent family, she had caught his eye early on. Not that she had minded. Not then. Then she had considered Lamar Lennig exciting. Though he’d never formally been her boyfriend, they’d gone out a few times on the sly and messed around a little. All right, more than a little. Too much, in fact.

Now she found herself embarrassed to see him. Total amnesia on his part seemed too much to hope for.

That he recognized her even through glass and the narrow gap in the curtains was not in doubt. A broad smile spread slowly across his face, and his eyes lit up with pleased surprise.

Seeing no help for it, Olivia parted the curtains and opened the door.

‘‘Hello, Lamar,’’ she said without enthusiasm.

‘‘Well, as I live and breathe, Olivia Chenier,’’ he said. His gaze ran over her. Knowing herself to be looking less than her best, Olivia’s expression soured as he glanced up to meet her eyes. ‘‘Still lookin’ babe-alicious as ever, I see.’’

For Olivia, his audaciousness had once been part of his charm. What she had liked best about him, though, besides his handsome looks, was the aura of the forbidden that had clung to him. Years ago, when she’d snuck out to be with him, she had felt that she was being very, very bad.

And, to the teenager she had been, that had been good.

‘‘Thanks for bringing the suitcases,’’ she said, stepping onto the wooden planks of the veranda and reaching down to pick them up. Even so early in the morning, it was hot out, although the humidity level was not as bad as it would be later. The distinctive sweet smell of LaAngelle Plantation, composed of magnolia and honeysuckle and roses and a hundred other plants and flowers, hit her nostrils, and she breathed it in deeply. In the yard below, a pair of drab brown peahens and a gloriously colored peacock scratched in the thick green carpet of grass for sustenance. The birds would delight Sara, who loved all animals, Olivia thought. She could hardly wait to show them, and everything else about her old home, to her daughter. Sara was going to love it here.

‘‘No problem.’’ Lamar’s gaze ran over Olivia again as his hands beat hers to the handles and he hoisted the bags in the teeth of her attempt to pick them up. ‘‘Nobody told me these belonged to you. I would have been here earlier if I’d known. Like the middle of last night.’’

A wide grin still split his face as he brushed past her to carry the bags inside. The grin spoke of remembered intimacy and a continued assumption of familiarity. Olivia didn’t like what it implied, but there was nothing wrong with her memory, either, and she realized that she had well and truly earned the expression on his face.

Lamar glanced back at her over his shoulder. ‘‘Where do you want me to put these?’’

‘‘Right there is fine,’’ Olivia said, following him back into the kitchen and pointedly leaving the door open behind her. Lamar set the suitcases down on the brick pavers near the table and turned to face her, thrusting his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

‘‘You here for a visit?’’

Crossing her arms over her chest, Olivia nodded without speaking. She meant to do nothing to encourage him. Bad boys didn’t do it for her any longer. She had grown up and wised up.

‘‘Been a long time, hasn’t it?’’

‘‘Yep.’’

‘‘Planning to stay for a while?’’

‘‘A week, probably.’’

‘‘If you want to go out . . .’’

‘‘I doubt I’ll have time,’’ Olivia said pleasantly. ‘‘My daughter’s with me, and—’’

‘‘Got a daughter, do you? Left hubby at home?’’

‘‘I’m divorced.’’

That nugget of news seemed to amuse him. Cocking his head to one side and rocking back on his heels— Olivia wasn’t surprised to observe he wore cowboy boots—Lamar grinned at her again. ‘‘Everybody in town knew that rodeo rider you dumped me for was a bad bet. Except you, I guess.’’

‘‘I guess. And, anyway, I didn’t dump you. We were never—’’

‘‘Hello, Lamar.’’ The unexpected greeting made both of them glance around. Seth had entered the kitchen through the open French door, where he had paused for an instant, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the difference in the light. Taller, leaner, and less obviously handsome than Lamar, he was also, on this occasion, unshaven, bleary-eyed, and frowning. He still wore the navy sport coat, T-shirt, and khakis he’d had on the night before. Obviously he had spent the night out, and Olivia’s thoughts immediately flew to Mallory.

‘‘Mornin’, Seth.’’ The grin with which Lamar had teased her vanished from his face as if by magic. He stood straighter, his hands no longer in his pockets, his attitude respectful, as Seth continued across the kitchen. Although most of the younger generation of townsfolk did not address the Archers by honorifics such as
Mister
Seth and
Miss
Olivia like the older ones did, the inbred deference was there in Lamar’s demeanor. ‘‘I just came by to drop off some suitcases.’’

Having reached the counter and stopped, Seth looked pointedly at the bags sitting on the floor at Lamar’s feet. Then he reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet. ‘‘How much do we owe you?’’

Olivia hadn’t considered that they owed Lamar money for fetching the bags. Of course, payment was in order: He hadn’t done it for free. Remembering the scant state of her own funds, she was suddenly glad that Seth had appeared.

‘‘Ten dollars should about catch it.’’

Seth opened his wallet and extracted a bill, which he held out to Lamar. ‘‘Thanks,’’ he said. It was obvious dismissal.

‘‘Anytime.’’ Lamar accepted the money and his fate with good grace. He turned to leave, casting a humorous glance and a crooked smile at Olivia where Seth couldn’t see. ‘‘Good to see you, Olivia.’’

‘‘You, too, Lamar.’’

With a wave for both her and Seth, Lamar exited, closing the door behind him. Seth looked at her then, his eyebrows lifting questioningly.

‘‘Entertaining already?’’ he asked, heading toward the coffeemaker. The rich, heady aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. Just the smell of it went a long way toward banishing Olivia’s headache.

‘‘Not at all. I just happened to be in the kitchen making coffee when Lamar dropped off the suitcases.’’ She fought hard to keep her voice from sounding defensive.

‘‘I’m sure you’ll be glad to get your clothes.’’ As he opened the cabinet where the cups were kept, his gaze ran dispassionately over her pink bathrobe and bare feet.

Although there was nothing pointed about either his words or tone, Olivia had warred with Seth often enough in the past to know when he was verbally jabbing at her.

She gritted her teeth, but decided to take the high road. ‘‘Yes, I will,’’ she agreed sweetly.

Pouring coffee into a cup, he leaned one hip against the counter to drink it and looked at her consideringly over the cup’s rim.

‘‘If you’re interested, it looks like Big John’s going to pull through. They said he’s stable this morning.’’

That got to her, as it was undoubtedly meant to do. Still standing beside the table, with one hand resting on its scarred surface, she met his gaze with sparks in her eyes. ‘‘What do you mean,
if
I’m interested? Of course I’m interested. I know it was my fault that he collapsed, but I couldn’t help it! How was I to know he would react to seeing me that way? And he’s my grandfather— at least, I always thought of him as my grandfather—just like he’s yours.’’

Seth made a derisive sound and swallowed some more coffee. ‘‘If you hadn’t stayed away for nine years, having you pop up like that might not have been such a shock to him. To everyone.’’

Olivia’s hands clenched by her sides at the unfairness of that. ‘‘Aunt Callie invited Sara and me to come for a visit. She knew we were coming. Ask her. If you and Big John weren’t so gall-darned bullheaded, she probably would have told you we were coming in advance, instead of planning to spring it on you when it was too late for you to object. Anyway, for years now you—you all—have known where I live. You could have come to see me anytime. Nobody did. All I got was an occasional card from Aunt Callie.’’ Certainly she had expected them—Seth, to be specific—to come after her when she’d run off with Newall. Blissfully in love with her new husband, she had been relieved at first when no one had. Only after Sara was born and her marriage went bad and she was left to pick up the pieces of her life did she realize how much their just letting her go had hurt.

But then, what had she expected, really? She had never truly been an Archer, after all. Not by blood, and with this bunch blood was all that mattered. You were either kin, or you weren’t.

‘‘You were married. There wasn’t much point.’’ Seth took another swallow of coffee. ‘‘What God hath joined, let no man put asunder.’’

Olivia discovered that she hated him just as much as she always had.

‘‘Oh, shut up,’’ she said, glaring at him. Grabbing a suitcase with each hand, she stalked from the kitchen.

It infuriated her to realize that he was smiling a little as the door swung shut behind her.

By the time she was halfway up the stairs, Olivia could have kicked herself. She had responded to Seth exactly as she would have when she was a teenager and he was the older, wiser pseudocousin who thought he had the right to tell her what to do. In fact, she had said those same words to him so many times over the years that that was probably why they had risen so automatically to her lips.

The next time he baited her, she vowed, she would ignore him. If he hadn’t matured in nine years, she had.

Sara was still sleeping when Olivia entered the bedroom, and she realized that it was still very early. Sara slept like the dead most of the time, so Olivia did not fear waking her as she unpacked clothes for the two of them to wear that day. Stowing the suitcases under the bed—she would unpack later—and leaving Sara’s outfit for the day on the foot of the bed, she left the bedroom for the bathroom. She took a shower, washed her hair and blew it dry, put on makeup, and pulled on a pair of cut-off jeans, a lime-green T-shirt, and Keds before returning to check on Sara again. A glance at the alarm clock by the bed told her that it was eight fifteen. Sara still slept.

Stymied, Olivia headed back downstairs. Faint sounds from the kitchen told her that someone was there— perhaps Seth still, or maybe Martha. She certainly didn’t want to encounter Seth again so soon, and didn’t feel much like talking to anyone else, either. Trying to ignore the fact that her head still ached, and temper had cheated her out of her much-needed morning coffee, she went out the front door into the enveloping warmth of the day. Just in time to keep it from banging shut behind her, she caught the screen door and eased it closed. No need to alert whoever was in the kitchen to her presence.