MOON FALL (11 page)

John Lawson sat back in his chair and put his feet up on the
desk, glad to be out of the patrol car and back in the office.
Scotty Carroll was out of town, on vacation until Monday, and
Wyn Griffin had called in sick, so John had ended up working
his ass off. Fortunately, Jeff Thurman, the pride of the night
shift, had shown up early, bless him, and now, as the afternoon
shadows lengthened. John stretched his neck to one side then
the other, relieving his stiff muscles. He laced his fingers behind
his head and relaxed for the first time that day. His boots could
use a shine, he noted, but that was a job he secretly enjoyed.
Though it couldn't compete with fly-fishing, it was therapeutic
in its own way.

Moonfall had been qu
iet since the death of Lenore Ty
nan a
month ago. The reports had come back a few days after her
body was recovered and there had been no real indications that
s
he had met with foul play. They had found bloody towels
make
shift
bandages
-
at the bottom of the pond. plus a small
amount of blood and the weapon
-
a single
-
edged razor
blade
-
at the edge of the Mezzanine, dropped among the rocks.
T
y
nan's fingerprints were on it After that, John had closed the
case, and although he was relieved to be done with it, doubts
continued to eat at him.
First, there were the nuns, who had disobeyed his request
and frantically cleaned the room. He and Cutter had talked it
over several times, and he had eventually agr
e
ed with the doctor,
whose Catholic schooling gave him a whiff of expertise, that
they were, after all, dealing with nuns, who wouldn't be inclined
to answer to any authority that wasn't from on high. Between
that and the fact that the ever-unpleasant Mother Lucy claimed
that Sisters Bibiana and Mary Oswald began cleaning up
Tynan's blood-spattered room on their own while she was at
the sheriff's office, it all pretty much made sense. Too, there
had been her attempts to get tranquilizers and sleeping pills.

Richard Dashwood was a thorn in his side. There was no
logical basis for his misgivings; the man had more than cooperated
with him and had shown him every courtesy, but dealing
with him had been an unaccountably unnerving experience.
Dashwood had given him the most logical reason for Tynan's
trip to the Falls-she had been intent on committing suicide
and hadn't been able to secure any sleeping pills to do the job,
hence the razor blade and then the jump. John forced himself
to discount his unease, because he suspected it was born of
personal dislike, not a cop's instinct

The other person who had set off his suspicions was St.
Gertrude's caretaker, Basil-Bob Boullan, an old letch who was
somehow simultaneously seedy and obsessively clean. Despite
the fact that he leered at the girls and the nuns alike, no one
had a bad word
to say about the man and John h
ad to let that
drop, too.

The only other thing that still gave him pause was a slight
chemical imbalance found in Tynan's blood. It was a very minor
thing and Cutter had concluded that it was an unimportant
allergic reaction to a food or an over-the-counter drug.

Apart, these things meant nothing, and together, not much
more. Maybe it had been Gus's talk later that
night
-We've
all got our demons, and you
rs are out there at St. Gertrude’
s
that
had upped his anxiety. And that, combined with Mark's
revelation that old Minerva Payne seemed magically to know
he was plagued by nightmares, had made him overly suspicious,
when all he really wanted to do was close the case and forget
about it and the memories it stirred.

Right after the
discussion with his son, John h
ad intended
to go talk to Minerva again. Her telling Mark that Greg's death
wasn't John's fault intrigued and annoyed him as much as her
apparent knowledge of his recurring nightmares. But the weeks
passed and he didn't pay her a visit, partly because he was
always busy, and if he were to be perfectly honest with himself,
because he knew she would again ask him why he'd never told
anyone that he'd seen her at Witch Falls the morning they
found Greg. He didn't know the answer to that and didn't care
to try to figure it out.

Maybe she cast a spell on you.
Every so often, the thought
would wing through his mind, unbidden, fueled by her knowledge
of his nightmares and guilt. He did his best to quell his
childish superstitions
-
what was he going to do, knock on her
door and accuse her of witchcraft?

No. Not in a million years.
If she
did
know about the dreams,
Mark must be behind it; since he'd heard his father's night
terrors, he was probably frightened and confided in her. He'd
never known Mark to lie, but in this case it was likely, and he
couldn't really be angry with the boy for worrying about him.

The doorknob turned and the door creaked. John swung his
feet off his desk before his dispatcher's face appeared. ''Damn
it all, Dorothy, why won't you at least knock? What if I was
changing clothes in here?"

"Then you should lock your door." The little round woman
gave him the same smile she'd given him when he was eight
years old and had shown up at the office to charm her out of
some of her never-ending supply of caramels. "There's someone
here to see you, Johnny."

"Who?"

"A very pretty young woman."

"Did you ask her to come here?" Dorothy had been trying
to fix him up ever since his divorce had been finalized, years
ago.

"No, Johnny," she said, barely rolling her eyes. "I've never
seen her before. Her name is Sara Hawthorne and she would
only say that she wants to talk to you about a case."

"Okay. I'm coming." He stood, leaned back to stretch his
back, then followed her out of his office.

The young woman waiting at the tall counter was pretty,
Dorothy was right about that. She had pale skin, dark eyes,
and glossy dark brown hair that waved in a pageboy just above
her shoulders. The tall counter unfortunately hid the rest of her
from view.

"Hi. I'm Sheriff Lawson. You need to see me?"

''Uh, yes." Her voice was soft, tentative.

''Regarding?" He smiled and waited.

"Something that happened a long time ago." She suddenly
sounded more sure of herself.

"How long?"

"Twelve years."

With a nod, he walked over to the end of the counter and
opened the gate. "Come on in. We'll talk in my office."

"Thank you."

As she walked past him, he sensed uncertainty under the air
of confidence and liked her for it, maybe because he'd felt the
same way so often lately. She wore a navy business suit with
a white- button
down blouse. The pleated skirt barely kissed her
knees, and though she was no more than five-three, her legs
looked long and slim. Noticing her low-heeled black pumps,
he liked her even more; his ex-wife wouldn't have been caught
dead in anything that comfortable.

As he held his office door for her, he looked back at Dorothy
and saw her reaching into her bag of caramels, watching him
with an ear-to-ear grin. He gave her a warning glance.

''Hold your calls?" she asked, as she popped a caramel into
her mouth.

"If something important comes up, buzz me."

Dorothy nodded, then turned her attention to an office supply
catalog. Lord, how that woman liked to buy cheap pens and
paperclips.

John saw that the young woman was standing by his desk.
"Have a seat, Ms. ah, I'm sorry-" he said, closing the door
behind him.

''Hawthorne."

John rounded the desk and sat down. "Do you live in Moonfall?
I don't recall seeing you around here."
If I had, I'd sure
as hell remember.

"I'm a resident as of today. I've been hired to teach history
at St. Grue-St. Gertrude's."

He grinned. "Were you going to say 'St. Gruesome's'?"

She blushed and nodded. "It's rude, I'm sorry."

"Not at all. We all call it that more often than not. You must
have grown up here to know about the nickname."

"I was an orphan and lived at St. Gertrude's for several
years. I ran away when I was sixteen."

''What in the world possessed you to come back?" he blurted.

She tipped her head, eyeing him. Her hair caressed her jaw.
Then she laughed, covering her mouth with her fingers. "I take
it you're familiar with St. Gertrude's?"

He studied her a moment, then said lightly, "Everyone who
grew up here knows the stories about St. Gruesome's. It's
infamous."

She smiled uncertainly. "Stories? What kind?"

John suddenly realized he was treading on thin ice. ''Oh,
you know, kid stuff. The gargoyles come to life at night and
steal children, that sort of thing." He wasn't about to mention
any stories about the nubile young virgins. ''The headless monk
was a favorite." He paused. "What's the inside story? Is there
a headless monk lurking around the chapel?"

"Some of the girls used to claim they saw him. Even one
of the nuns, Sister Elizabeth. She painted a picture of him. It's
so horrible that it used to give me nightmares."

''Is she the one responsible for all those gruesome portraits?"

Sara smiled. "Yes. You've seen them?"

"A few of them."

"When? Years ago?"

''No, just recently." He hesitated, then decided that she surely
knew about the suicide. ''There was a death last month. A
teacher."

''Lenore Tynan," Sara told him, the smile gone from her
face. "I'm her replacement." She paused. "If I'd known that
was the reason for the opening, I'm not sure I'd have taken it.
They even put me in her room." Her mouth twisted in a wry
smile. ''The caretaker told me about all the blood on the walls,
and how they had to get me a new mattress. St. Gruesome's
hasn't changed a bit, and the name is very appropriate."

Her eyes glistened, and for a brief instant, John thought she
was going to cry. Instead, she sat up straighter and tilted her
chin up, defying the threatened tears. ''The place gives me the
creeps."

"If it helps, she didn't die in the room."

Sara Hawthorne stared at him in amazement. "She didn't?"

"No. The caretaker you mentioned
-
was that an older gentleman
named Boullan?"

''Yes, why?"

He wanted to tell her to be cautious around the man, but he
had no basis for such a warning. "I just wondered. He seemed
to be something of a storyteller," he added carefully.

"You're saying he let me think Tynan died in my room just
to frighten me?"

''It's possible." Another careful answer.

"Just where
did
she die?"

He suddenly wished he hadn't brought it up, but he owed
her an answer. "She was found in the pond at the bottom of
Witch Falls. Do you know the place?''

''I think so. It's in the park on Apple Hill Road?"

"That's right."

''But if she cut her wrists in her room, how could she possibly
end up at Witch Falls? That's at least a mile."

''As best as we can tell, she threw herself over the cliff. She
may have known that water would keep the blood flowing, but
was afraid of being discovered if she used the water in the
common lavatory. Hence the falls. Or, she may simply have
decided to drown herself when the bleeding proved insufficient.
There's no way to be certain."