The Moon Tells Secrets (19 page)

He woke up, reaching for Raine like he used to for Dennie, but her side of the bed—pillow and sheet—were cold. Had she simply left the room, gone to the bathroom? But the air itself felt empty, devoid of breath and scent, and he knew he was alone.

He wondered for a second if he'd dreamed the whole thing: laughing in the kitchen, the comfort and warmth of her body when she yielded it to him, pushing his way inside her, and most of all, what she'd told him before they fell asleep—about what had killed Dennie, about Davey. Damn her! He got out of bed and pulled up the shades, letting sunshine brighten the room. Spotting a note on the bureau, he picked it up and read it quickly.

Cade,

 

Forgive me if I've caused you pain. I will cherish you forever and never forget this precious night, the last one we will ever spend together. Try to understand what I told you and why we need to leave as soon as we can. I am afraid of what will happen. Please allow me this space.

 

My love forever, Raine.

“Fuck!” he said, balling up the note and tossing it into the trash can at the side of the bureau. “Just fuck it!” Then feeling strangely contrite, he pulled it out of the trash and read it again. He sat down on the side of the bed to clear his head, to try to forget how he'd felt last night, the tenderness with which they'd made love, but her scent, the smell of the lemon lotion, oil, or whatever the hell it was she wore, lingered in the room, the bed, his skin, it seemed, and he wondered if he were imagining that, too—if one could imagine smells like you could sounds, like he'd imagined the dog howling before dawn.

What had she said about Davey, about him being one of those things that tore Dennie apart, about the rage he had within him? And for an instant, but not more than that, he'd felt rage boil within him toward the boy, sitting on his couch, playing chess, listening to him teach; Davey was a part of what had destroyed his life! He stopped himself then. She must be out of her mind.

He didn't give a damn what she said, Davey couldn't be what she thought he was. He knew enough about kids to see that. And that was key, wasn't it? What she
said
her son had within him. For the last ten years, he'd worked with kids—smart, dumb, crazy—and knew more than a bit about troubled ones. Hell, he'd been a troubled one himself. Davey wasn't troubled; he'd been with the kid a couple of hours, two or three times a week, and never saw any hint of that. Sad, sometimes scared, like the time he'd heard that dog. That had sure scared him, like it had scared her at Starbucks that day. Had the dog actually nipped her hand? Had it drawn blood?

Please allow me this space.

He could hear the pleading in her voice even though the words were written, and he knew he had no choice but to give her what she asked. But didn't he have rights, too? When someone touched your life, changed it as she had his, they owed you something even if they didn't know it.
He
knew it and had a right to find any truth he could. That was the only way you could heal, and he would sure need healing after this.

He showered, pulled on sweats, and went to the kitchen to make coffee, poured himself a cup, and spotted the remnants of the burned popcorn still in the sink. Funny how scorched popcorn made him recall the softness of her lips, and a shock of desire rammed itself through him despite his determination to keep her out of his mind. Then he thought about Davey and got angry all over again. What craziness was that, to make her say stuff like that about her own kid? She must be crazy as hell! Then suddenly from somewhere came Dennie's voice, and he stopped mid-sip, recalling a conversation they'd had so long ago:

It's all witchcraft, as far as I'm concerned. And I don't believe in witches.

You would if you read the stuff I've read.

What had she read? What had she found?

He hadn't touched it since that day in Dennie's office with Luna, but something pulled him toward it now, the thing—the “artifact,” he'd called it that night—that was left after Dennie had died, had been torn apart. Still sipping his coffee, he headed into Dennie's office, opened the door reluctantly, not sure why he hesitated except for what always came back to him. He forced it from his mind this time, and went straight to the desk where he had put it.

Luna had told him to “drop it in a bag and put it in another room,” but he hadn't done it; for the life of him, he couldn't imagine where else he would keep it. It belonged here, whatever it was. He picked it up, examining it again. What the hell was it? He'd thought it was part of a claw, but it was shaped differently, with its wiry fur. It repulsed him, but not so much as it had before. He turned it over, studying all sides of it, remembering how he'd touched it that first time, remembered the blood he thought he'd seen on its tip. Nothing now. Had he imagined it? He held it carefully, taking care with the tip. A fang? Tooth? Or nothing at all, he thought with amusement, recalling Luna's admonitions. Chances were, he'd attributed more to what Dennie called Luna's “sense of wonder” than he should have. Still, Luna's sense of things couldn't be ignored.

She could help him make sense of what Raine had told him, if she chose to. Luna had probably known for months, but telling a secret to Luna Loving Moore was as good as telling it to the dead; he knew that from his own experience, from Dennie's. I think I'd trust Luna with my life, Dennie told him once out of the blue, and he'd believed her, although he knew less about Luna and the life she'd led before they met her than he knew now.

He sat down in Dennie's chair, picked up the wedding photograph to study her face in detail, trying to see every tiny bit of her that could be captured in a photo—the hair, smile, eyes.

Why did it take your eyes?

Because I saw, my darling, Dennie said, answering his unspoken question, and the sound of her voice struck him dumb. He surveyed the room, forgetting for an instant where he was, what had happened, and then, just as quickly from nowhere a question formed in his mind:

What did you see?

My killer, of course.

The last thing she'd laid eyes on before she died, whoever or whatever he or it had been—if he believed what Raine had said, and just thinking of Raine again brought a sigh that came so quickly and suddenly from so deep inside, he hadn't felt it coming. Sitting now in the clarity of daylight, away from the enchantment of the night, from her smell and touch, he wondered if he could believe any of it—Davey changing, the thing chasing them. Unbelievable. That's what it was. But why had she lied to him? Because he'd imagined there was more there than there had been. Because she didn't have the courage to love him back. Because—

Because I saw.

Dennie's voice again, yet not so clear this time, coming from within himself, calling him away from his thoughts of Raine, bringing him back to this room, his question. Saw what? The killer? Or the truth? Was that what she was telling him, if she was telling him anything at all, if he wasn't losing his mind?

He slammed the drawer closed with so much force, he nearly knocked the photograph off the desk; leaving the office, he slammed that door, too, then headed into the kitchen. Dennie's kitchen—where he had kissed Raine, from where they'd left to make love, with Dennie's blessing. Despite himself, he smiled because he realized that even from her grave, Dennie would have made it clear if he'd crossed some kind of line with the wrong kind of woman.

Later when he asked himself why he'd decided so suddenly to listen again, he realized it must have been the kitchen as much as anything else—as much as hearing Dennie's voice—
thinking
he heard Dennie's voice—as much as trying to find out answers to what Raine had told him. But there was a purpose to it this time when he pulled his laptop from the briefcase underneath his desk and plugged it in. He was in work mode when he sat down at this desk, his own territory, his space for preparing lesson plans, correcting flawed homework, paying bills; this was business now. He was listening for a reason, not for the sheer pleasure of hearing her voice and her laughter, for snatching her back from the dead.

Because I saw.

He was determined now to see it himself, whatever she told him she'd seen. Where to start? On the day she left him—was stolen from him. April 18. He slipped the earphones over his ears and heard her voice:

My subject is late. Our appointment was for nine
A.M.,
but an hour has passed and I've heard nothing. A loss of nerves is often the case in matters such as this, particularly when one considers the consequence for betrayal of these “sacred” oaths. I hope that the information offered will be worth my time and the fee I've offered to pay and that there will be no objection to my taping our interview. I am eager—yet strangely wary.

The doorbell rang in the distance; the tape recorder was turned off. Then Dennie and someone else, sitting from far away, began to speak. Where were they talking? Was it the other side of the room? At her desk, across from her? The voice was hushed, gruff. Woman or man? He couldn't tell. Dennie's voice was strained and tense. Not like her at all. Was it fear or anticipation that he heard?

—Thank you for coming. I know this is difficult for you.

—Nothing must go from here.

—You object to being recorded?

—Nothing must go from here!

—It will be only for research. I need to keep records. Accurately.

—Fields have eyes and woods have ears.

—What do you mean by that?

—(no answer)

—I won't use your name.

—You don't know my name.

—Then I can't use it, can I?

A nervous laugh. Dennie's.

—May I ask you something? Why did you agree to do this interview? Was it the money?

—No.

—Then why?

—You will know in time.

Cade turned up the volume, trying to hear the voice from far away, still unable to determine who was speaking. Woman? Man? Old? Young? Dennie gave no hint of identity, age, or gender.

Tape recorder, turned off again as abruptly as before. Who had turned it off? The subject? Dennie? He snatched off his earphones. Unwilling to hear what came next. Then put them on again, knowing he had no choice but to listen to the end—through the silences, through Dennie's discomfort, to whatever was said or wasn't. How much time elapsed before they began again? It was impossible to know. Dennie began again.

—Why did you come here? To this town?

—A calling.

—Calling? What do you mean?

—A duty to keep what is mine.

—And what is yours?

—If it lives, it will kill me. It is his duty as it is mine.

—And who is he?

A pause. Cade could hear Dennie's breath. She was afraid, he was sure of that now. Five minutes. Six. Before the voice came back again. Dennie now, her voice calmly probing.

—There are some things I've read in the books about this … your ability, your skill, and the mythology surrounding it that I was hoping you could verify. You can nod your head if you want to if you don't want me to record what you say.

Silence. Was there a nod? Dennie would note it, have filled in the rest when she typed it up.

—I've read the power began during the horror of the Long Walk, when the U.S. Army backed by the government forced your people, the Navajo, at gunpoint—women, children, the most vulnerable among you—to leave your homes in Arizona and walk to New Mexico. That your people were starved, beaten, children and pregnant women savagely whipped.

My people, too, experienced such horror.

I've read that the … gifted people like yourself … among them learned to change their shape to be able to flee unseen from the guns and whips of your oppressors. Is that true?

The voice was clear but deep, and there was bitterness in the words.

—There is much truth in that.

—Can you read
my
thoughts?

A shifting of papers on Dennie's desk. Silence. Had it been a nod? A smile.

—It is said that you can make any voice your own. Could you do that with me? Can you show me?

—It is said that you can make any voice your own. Could you do that with me? Can you show me?

The sound of it taking Dennie's voice like that, using Dennie's words stopped his heart, and a chill went straight through him.

—It is said that white ash on a silver bullet can destroy you. Is that true?

—A silver bullet? For vampires. Werewolves. Not for us.

—I thought it was a stake through the heart for vampires.

Dennie trying for a joke? The laughter that came was loud, dismissive.

—Silver won't work. Not by itself, anyway. Try it if you want to.

—Should I be prepared to use it?

Dennie chuckled again, but it was forced and pretentious. She quickly changed the subject.

—How does it feel when you … change?

—I will show you when we meet again.

—And when will that be? I'm not sure how to interpret that. The look you just gave me.

Dennie's words felt like a spike of ice driven through him. They had met again, as it said they would.

He sat at his desk, unable to move, then played the recording again—once and then twice—listening for something he might have missed, listening as Dennie might have done, and then turned it off. He considered erasing it, forever getting rid of the voice that hadn't been there, but he knew better than that. This was where Dennie had led him, and he had to follow.