The Moon Tells Secrets (5 page)

“So you've found a fellow traveler in Luna Moore? I knew there was something weird about that woman,” he'd said in bed that night.

“Not weird … just wondering. She doesn't dismiss unexplainable things like some people do.” She'd given him an affectionate kick. But he'd still regarded Luna with a wary eye.

All that had changed.

He poured himself two shots of bourbon, perused the papers he had to correct, and pushed them aside. He'd do it Sunday night, put off watching the playoffs, get to school early on Monday. Weekends were the hardest. He focused on the kids during the week; thirty eleven-year-olds were enough to keep anyone on his toes. Their silliness, misbehavior, and occasional pranks kept him from going crazy. The kids and Luna.

He wondered again about the boy with Luna's cousin. Funny how shy and shaken he was at the house, as if all his energy had been zapped away, like something had left him scared down to his roots. Something strange about the woman, too. Not surprising they were kin to Luna, Queen of the Odd. What was the woman's name? Rene? Lane? Raine.

Luna didn't mention family much, and he'd been surprised when she told him her mother had died and asked if he'd accompany her to the memorial. It was foolish of him not to have realized they'd be going to a church. But she'd been so vague about the service, and it really could have been held anywhere—knowing Luna. He'd expected some kind of ceremony, but they'd simply sat in the front pew as if waiting for mourners to show up, and finally someone had: the boy and … Raine. Pretty name, pretty woman.

Only recently had he begun to notice women again. He'd assumed that anyone he found attractive would look like Dennie. Raine was different. She was taller than Dennie by a foot and thinner, with skin as brown and smooth as maple syrup and a bunch of wild, springy curls that bounced around her face like a wayward halo. There was a wariness about her, as if she needed protection—nothing like Dennie, who wasn't afraid of anything. If only she had been afraid, more careful, cautious.

A deep ache swelled inside him, as that night came back.

Denice, what you doing?
Friday, their night for red wine and pasta. He'd found a good bottle of Chianti, bought two because he knew she would like it, and they could drink it the next night, too.
Hey, Den, you home?
He'd put the groceries on the kitchen table, nearly dropping one of the bottles, cursing to himself.
Denice!
He'd yelled, not knowing then that he would never again say her name except in sorrow. The silence in the house had been utter, profound.

The door to her study was open, which surprised him; she always kept it closed. For an instant, his mind couldn't make sense of what he saw—the smear of red that surrounded her; the smell that was there, then wasn't. What was she doing with red paint? had been his first thought. Funny how your eyes could take in just pieces of horror, as if your mind couldn't conceive the whole and still be sane. He'd seen the gun then, her father's gun she kept in her office drawer. It lay next to her, just beyond her reach. And then her face, what was left of it. Had he screamed? He must have; he couldn't remember.

The phone ringing in the kitchen pulled him back from that night, and he let it ring for a minute so he could get his bearings. He knew who it was; nobody else called him.

“Did you eat yet, or are you just sitting there drinking scotch?” said Luna on the other end. He put the glass down on the kitchen counter and pulled a sandwich out of the bag she had packed for him.

“Bourbon, not scotch. I've always hated scotch because my dad drank it, and I'm eating now.” Dutifully, he took a bite of turkey sandwich and it turned dry in his mouth; he forced himself to chew.

“You should have stayed here longer. Ate with me, Raine, and the boy, like somebody with good sense.”

The sandwich stuck like paste to the roof of his mouth and he took a swig of liquor to chase it down. “I don't have good sense, Luna, don't you know that by now? And I had work to do. I'm not fit company for normal people, anyway, particularly a kid.”

“I'll let those lies lay where they landed. You have good sense, and we both know you had nothing better to do. You're good with kids. You're a teacher, for crying out loud.”

“I have a defined role there. And they need me.”

“This boy might have needed you, too, for all you know.” Cade shrugged, not bothering to answer. “You never know who needs you and who doesn't. But I do know one thing,
you
could have used the company.”

“Did you mention—?”

“No. I'll leave that to you.”

“What makes you think—?”

“Don't let what took Dennie devour you, too,” Luna said, cutting him off. “Throw that gin, bourbon, or whatever the hell you're drinking down the sink and brew yourself a cup of coffee.”

She hung up without waiting for an answer. Cade listened to the silence for a moment, then placed the phone facedown on the counter. He knew she would call back in a minute to apologize, but he didn't want to talk anymore. He went back into the living room, watched a few moments of ESPN, picked up the remote to channel surf, turned off the TV, and stared at the blank screen. Maybe he should have stayed at Luna's. Made small talk. He'd been good at that once. He'd been a rational man—charming, he'd been told—with his feet squarely planted in the here and now.

I only believe what I can see, hear, taste, touch, or smell, he'd said to Dennie on their first date. There's so much more to life than you can touch, see, feel, taste, or smell, she'd told him, licking candy sprinkles off a cone of vanilla ice cream. You can taste, smell, feel, see this ice cream. What more do you want from life? he'd said. Maybe the essence of cold, sweet, and vanilla. The
reality
of things, Dennie replied.

But there were realities he didn't want to understand. The reality of fear, for one thing, that made it impossible for him to think; of terror that crept through him when he wasn't expecting it; and smell, the one that made Luna slap her hand all over her face that night. Was he imagining it, or was it back now, just for an instant? He sniffed the air, held his breath.

He was drunker than he'd thought, nearly toppling over when he tried to stand. Hard liquor had never been his thing, because that was what his father used to drown things out—scotch, vodka, gin. Never bourbon. A half smile spread on his lips as he thought about his old man. Yeah, maybe he'd been too hard on him, maybe that was exactly where he was supposed to end up—a functional alcoholic like his father had been. For all he knew, his father had seen something, too, something beyond reason that had forced his head inside out and then into a bottle.

Don't let what took Dennie devour you, too.

It already has, he said aloud.

Willing himself straight, he made his way to the kitchen and poured the liquor in his glass down the kitchen sink. Then, without thinking hard about it, he went into the room where he'd been only twice since Dennie's death.

There would be no trace of what had happened, thanks to the professional cleaning service, recommended by the cops. Dennie's office was as clean and neat as it had been when she was alive. He walked across the room, pulled up the shades, and opened the window to let in the evening air. A cool wind drifted inside and he stood, enjoying the coolness on his face. Pulling the overstuffed office chair away from the desk, he settled into it, snapped on the desk light, and began to study the things she'd left behind: papers stacked in rows; pencils, pens, and markers in the china mug she'd won at Great Adventure; a yellow-checkered soup bowl filled with pink paper clips and Post-its. Her favorite wedding photograph, Dennie in a neat, stylish white suit—she was not one who believed in satin wedding gowns—lay facedown on the desk next to the folders. He hadn't been able to look at it for months, but he did now, staring full into her face until his eyes watered. He placed it back, careful to sit it at the angle where she'd had it. The digital recorder she used for notes and interviews was here somewhere, but he couldn't bring himself to look for it. He sure wasn't ready for that yet, to hear the sound of that voice always bubbling with mirth and wonder, the laughter that rode the end of every word. No, not that. Not for years, he was sure of that, not until he was on his deathbed and knew he would join her soon. Then maybe he'd play them once, before he saw her again in kingdom come.

What should be done with everything, all these recordings and the pages marked with notes and variously colored Post-its? Matt Wilson, Dennie's advisor, had called several times to offer his condolences and remind him what a brilliant young researcher she had been (as if he didn't know) and how vital her research could be in the field. He'd offered to go through her papers and the recorded notes she left, to see if there were things that might be useful to other students. Cade had flatly refused. It was too soon, he'd said. He wanted to go through everything himself.

Yet he had no idea where to start or what she had been working on. He picked up one of the folders, read the first few paragraphs, and could make no sense of it. Why hadn't he just let the man come and take what he wanted? Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer: It had just been too much. Too much to think about, too much to do. But a year had passed—maybe it was time to let whoever wanted it, have it.

He opened the drawer where he'd stuffed the manila envelope filled with objects the police returned after having taken them that night. Some thoughtful soul had separated Dennie's wedding ring from the rest of the “evidence” and given it to him when he'd gone by the precinct; he wore it now on a chain around his neck. He didn't care much about anything else, hadn't even wanted to look.

There wasn't that much here anyway: her father's old .38; gold cross that had belonged to her mother; silver ankle bracelet she seldom wore; tiny painted drum; three silver bullets; what looked like a piece of a claw—he couldn't tell which kind, only that it was yellowed, like aged ivory, and about five inches long and an inch or so in circumference. An eagle's talon? It was longer, heavier than they usually were.

Why had she kept it? She'd shared all her strange “artifacts,” as she called them, with him. He'd seen the bullets more than once. (Five silver bullets should be enough to kill anything that growls in the dark. They sure cost me a pretty penny, she'd joked.) And the drum a month before she died. Was this one for luck, this … appendage? The tip was stained with what looked like blood, and that made him uneasy. Better not to look too closely, he thought, stuffing it back where he'd found it. Maybe Luna would know why Dennie had kept it. She knew about stuff like that.

The phone rang and a smile crossed his lips. Just think about the woman and she calls, he said to himself as he went into the kitchen to answer it.

“Wanted to check on you, and to apologize for hanging up on you like I did. The last thing you need from me is attitude.”

As if Luna could see it, Cade guiltily placed the bottle of Jim Beam sitting on the counter back into the cabinet. “Forget about it, Lu. I'm used to your attitude by now, but listen, I found something … kind of weird … with the stuff the cops brought back. It looks like some kind of a talisman or something. Did she mention anything like that to you?”

“So you're finally going through Dennie's stuff. What brought that on?”

“I don't know. I just felt like it. But not all of it. I'm not ready for that yet.”

“What kind of talisman?”

“I don't know, like an old finger, part of a claw. Weird.”

“That doesn't sound like a charm to me. Where is it now?”

“Back in the drawer with the rest of the stuff. I don't like looking at it,” he said, and to his surprise, he shuddered.

“What scares you about it?”

“I didn't say that,” he said, too forcefully.

“I want to see it.”

“Maybe I should just throw it—”

“No,” Luna interrupted him. “Drop it in a bag and keep it in another room.”

Cade chuckled. “Luna. That sounds like something Dennie…” He stopped midsentence, unable to finish.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe that is a little extreme.”

“Very extreme.”

“Is it okay if we drop by tomorrow—me, Raine, and the boy? I'll check it out then. And something else, Raine might have a … well, a proposition for you.”

“Proposition?” What was that about?

“Just something you can help her out with. Her and the boy. After breakfast. And try to get a good night's sleep.”

Cade laughed out loud when he heard that, bitterly. Luna, silent on the other end, knew as well as he that a good night's sleep was gone to him forever.

 

4

raine

The theme song from
SpongeBob SquarePants
jerked me awake. Davey, in one of his playful, mischievous moods, must have programmed it into my cell. I switched it off, annoyed but amused. Early morning light poured into the window and my heart beat fast until the soft blue color of the walls in Luna's house, and the clean, crisp feel of her guest sheets against my bare skin, called me back, soothing me. I took one of Davey's breaths—in slow, out easy—and glanced at the screen to see who had called me. It was Mack, my old boss.

I knew what he wanted, to check and make sure I'd made it to Baltimore okay, if I'd gotten that job he told me about. In the two years I worked for him, I'd gotten used to his protection, always looking out for me—calling when I was late, handing out advances on my salary when I was broke, saving the best cuts of steak every now and then for me to take home for dinner. And even more for Davey. When there was money needed for some special project at school, Mack was the one who dug out his wallet and slipped a twenty into Davey's pocket. Money needed for the class trip? Mack was there, no questions asked. Guilt shot through me. Despite everything he'd done, I never really trusted him—not even after two years. I'd never let him know what was really going on in my life, what was after us.