MOON FALL (12 page)

A long moment passed before Sara spoke. ''Maybe she
decided she didn't want to die at St. Gertrude's." She shivered.
"I wouldn't want to."

"That's a possibility. People intent on suicide don't want to
be saved."

"But I still don't get it." Sara pushed a stray lock of hair
from her cheek. "What about the blood? How could she have
traveled so far if she'd already lost so much?"

''The nuns had the room partially cleaned by the time I
arrived, but I can assure you that there was nowhere near as
much blood as Mr. Boullan probably led you to believe."

"How much was there?" She sat forward, her eyes narrowing.

He was slightly taken aback by the abruptness of her question.
He didn't really know the answer, but the nuns had claimed
there hadn't been any large puddles on the floor. "A little goes
a long way."

"How much?" she demanded.

"Probably a pint or less." He didn't want to go into details
with her. "That's enough to, ah, make for an impressive crime
scene."

''Crime scene. That means you think it was murder?"

"No, I didn't mean to imply that. It was a poor choice of
words."

"Then why did you use them?" Her eyes drilled into his.
John's emotions had been mixed, but irritation was coming
quickly to the fore. "Because I'm a cop, and that's what we
say. Look, Ms. Hawthorne, we investigated thoroughly and
found absolutely no reason to believe foul play was involved."

He sat forward, causing her to move back slightly
-
very
slightly. "I thought you were here about an old case."

"I am, but I think there's a connection."

''A connection?" He was having a hard time hiding his a
n
ger
now. "Between Lenore Tynan and an old case?"

She nodded. "I'm surprised you didn't check your files.
You'd know."

''There is virtually nothing in our files on St. Gertrude's, Ms.
Hawthorne. Despite the stories about gargoyles and headless
ghosts, it's a very quiet place."

"Do you really
believe
that?" Sara Hawthorne's knuckles
were white as she gripped the edge of the desk. ''Tell me
how you explain the similarities between Lenore Tynan's and
Jennifer Blaine's deaths?"

"Who's Jennifer Blaine?" he asked quickly.

"Were you the sheriff in 1984?"

Slightly insulted
-
did he look that old?
-
John shook his
head. "I was a deputy. A rookie, in fact. And I'm not going to
answer any more questions until you answer mine. Who's Jennifer
Blaine?"

Sara twined her fingers together-probably, he thought, to
hide the trembling in her hands. "She was my roommate. She
slit her wrists in our room in 1984. It was declared a suicide,
but it wasn't. She was murdered."

"How do you know?"

"She wouldn't have done such a thing," Sara said passionately.
"She was getting out, going to get a job and go to college,
and I was going to join her. But the sheriff said it was suicide."

"In 1984, Christopher Scarzo was sheriff, but I'd remember
something like that, even if I had nothing to do with the case.
We just don't get that much excitement around here." He
paused. "Did Sheriff Scarzo interview you?"

"No. Mother Lucy didn't allow anyone to interview the
students.
She asked us the questions herself and gave the
answers to him."

"That's absurd," John told her. "Did you find Miss Blaine's
body?"

''Yes."

"Then there's not a chance in the world that your Mother
Lucy could prevent the sheriff from questioning you, and that's
what he would have done. You don't remember at least having
someone
in a uniform in the room when Lucy questioned you?"

She shook her head slowly. ''No. Absolutely not. Some of
my memories are a little fuzzy, but I'm sure about this because
I wanted to tell the sheriff Jenny'd been murdered, but I
couldn't. They wouldn't let me."

Fuzzy memories. She's a fruit loop.
Even as John thought it,
he realized that
his
memories were pretty fuzzy, too. "It doesn't
add up. You were probably in shock. Maybe you just don't
remember
talking to him."

''I'd remember," she said, fire in her blue eyes. ''Would you
at least look it up? Or ask this Scarzo person about it?"

''Chris retired years ago. Moved to Wyoming," he added,
as he rose and crossed to the files. ''But we can take a look.
That should clear things up for you." He opened a drawer and
began going through manila folders. As he searched, he heard
Sara's chair scrape and her heels clicking across the room. She
came to stand at the side of the open drawer and tried to peer
inside. It gratified him that she was too short to see well; she
was really starting to get on his nerves.

Finally, he closed the drawer and turned to her. "I'm sorry,
but there's nothing here about Jennifer Blaine or St. Gertrude's."

"You didn't look inside the folders. The report has probably
been misfiled." Her voice was edged with panic.

"That's possible. Look, Ms. Hawthorne, I've got virtually
no backup until Monday, so it may take until then to check
thoroughly. Is there a number where I can reach you?"

"You don't believe me, do you?" she spat. "You don't even
want to think that you might have to get off your butt, that
your little Mayberry life might be disrupted."

He glared at her and opened his mouth to tell her off, but
he saw the tears welling, saw the fear, and realized she was
holding on by a bare thread. Her brashness was thin armor.
Memories of the fear and nausea he felt just entering the nuns'
property last month flooded him. And then, dimmer memories
of the nightmares that continued to plague him, of chanting,
and eyes, and the moon ...

He suppressed a shiver as his anger melted away. ''I believe
you, Ms. Hawthorne," he said slowly. "And a death would
have been reported, whether it was an accident, a murder, or
a suicide." He gazed calmly at her. "Why would you think I
don't believe you?"

She let air out of her lungs noisily. "Look, I'm sorry. I've
had a bad day." A tear got loose and she wiped it away roughly.

"Do you have a number where I can call you?" he repeated.

"Yes. I mean no. Don't call me at the school. I'll call you,
or come to see you. Sheriff, this information is very important
to me. I really need to see the report on Jenny Blaine."

"I'll do my best to find it."

"I don't know how easy it will be for me to get away after
the weekend. I'll be working full time then, and I think my
schedule is heavy. Do you think you might find the report by
Sunday?"

He felt more kindly toward her and smiled. ''I can put the
night dispatcher to work when he arrives." He moved back to
the desk and wrote down "Jennifer Blaine, 1984," then looked
up at Sara, who was again beside the desk, watching him. ''Call
me Sunday.
He paused. ''Or are you expected to be in church
all day?"

She smiled wryly. "Sheriff Lawson, I'm no nun, and the
sisters aren't sticklers about churchgoing. Even the girls go to
chapel only if they want to. When I was a student there, being
asked to chapel was a privilege. Like a religious country club,
or something."

''That's weird."

She smiled. "It is, isn't it? Maybe it's because the chapel is
so small. I doubt anything has changed."

''You were in a home run by a bunch of nuns and they didn't
make you pray?"

''Oh, we prayed. all right. It was all in Latin, so I never
understood what I was praying about, but I had calluses on my
knees. We all did. Latin class meant an hour of reciting a day.
On our knees. It was hellacious."

"You must speak pretty fluent Latin, then. Or read it, or
whatever you do with a dead language."

"Not at all. What little I understood. I've forgotten. Wha
t
they taught was so archaic that even the English was nearly
indecipherable." She extended her hand. cheeks flushing. ''I'm
sorry for my behavior, Sheriff Lawson. I had no right to insult
you."

''Apology accepted." He shook her hand.

"I'm sorry for being such a bother, too."

"It's no bother. Frankly, I'm becoming very curious about
this missing file myself."

"Then your suspicions are aroused?" she asked hopefully.

He wished she'd quit trying to pin him down. "No, just an
interest. That I don't remember this case bothers me, and that
it appears to be missing from the files bothers me even more."
He didn't add that he still thought Sara Hawthorne might be,
to put it kindly, a little imbalanced. ''Once I read the report,
we can talk about why you believe your friend's death was a
homicide."

"And if you don't find it?" The sharp edge came back into
her voice.

"Then we' II talk about that," he said, wondering if there
were any Excedrin tablets left in his desk drawer.

"I guess that's the best I can hope for. Thank you." With
that, Sara Hawthorne stepped briskly to the door, put her hand
on the knob.

"Ms. Hawthorne?"

She turned. skirt flaring around her knees. "Yes?"

''Why did you come back here?"

''What?"

''If you hated it so much, why did you come back to St.
Gertrude's to teach?"

She looked him in the eye. ''To find out who killed Jenny
Blaine, and to see him brought to justice."

''That's what I thought." Crossing his arms, he gave her his
most authoritative look. ''Don't go getting yourself into trouble.
If you have suspicions, bring them to me."

"You think I can't handle myself?" she asked. holding his
gaze.

"Not at all. But I'm afraid you might not be able to handle
those nuns." He s
miled,
knowing she was the type that would
rush headlong into something if she was told not to. "I'm not
sure I and all my deputies could handle them, as a matter of
fact."

She returned his smile. "Thanks. I'll be careful."

She left the room, and a moment later, he saw her get into
a small white Sentra and drive away. She was going to be
trouble, he thought. She already was, he amended. as he
reopened the drawer for 1984 and grabbed an armload of files.
His other deputy would arrive in about five minutes, freeing
him to go home, relax, and see his son. He sat down at the
desk and phoned home, but Mark wasn't there yet. Probably
he was at Corey Addams's or Pete Parker's; either way, it was
only four, and he wasn't concerned He left a message saying
he'd be home at six, bearing pizza
.
Then he sat down and
s
tarted leafing through the files, looking for the missing report.

"'Bye, Mark," Kelly called, as she and Minerva stood on
the threshold of the cottage and watched the boy trotting up
the trail toward Apple Hill Road. Mark raised his hand and
yelled without slowing down, then disappeared into the thick
forest.

"You need to go back before they miss you at the home,"
Minerva told her as they went back inside and sat down, Kelly
in an easy chair, Minerva in her rocker by the stone fireplace
.

"I know." She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner
of the cozy little room. It was just past four, and she had to be
back by five-thirty. "I can stay a little while longer."

For the last hour or so, Minerva had told Kelly and Mark
stories about Moonfall's early days. She described Jeremiah
Moonfall and his family in such detail that it seemed like the
old woman had known them firsthand.

Though Kelly had heard the stories before, she never tired
of them. Ma
ybe
it was simply the
stories
she loved
, but it was probably because
Minerva always made her feel like she was worth talking to,
and that was something that didn't happen very often.

Today, the old woman told some new stories, these about
the town's second most influential settler, Reverend Tobias
Lawson. Kelly hadn't dared ask many questions, but Mark's
last name was Lawson, and she knew from his questions that
Tobias must be his ancestor. He'd gotten really excited when
Minerva had said that Tobias's son had married Jeremiah Moonfall's
daughter and had asked if that meant he had Moonfall
blood in his veins. Minerva had laughed and said yes
.
When
Mark left, he said he couldn't wait to tell his dad. Minerva had
laughed at that as well, then told him to tell his father to stop
by and visit with her soon.

Kelly and Minerva now sat in comfortable silence for long
minutes, as they always did when she visited. Only the soft
creaking of the old lady's rocking chair broke the silence.

Kelly had first met Minerva by accident, about a month after
she'd arrived at SL Gertrude's. It had been a quiet Sunday
morning, the first time she'd ever dared to sneak off the grounds.

She h
ad crossed the creek and had immediately felt lighter,
safer, in a way she couldn't comprehend. She could only think
of it as a weight being lifted from her shoulders. She had
followed the sounds of water to the Falls and stood on the
bridge spanning them and looked down on the bubbling white
water and the pool beyond that remained clear despite the
ripples from the Falls. Kelly knew nothing of the town, nothing
of anything except dark. depressing SL Gertrude's, but she was
now so happy, so tranquil, that as she watched the water and
listened to its powerful roar, she could only think that she had
found an enchanted place, a forest out of a Disney cartoon
where birds sang and a princess slept, awaiting the kiss of her
prince.

T
im
e stopped for her until she sensed that someone stood
next to her. She jerked her head to the left, scared that one of
the nuns had followed her, but instead she saw a tall, elderly
woman in a dark blue dress and a white knitted shawl calmly
standing beside her, watching the water. Kelly took a step away.

"I won't hurt you, child." Her blue eyes were sharp and
clear, but kind, and her high-cheekboned face seemed regal
despite her wrinkles. She looked about a million years old.
''My name is Minerva Payne. What's yours?"

She swallowed. "Kelly Reed."

"You are from that place." Minerva nodded toward St. Gertrude's.

"Yes." Kelly hesitated. "You won't tell, will you? I'll get
in trouble."

The old lady's smile broke her face into a thousand pieces.
"No, of course no
t
I'd do nothing to help those ...
women."
She p
rac
tically spat the last word.

"You don't like the nuns?" Kelly asked hopefully.

"And they don't like me." Minerva cocked her head, studying
Kelly. "You mean they haven't warned you about me?
About this place?"

"I haven't been here long," Kelly said uncertainly. "We're
not supposed to leave the grounds, and the nuns talk about
'evil influences' and stuff, like if we wander off, we might get
kidnapped. Some of the little kids say that there's an old witch
who bakes you into pies, like in 'Hansel and Gretel.' " She
looked up into Minerva's face, studied it thoughtfully. ''But
that's ridiculous, isn't it?"

''This is Witch Falls," she said, gesturing at the water below
them. "And we're in Witch Forest I live here." She chuckled.
"You look like a smart girl. Can you guess who the 'old witch'
is?"

"You?" Kelly had guessed the moment she'd spoken, but
thought it was too impolite to say so. ''That's hard to believe."

"Bosh, child. You know as well as I do that it's an easy
thing. You don't need to watch what you say around me. Don't
I look like a witch?"

Embarrassed, Kelly shrugged. "Well, you don't have any
warts."

Minerva laughed heartily. "None that you can see, at least
.
You mentioned 'Hansel
and Gretel.' Have you been to my
shop?"

"I haven't been anywhere except S
t
Gertrude's and here."

''I own a bakery called The Gingerbread House. I live in
Witch Forest and I'
m as old as God ..
. or at least, Lucy
Bartholomew. Have you met her?"

"The Mother Superior? She's as old as you?"

Minerva nodded. "She has ways of hiding her age.''

"I hate her. She really
is
a witch. A mean old witch."

''Who told you witches are mean, Kelly?"

She shrugged. "They're always mean, like in 'Hansel and
Gretel,' and 'Snow White.' Everybody knows that."
S
uddenly
she felt foolish. ''But there's no such thing as witches. Even
if Mother Lucy seems like one."

"There
are
witches, Kelly, good and bad and in between.
But Lucy and her sisters are something else
.
"

''They're a bunch of monsters," Kelly supplied.

Minerva Payne nodded, smiling. "You'll get no argument
from me."

''Do you know Mother Lucy? Have you been to St. Gruesome's?"
She said the nickname with relish, her fear gone.
Anyone who didn't like Lucy couldn't be all bad.

"Yes, I know her, but don't worry, dear, she's no friend to me.
And I haven't been to St. Gruesome's in years. Not physically, at
least," Minerva added, with a wink. "Now, would you like to
come to my cottage in the woods and have a fresh cherry tart?
I promise not to bake you into a pie afterward."

Kelly nodded and accompanied Minerva to her house, which
turned out to be a wood and stone cottage that might have been
designed by elves. The fireplace was huge, and cemented in
among the smooth, rounded creek
bed stones were pieces of
driftwood and rocks coated with natural quartz, amethyst, and
moonstone, among other gems. The floor was golden oak, polished
within an inch of its life, and the braided rugs were bright
and clean. There were shining copper pots and pans in the
kitchen, a wood-burning stove, and another small fireplace, this
one with a spit and an honest-to-God black iron kettle. The
open shelves were filled with mason jars of fruits and vegetables
from the garden, along with jars of herbs and oils, many of
which Kelly couldn't identify. Candles and hurricane lanterns
filled each room; there was no gas or electricity here, though
there was running water. The walls were decorated with all
sorts of brooms, made by Minerva herself, and ornamented
with dried flowers and herbs.

That first time, before she left, Kelly told Minerva that she
wished she could live in the cottage with her forever. The old
lady smiled sadly and told her that she could at least visit
whenever she wanted
.
Kelly accepted that without question,
and came to see Minerva whenever she could, but always on
Sundays, when the nuns disappeared into the chapel with their
favorite students, like her roommate, Marcia, and her stuck
-
up
friends.

"Minerva?
"
she asked, breaking the silence.

''Ye
s
, dear?"

"Why did you bring that boy here?'' Though she had liked
Mark Lawson, she was a little jealous, and ashamed of it.

"I thou
g
ht you might like to meet him."

The jealousy fled instantly. ''Really?"

"Yes. That, and more. He is in danger and needs help from
me and from you."

"From
me?
What kind of danger?"

"Yes, from you. He needs your friendship. As to the danger,
we'll come to that at the right time. It's just important for now
that you be his friend."

Minerva's habit of being mysterious drove Kelly nuts. "He
must have lots of friends."

''In his way, he is like you, Kelly. Yes, he has friends, but
he's different, like you. His friends are afraid of me, just like
the rest of the children in town. The bold ones dare one another
to come into my store, but most stay away, just as they stay
away from St. Gertrude's. Mark is different. He's not afraid,
and he's interested in unusual things."

''Like what?"

Minerva smiled. ''The things you see here. Herbs, oils, the
things one does with them."

"What
do
you do with them?"

''I've told you before, I cook with some and heal with others.
I'm an herbalist. I've told you all about herbal medicine."

Kelly leaned forward. "But what else do you do with them?"

"That's all."

"I know it isn't."

"You're too smart for your own good, Kelly. It's too dangerous
for you to have that knowledge right now. When the time
is right
-
"

"You've told Mark, haven't you?"

"Just a little. It's not dangerous for him to know these
things."

"Then why is it for me?''

"Because of the nuns. It's dangerous for you to be here. If
Mother Lucy found out you were visiting me, I shudder to
think of your punishment It would be far worse than if they
found you in town. But if she thought you knew ... "

"Knew what?"

''You are right to hate Lucy and her sisters, and you are
right about the forest on St. Gertrude's property being different,
being scary. It's a cursed place."

"How can a church be cursed?"

''There are many kinds of churches. Listen, child, and
remember. The old god becomes the new devil. The god of the
wood, Pan, had many names, and those we call pagans worshiped
him as the embodiment of nature. The nature god was
usually depicted with horns and hooves. Does he sound
familiar?"

"The devil, right?"

"That's right. To the people who worshiped the old gods,
nature was most important The god of nature was believed
to control the crops, the weather, birth, and death. When the
Christians came along, they had to force the pagans to worship
their
god instead. So they built their churches on the pagan's
places of worship, but the pagans still had a laugh or two. They
sculpted their own gods into the ornamentation of the churches.
The Green Man-Pan, Cernunos, Robin of the Wood, or Loki,
whatever you wish to call him-is a prominent figure on older
churches, and while the pagans pretended to worship the new
god, they secretly worshiped the old. He had leaves for hair
and vines growing from his mouth, but they left off the horns
and hooves, since that was what the Christians recognized and
vilified. That is how the witches-the pagans who were wise
in the ways of herbs and healing-came to be considered
servants of the Christian devil. They had nothing to do with
Christianity, though. Witches never worshiped Satan
or
the
Christian god. They were victims of fanatics. Satanists are
Christians who
’ve
decided to rebel against their own god."

Kelly shivered. "Are the gargoyles on St. Gruesome's old
gods, too?"

"No, dear, not at all.
“T
hose are guardians, demons thought
to keep evil away, though they are really evil personified."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Religion rarely does." Minerva smiled. "You're going to
ask if there are green men on St. Gruesome's, aren't you?"

"Yes. I've never seen any, but I hate to look at those gargoyles.
It always seems like they're looking back."

"There are no green men on St. Gruesome's. The land once
belonged to Pan and his ilk, under the names the local Indians
gave to the nature spirits, but it is defiled now. It is cursed."

"By God?"

“T
hat depends on what you believe God is."

Kelly hesitated. ''I don't know. I kind of like that thing John
Lennon said about everybody being God. It's like the good
thing that's in people, and it's all the same."

"You have a pagan soul, but that's why you're here. You
are searching."

"What do you believe?" she asked, more confused than ever.

"Like you, I think God inhabits all things, but I don't necessarily
think God is always good. To the Christians, God and
the Devil are opposites, and they are always at war, good versus
evil. I'm not so sur
e that they aren't one and the
same. The
worshipers of old thought that the gods had three faces and
that the face could change according to whim or need. Good,
evil, and indifferent, if you will."

Kelly nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. I mean, all
those paintings old Sister Lizard does of the martyred saints.
How could a loving god do things like that to people? It seems
like a real ego-trip, even if you are God, to make people suffer
just to prove how faithful they are."

"It does, doesn't it?"

''How can St. Gertrude's be cursed, though? I mean, Catholic
nuns are supposed to be good."

"Do they seem good to you?"

"No. They're horrible."

"There's nothing wrong with most Christians, Kelly.
C
hristianity is no different from any other religion; its adherents try
to follow the same Golden Rule that has always been important
to humanity. The credo to do unto others as you wish them to
do unto you is sacred and central to every positive belief system,
be it pagan, Buddhist, Christian, or any other. It is one of the
few true rules of this universe. When you take away all the
dogma, we all have the same god. You just have to watch out
for the fanatics. And there are fanatics on both sides of every
religion. Just as there were good witches, there were evil
ones. They
chose to be. It is the same with Christians and the rest
of them. Whether or not good and evil are separate or opposite
ends of the same thing, ultimately, does not matter. We make
the demons and the gods fit the image we desire."

"But how can Catholic nuns be evil?"

"What makes you think they're Catholic?"

"Nuns are always Catholic, aren't they?"

"Not necessarily, and don't even think of talking about that
with anyone but me."

"What are they, then?"

"Enough for today. I've talked more than I should, and you
need to get back before you're missed." Minerva stood and
walked to an oak hutch in the small dining area. Opening a
drawer, she took something out and came over to Kelly. "I
have something for you." She opened her hand to show her a
thin leather thong with a small cloth bag on the end.
"
Inside
are some of those herbs you're so curious about. I want you
to wear this amulet all the time. It will help protect you."

"They won't let us wear jewelry."

"Keep it in your pocket."

''Okay." Kelly accepted the amulet and slipped it in her skirt
pocket. ''How does it work?"

Minerva smiled. "It's a repellent."

''Nun repellent?" Kelly snickered.

"Let's just say it repels evil. Keep it hidden. It will be
dangerous for you if the nuns find it." She walked Kelly to the
door. "Be quick. It's starting to get dark early, and you can't
be in that forest after dark."

Around them. daylight still shone through the trees. Kelly
felt safe and calm. "Why? Will the gargoyles get me?"

"If not the stone ones, then the ones dressed in black. Now
hurry, and be careful."

Minerva spoke lightly, but the concern on her face gave
Kelly another chill. "Are you a witch, Minerva?"