MOON FALL (14 page)

Midnight, a dark, moonless shroud of a midnight that closed
in around Minerva Payne, starving her lungs, making the hair
in her long white braid feel tight, chilling her soul with its
blackness. Here in the forest, in her cottage,
she
rarely felt this
way, but the time was approaching, and as much as she wished
to ignore it, her body told her it was so.

Tonight, she felt the aches and pains of age as she rarely
did: her fingers were stiff with arthritis, though she sat close
to the
warm
fire, her heart cold in her bosom. Despite the fire, the
cottage would not warm as it usually did. Beyond the firelight,
the air was cold and filled with portents of things to come.

She felt old and tired tonight and wondered if Lucy ever felt
the same. She doubted it
;
Lucy had the energy of her nuns to
draw on, and whenever it waned, she renewed the blood, revived
the energy. It was so much easier to follow the darkness than
the light; the rewards, at least on this plane, were immediately
gratifying. Energizing.

Minerva rose from her rocker, for once wishing she owned
a cane to lean on.
You can lean on nothing but yourself, old
woman, you know that.
Steadfastly she walked into the kitchen
and retrieved a blue five-pound bag of Morton's salt, then
crossed to the front door and lifted the old-fashioned wooden
bar latch. Her hands trembled, not with pain, which she could
control, but with terror born of knowledge.
You can control
that, too, so stop feeling sorry for yourself.

Straightening her shoulders, she opened the door, letting in
the night, which was thick and still and cool, though not so
cold as the interior of the cottage. No crickets sang, no rodents
scuttled through the brush; the night was waiting, and so was
she.

Suddenly, from above, a horrible cry rent the silence and
something even blacker than the night flapped heavy wings as
it crossed over the cottage.

"Get away," Minerva said softly, forcefully, as she opened
the edge of the salt bag. "Get away, stay away, you'll not have
me tonight." So saying, she poured a line of salt across the
threshold, then stepped carefully over it to walk around the
cabin, encircling it completely in salt. As she walked she spoke
in the old language, her tongue rolling over r's, her voice lilting
and youthful, as it had been the day she'd reported the woman's
body in the pond.

As she spoke the words, the aches disappeared from her
hands and the stiffness from her legs, and by the time she
poured the last of the salt, connecting it to the beginning at the
threshold, she was moving quickly, her energy returning. She
stepped over the salt, into the doorway, then turned and looked
out at the night. She heard the
horrible
cry again, but it was
distant now, repelled by the salt, as were the other negative
forces. As she closed the door, the crickets, the last of the
season,
began their song at last, and inside the air was toasty
warm.

You've only put a bandage on a broken bone.
She threw
away the empty salt bag, then retrieved a large
leather-bound
volume from a bookcase near the dining table. Returning to
her rocker, she opened it and began studying her own words
from long ago.
A bandage on a broken bone, that's all. You
have to do it right this time. You have to win this battle, or the
war will be lost.

Sara's dreams were filled with gargoyles, all of them with
Mother Lucy's menacing features, all of them screeching and
coming after her, razor-sharp talons extended and dripping with
blood.

Suddenly, Jenny Blaine's face appeared, pale and bloodless.
"Get out of here, Sara. Get out before they kill you, too!"

Sara awoke, a scream caught behind her teeth. For a moment,
she didn't know where she was, only that she was in utter
darkness, shivering though the sheets were soaked with sweat.

I'm at St. Gruesome's.
The realization didn't help, but made
her more fearful instead. "Jenny." She whispered the word,
half expecting to see her, or the ghostly woman Basil-Bob
Boullan claimed had frightened her predecessor.
Maybe they're
one and the same.

Breathing hard, she frantically felt for the cheap little bedside
lamp, found the switch, and turned it. Dim yellow light filled
her room. Her heart and respiration began to slow, and shakily
she pushed the covers back and climbed from the bed.
What
a nightmare!
It seemed silly, now. Sort of.

Thirsty, she realized that all she had to drink was Pepsi.
Damn!
She'd been in such a hurry to go to bed that she hadn't
bothered to fill the water pitcher she'd found on a shelf in the
closet.
So, do I drink soda, go thirsty, or walk down the hall
to the lavatory and fill the pitcher?

Her bladder put its two cents in, making her decision for
her. She pulled on her robe and tied it, then grabbed the pitcher,
went to the door, and kneeled and removed the rubber wedge.

She opened the door a crack, cautiously peering left, then
right, down the hall, making sure it was empty, then stepped
out, closing the door softly behind her.

The floor was freezing cold; she'd have to buy slippers next
time she went to town. She decided not to bother with going
back inside for shoes-the chilliness of the air in the hall had
redoubled her bladder's demands.

Only a few of the fly
-
specked bulbs were on at this hour,
and in between were patches of darkness which effectively
telescoped the corridor. It was unnerving, but Sara continued
on, refusing to look at the gruesome portraits on the wall,
refusing to give in to her nervousness, her desire to run instead
of walk.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she pushed open the door to
the lavatory. She balanced the pitcher on the edge of a
y
ellowed
porcelain sink, then went into one of the dozen toilet stalls.
Somewhere behind her, in the shower room, she could hear
faucets dripping, slowly and steadily.

The shattering of glass made her scream. "Hello?" she
called. ''Is someone there?"

There was no reply.
The pitcher fell, that's all.
She took a
deep breath, held it, exhaled, did it again, then stood, her legs
rubbery as she flushed, then opened the stall door. "Hello?"
she called again.

The white pitcher lay in shards on the floor.
No wonder it
fell.
It had been stupid of her to leave it in such a precarious
position. ''Damn," she muttered, as she took a handful of paper
towels from the dispenser and started cleaning up. "Damn it."

A shower turned on. Sara, brushing the last shards of glass
into a towel, raised her head.
Who could be in here?
Another
shower came on, and another.
Do nuns shower at two in the
morning?
That was ridiculous, but someone was in the shower
room, and she
-
or they-hadn't answered when she'd called
out. The thrum of water against tiles increased as more showers
were turned on.

Sara dropped the towel full of glass in the trash can, then
tiptoed across the floor toward the shower room. A sting on
the bottom of her foot made her look down and she realized
s
he'd tracked blood across the floor. She paused to examine
her foot, found a small oozing wound below the toes. There
was no glass in it.
The hell with it.
She flattened herself against
the white tiled wall and edged along until she came to the open
entryway. She peeked around the comer, and at first saw nothing
but steam.

After a moment, she made out the shower heads, two dozen
of them. most spewing hot water, judging by the steamy heat
on her face and in her lungs. There was no movement, there
were no people, just the water, pounding and pounding. She
jumped as a shower head near her suddenly came to life. Not
believing her eyes, she watched a
s the h
ot water handle turned
by itself. "No," she whispered.

"Sara ... Sara ... Sara ... "

The words echoed in her ears. They came from the middle
of the showers, but still she couldn't see anyone. Steamy mist,
like fog, pulled apart and then wafted together again, over and
over.
"Sara ... Sara ... Sara ...

"
Something began slowly to glide toward her, a wavery oblong
of steam that took form as it neared.
"Sara ... Sara
... "

She couldn't move but watched raptly as a woman took form
within the steam.
''Sara
... "It glided toward her, and now
Sara could see the eyes, dark indentations, the suggestion of a
nose and mouth.
''Sara
... "Long hair waved around the face.

"Jenny," she whispered, no longer afraid. "Jenny, is it really
you?"

The foggy specter peered at her with sorrowful eyes, then
raised her arms, turning them to show the inner wrists. In the
sea of white, the long red gashes, from wrist to elbow, stood
out vividly. Sara's stomach clenched, and then she saw the
specter's face transform from Jenny Blaine's gentle features
into a monstrosity from her nightmares. At the same moment,
the showers turned off and the phantom began to laugh, a
horribl
e cackle, a screeching, gleeful,
hysterical laughter that
grew louder as the specter drifted away with the dissipating
steam.

Suddenly, Sara's paralysis ended and she raced from the
lavatory, ghostly laughter following her all the way down the
hall to her door. She yanked it open and slammed it shut behind
her, the cackle echoing in her ears. Frantically she shoved the
rubber wedge under the door, then took one of the straight
chairs from the dinette set and wedged it under the knob.

She couldn't think, couldn't even begin to comprehend what
had happened. Emotions drained, feeling completely numb, she
lay down on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and waited for dawn.

"Hi, Dad!"

''Doesn't anyone ever knock anymore?" John smiled to show
his son it was nothing personal. "Corey, Pete, how're you
doing?" he asked, nodding at Mark's friends, who hovered in
his office doorway. "You boys come to turn yourselves in?"

Corey Addams, a slight, blond thirteen-year-old, looked a
little worried, but Pete Parker, of
sturdier stock, grinned evil
ly.
"We ain't squealin', copper." The kid's Brooklyn accent
stank.

''Then why are you here?" John pushed away the stack of
manila folders he'd been going through since noon in a fruitless
effort to find references to Jennifer Blaine's death, then folded
his hands on his desk. "You look like you want something."

Mark nodded. "Caspar wants to hire us to help set up for
the Halloween Haunt. Can I do it, Dad?"

The Haunt had lost its attraction for John in 1972, but his
son loved it as much as he had before the accident, and he
wasn't about to deny the boy his fun. Particularly, he thought,
if that meant he might spend a little less time hanging around
Minerva Payne's bakery. "As long as you get your homework
done on time."

''No problem, Dad. Thanks." He paused. ''Can I sleep over
at Corey's tonight? His mom and dad said it was okay, and
Pete already asked and he gets to go."

John hesitated. Every time Mark wanted to stay at the
Addamses', the old memories resurfaced, especially of how he
and Corey's father,
Winky
,
and the others had sneaked out of
the house after assuring their parents they wouldn't. He'd let
Mark stay at the Addamses' occasionally, but as now, he always
tried subtly to change the plans, even though he knew it was
a ridiculous thing to do. "Why don't you boys spend the night
at our place?'' he asked. "You can call out for a couple pizzas
and rent some movies. My treat."

Mark glanced at his friends, who both looked amenable, but
when he turned back to John, he said, "Dad, Mrs. Addams is
making pot roast. I don't want to miss that!"

"Pepperoni, Mark," murmured Pete, who, like Corey, was
blessed with a career mother and yearned for pizza the way
Mark desired home cooking. ''Olives, mozzarella."

''All the pepperoni you want, guys."

"Yeah," said Corey Addams.

''No, Dad," Mark said, almost apologetically. ''We always
stay over at our house or Pete's. I really want to go. Besides,"
he added in a sly tone, "Corey's parents are going to think I
don't like them if I don't go sometime."

Win some, lose some.
Knowing he was wrong, John made
himself smile and nod at his son. "Go ahead. But don't forget
your toothbrush," he added, with a trace of satisfaction. "So
what are you guys going to do?"

"Caspar's gonna let us design part of the Haunted Barn,"
Mark said.

"We're gonna plan it all out
tonight," Pete said, "and tomorrow
we're gonna show it to my grandfather for approval."

Caspar was Pete's great-grandfather, but John supposed that
was too much of a mouthful, and who was he to quibble? Both
he and Mark called his grandfather by his first name. ''Well,
it sounds like you're going to be busy," John said, happier now
that he knew they probably wouldn't have time to get into any
mischief. "Have fun, you guys. And Corey, say hi to your dad
for me, okay?"

"Sure."

The boys left the office, Corey Addams pausing to pull the
door closed behind him. Corey was a lot like
Winky
,
but he
reminded John even more of Paul Pricket, the friend he missed
most of all. He would never forget looking up, clinging to
Greg's body, and seeing Paul above him, hearing the words,
"Take my hand." He felt a pang. You couldn't put a price on
a friend like that, and he suddenly wished he could see him
again. After his family had moved down to
Santo Verde
in 1973,
he'd heard from him once or twice, and they still exchanged
Christmas cards, which of late included no more than one
"Hope you're well" line. He knew Paul had gone to seminary
in Claremont and was now a Catholic priest in a small parish;
or at least, he was as of last Christmas.
You're seriously considering
contacting him, aren't you?

John shook his head. Maybe it was all the exposure to the
nuns, maybe it was the suicide of Lenore Tynan, or the visit
of the pretty young teacher alleging another suicide. Or maybe
it was barely a month before Halloween, and like it or not, he
always thought about the others, especially Paul, this time of
year.
And you've never even admitted that to yourself until
now, have you?

He rose and put the files away, then grabbed another batch,
these from 1985, and sat back down. He hadn't been able to
get Sara Hawthorne off his mind, even though he thought she
might be a nut. He at least wanted to find the report on her
friend's death, and prove to her it was a suicide.
And to myself.

Doubt was eating away at him, and picking up the phone,
he punched in Frank Cutter's number. He should have thought
of the doctor hours ago.

He was on hold ten minutes before Frank came on the line.
He spent a few minutes telling him about the visit from Sara
Hawthorne and the story of her roommate then waited another
ten while the doctor searched his files.

“
Not a trace of anyone named Jennifer Blaine here, John.
You say she was a suicide?"

"Yes, though it's been alleged foul play might have been
involved."

"If it happened in this county, I'd have a record of it, John.
So would you."

"Maybe your file is misplaced?" John tried.

"Mine and yours both? I don't think so." Cutter cleared his
throat. "Unless this was covered up by the nuns, which is
unlikely, since
they
came to
us
about the Tynan woman, I'd
say your schoolteacher is imagining things." There was a pause.
''Of course, you might want to check with
Dashwood
. Maybe
he didn't bother to report it."

"You mean, he covered it up?"

"Yes, that's what I mean. I'm not going to tell you your
business, John, but don't get a bug up your ass and go out
there and accuse the man of anything. Just say you can't find
a record of the death and ask to see his copy. Don't put him
on the defensive."

John suppressed a groan. Sometimes he got sick of working
around the same people who worked with his father, they tended
to treat him like a child. Cutter was even worse, since he was
a good friend of his grandfather's too. He suppressed a childish
urge to protest Cutter's assumption that he didn't know how
to do his job. "I'll keep it in mind, Frank. Thanks."

He hung up and stared at the folders for a long moment
before returning them to the cabinet. Before he could think
twice about it, he shrugged on his leather jacket, grabbed his
hat, and left for St. Gruesome's.