Hunter's Moon

by Tess Grant

  Phinney spoke loudly from her side, “Your stance looks good. Flip the safety back, take a deep breath and squeeze.”

  Kitty did all three with what she felt was a certain amount of aplomb. But at the last minute she pulled her head up. The muffs had slid down her cheek and bumped the stock, and she moved to make more room. The crack of the bullet whined in the hot air and the gun jerked, not into her shoulder but into her jawbone.

  “Ouch.” She flipped the safety, cradled the gun away from Phinney and rubbed at her jaw.

  He squinted at the plywood critically. “For a girl whose daddy taught her how to shoot, you can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

  She turned to glare at him and he winked.

  Kitty was surprised to see the wink; she hadn’t known he had a sense of humor. She narrowed her eyes and looked at him coolly, “Like I said, it’s been a long time.”

  “I can see that.” Phinney’s smile reminded her of Sam’s—a little boy’s smile. “Let’s run that drill again.”

  It was the same the second time through as well, but on the third try Phinney caught the recoil into her jaw.

  “Got it,” he said. “You’re letting it wiggle at the end because of the muffs.” He pulled his flask out of the side pocket of his jeans and dug down far underneath. He removed a small cardboard tube and held it out to her. It was a new pair of foam earplugs. Kitty pulled the muffs off with her free hand. Already sweat had started forming around them, trickling down her neck, and the muffs’ plastic cover looked slimy. Gross.

  “Thanks.” She squeezed the plugs into her ears and took up the carbine again.

  “Now,” said Phinney. “Let’s try it sitting down. And press it up tight against your shoulder. That should hold it down.”

  She did much better sitting with her knees bent, and the wooden forearm resting across one of them. With more pressure into her shoulder, the shock to her jaw stopped, and she was able to hit, as Phinney said, the broad side of a barn. They put twenty-five rounds through the carbine, sitting, lying down, and firing multiple shots one after the other.

  On the twenty-fifth shot, Kitty squeezed the trigger and felt a sudden pain in her forehead right near her hairline. She slapped her hand to her head.

  Phinney motioned her over to his chair. “Let’s see it,” he said, pulling her hand away. “Bad eject. Gun must be getting hot. Shell casing got you in the head.”

  She looked at her fingertips and saw a red smear. “I’m bleeding.”

  “Only a little. You’ve got a nice half-moon cut up there from the butt of the casing, and it goes a little deep. Can you wear your hair flopped over that way for a few days?”

  Kitty pulled the clip holding her hair up and retwisted the knot, leaving larger wings than usual to frame her face. She fluffed them sideways. “Can you see it?”

  Phinney cocked his head from side to side, checking different angles. “I can’t. A mother might be able to. Or a nosy little brother. Better stay out of direct light for a day or two.” He started the little bounce he needed to shoot himself out of his chair. “Seems like as good a place as any to stop for the day. Come on up to the cabin. I’ll show you how to clean the gun.” As they started across the meadow, he nudged her arm with his elbow and added, “I’ve got lemonade too. Sun tea is best for confrontations, but lemonade is best for shooting.” He winked again.

  Kitty couldn’t help herself. Closed caskets or not, she threw back her head and laughed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Phinney drilled Kitty like she was a raw recruit. Her dad had told her horror stories about boot camp; now, she got to experience the real thing. The training took so much time she wasn’t even coming close to picking up her end of the summer bargain with her mom. Luckily, Joe’s family didn’t mind having Sam around every day, and Maddie was an easy keeper; she slept in the sunspot on Phinney’s porch every day. Her mom would have been the sticky spot, but she was as exhausted as Kitty was, so neither of them noticed quite what the other one was doing.

  For two weeks, Kitty practiced shooting. She shot standing, lying down, on her knees. She and Phinney would cluster around the target, and Phinney would circle shot groupings with a marker and talk about her technique. She could shoot from the hip or with the gun against her shoulder. Phinney always had to draw a bigger circle around her hip shots, but they would work if she got in trouble. As the full moon approached, she was consistently hitting the target with one shot or with two to three-shot bursts. She could even move forward and still hit her mark.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  Kitty considered. She and Phinney were drinking lemonade on his porch after another marathon shooting session. “Nothing, I guess. I’m getting pretty good. Don’t I get a day off?”

  “We need to get some bullets made, and I’m out of silver. Don’t want to spook you, but full moon comes in next week Saturday.”

  The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Shooting plywood and drawing circles around holes still qualified as playing. Now, a sudden dread washed over her. With it came the vision of closed caskets in a huge field. She shook her head to try and dislodge the image.

  It must have shown on her face, because Phinney’s voice rumbled soothingly, pulling her back to the porch. “You’ll be okay. Why do you think we do it over and over and over again? So when something that wants to kill you is barreling down the pike at thirty miles an hour, you don’t need to think or feel. You just do.”

  Kitty nodded. It was comforting in a small way. She had dreams nearly every night of performing the motions by rote—loading, aiming, shooting, and if she could do it in her dreams, why not when she was awake?

  “Feel like hitting the yard sales?”

  The sudden change of subjects almost made her laugh. “Yard sales?”

  “For silver. Antique shops are best, but, if you remember, I’ve haggled myself out of a welcome at any of the town shops. Sometimes you can find stuff at yard sales. If we can’t, we can try the places in town. You’ll have to do the buying though.”

  Kitty nodded her assent and pulled her feet up underneath her on the glider. She hugged her legs hard. The glider slid back and forth with her motion, creaking comfortingly on the forward slide. The closed caskets still hovered behind her eyelids. If she looked beyond them, she would see the waiting creature in the trees, so she didn’t look. Yard sales sounded like something she could handle at the moment.

  “Next week, after the bullets, we’ll start prepping our shooting area.”

  Kitty shrugged, this time looking blank enough that Phinney continued. “My spotters let me know where there are suspicious kills in the area.”

  “What’s up with these spotters?” Kitty interrupted. “You mentioned them before but I don’t even know who they are.”

  “Who they are is on a need-to-know basis. It’s not a social club.” Phinney ran his bandana over his forehead.

  “I wasn’t planning on inviting them to a party. What do they do?” Kitty rocked her torso to get the glider moving again.

  “Some of them scour the newspapers, reading obituaries, looking for mentions of missing people. Some of them hike the woods, look for suspicious kills. I choose a place near one of the kills from the last month and set up a safe spot to hunt in—like the one with the punji sticks you found me in.”

  Kitty recalled the dead deer in the woods and the mysterious disappearing Phinney. Understanding flooded in; it had all been so close to the granite bowl. “Last month, I saw you by that deer carcass.”

  His blue eyes crinkled with his grin. “You caught me on that one, fair and square. Anyway, bullets first, safe spot second.”

  “What if there are no kills near here?”

  Kitty thought she saw a troubled look slide across Phinney’s face, but when he turned her way, his face was composed. “We set up anywhere we darn well please. They’ll come to us. We’re all the kill they could want.”

  * * *

  Kitty had barely gotten hom
e and pulled eggs and cheese out of the refrigerator for omelets before Sam burst in.

  “Mom’s coming up the hill. I saw her.” He threw his bag on the counter with a clunk and ran back outside to be the welcoming committee.

  Kitty picked up his bag, amazed at how heavy it was. The boy must be strong as an ox carrying so many rocks around with him all day. She looked down at her biceps. There was actually a little definition there. The carbine wasn’t heavy, but she certainly had worked herself enough slinging it around. Bonus… I guess. She put Sam’s backpack near the door.

  Returning to the kitchen, she pulled the bread out of the fridge and put it near the toaster. By the time her mother came in with Sam, she had a large bowl of eggs cracked and whisked, and was cutting up some mushrooms. Link sausages sizzled on the stove.

  “Omelets again?” Anne plopped her purse down on the counter on the spot Kitty had cleared a moment before.

  “Hi to you too, Mom.” Kitty inclined her cheek toward her mother for a kiss.

  “Sorry. I’m tired, and I think we’ve had omelets three times in the last week. Chicken sounds good. Do we have any chicken in the freezer?”

  Kitty turned toward the stove and grimaced. Her efforts at fast food had not gone unnoticed. She was up at the cabin so much that she usually scrambled into the house three minutes before her mom, and that left her with omelets, burgers on the grill, and homemade mac and cheese in the microwave.

  Note to self: Crock-Pot tomorrow.

  Even with omelets, dinner went well enough. Sam liked eggs. He carried the conversation, running through everything he and Eric had done that afternoon, so Kitty could rest her head on her hand and coast for most of it. She twirled her fork through her food and yawned a few times, trying to ignore the pointed glances Anne kept shooting her way.

  When Sam picked up his plate and carried it to the kitchen, Kitty turned toward her mother. “What?”

  Anne put her fork down. “Sounds like Sam is spending a lot of time up the hill.”

  “It keeps him busy.”

  Her mother leaned back in her chair. “I would like to see Eric spend a day or two here occasionally. An exchange, you know. That’s the way it works with moms and kids. Maybe Sam could spend a day home with you once in awhile too. I’m all for you having some free time but every day…” Her mother’s voice trailed off meaningfully.

  Kitty thought about arguing, but needed to keep her tracks hidden. Any argument would lead to questions why she wasn’t home. She settled for “Got it, Mom” with just a little attitude along the edges.

  They were loading the dishwasher when the phone rang. Sam sprang for it first.

  “It’s for you.” He shoved the phone at Kitty and grudgingly accepted a dirty plate in its place.

  Kitty wandered through the living room to the little side room that passed as a study. She swung the door mostly shut and plunked down into the aging yellow-puce wingback near the window. “Hello?”

  “Kitty.” It was Jenna. Kitty felt a stab of guilt. She had been so busy that she had only tried to call Jenna twice in the last two weeks, leaving a message each time.

  “Geez, girl, I’ve barely heard from you,” Jenna went on.

  Kitty pulled a thread from the fraying arm of the chair, twisting it in the evening sunlight streaming in the window. There hadn’t been any messages on the machine from Jenna when she came home in the afternoon. No hang-ups either. The guilt receded. “I know,” Kitty mumbled. She was tired, and Jenna’s spangly bright voice grated her brain.

  “Let me tell you about this shop Deb and I found.”

  Kitty picked another thread from the chair’s arm. “Deb?”

  “We’ve been hanging out a little. She’s teaching me some of the fall routines early.”

  “What’s she up to this summer?” Kitty asked. What could Deb possibly be doing this summer? Painting her nails to match her dance team uniform? Kitty knew darn well she wasn’t hob-nobbing with the town eccentric, drinking lemonade and talking about full moons. Nothing was coming to fill the void left by guilt’s quick exit—no jealousy, no betrayal, nothing. She plucked another thread from the chair; the darn thing would unravel by the end of the conversation at this pace.

  “We’re going shopping tomorrow. Want to come with us? We’re going to this new shop we found in Maple Rapids. It’s got some really trendy stuff.”

  Except I hate that stuff and you know it, Jenn. She ran her thumb absently along her jaw, and was surprised to find it still hurt from the M1’s recoil. A dull ache—kind of like their conversation. “I thought we were going to hit the boutique here in town for vintage and do our own alterations.” Instead I’ll be doing it with Phinney, alterations and all.

  Jenna sighed or maybe it was frustration. “I’m too old for vintage.”

  Kitty rubbed her jaw one more time then decided she was sick of the ache. Humor might be the ticket. “Maybe you’re too young for vintage.”

  An edge crept into Jenna’s voice. “I’m older than you.”

  “It was supposed to be a joke. Vintage is old. If you’re old, you should be perfect…” Kitty gave up. She didn’t even know where she was going with this joke. “Never mind. I gotta run. Sam’s waving at me. I’m busy tomorrow anyway.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Geez, that is so Jenna. Don’t hang out with me, but don’t do anything I don’t know about.

  “I’m going to some yard sales and a few antique shops. Looking for vintage” silver, she finished in her head. “Talk to you later. Bye.”

  She had already pulled the phone away from her ear before Jenna said goodbye. Shoving herself to her feet, she opened the door and hiked out into the living room. Her mom and Sam were setting up the card table near the couch and laying out Scrabble. They had already put out three of the little letter shelves.

  Kitty shook her head and popped the phone onto its base where it chirped and flashed its battery light at her. “I’m not going to play. I’m going to bed.”

  Anne didn’t even raise her head from the table where she was flipping all the tiles letter side down. “It’s 6:30.”

  “I really feel like crap. I think I need twelve hours.” As a child, Kitty would run for days on end on short sleep until eventually she’d fall into bed for twelve or fourteen hours at a stretch.

  “You’re going to get up at seven in the morning?” Anne finally looked up from the tiles. “Jenna getting you down? You two always run hot and cold. It’ll settle down.”

  “I know.” Kitty focused on the waiting board. “Okay, one game.”

  Kitty was surprised by how much better she felt after the game. Getting away from both Phinney and Jenna had been a good idea. Her headache had mostly disappeared, and she still had plenty of time to go to bed early. She had won too, which helped. Sam charged for the bathroom as she got ready to put the game away.

  “Feeling militant? You and everyone else in this country.”

  “What?” Kitty was surprised by the anger in her mom’s voice.

  Anne nodded at the board. Kitty’s choice of words jumped out at her: eject, recoil, stock, aim. She hadn’t gotten nearly as far from Phinney as she had thought.

  “Luck of the draw, I guess. I was lucky to get something other than x, z and q.”

  “Mmmm.”

  Kitty dumped the tiles back in the box.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kitty whipped her bike into the driveway five feet in front of Phinney’s blue Caprice. She had escorted Sam up to Eric’s for the afternoon, leaving only after she made arrangements for Eric to come down the hill tomorrow.

  She ran over to the car, leaning down near the open window. “I’ve got to throw something in the crockpot before we go. Come on inside.”

  “Why not do something easy like eggs and toast? That’s what I do when I’m short on time.”

  “Been there, done that once too often this week. She’s on to me.”

  Phinney grinned and switched off the car. “Moms
are like that. Let’s hope she’s not too far on to you or I’ll be a one-man show again. Get to it. Time’s a’wastin’.”

  Kitty turned and ran across the yard, hearing the car door open behind her. She could get half the stuff ready before he even made it into the kitchen. Throwing open a cabinet door, she pulled the Crock-Pot out and slapped it down on the counter next to the ingredients she had put out before she left. Sliding open a jumbled drawer of utensils, she rooted around until she found a measuring cup. Rice first, that’s what the recipe said. She poured out a cup of rice and spread it on the bottom of the Crock-Pot, hearing him come in as she finished. “I put some chicken breasts to thaw on a plate in the fridge. Can you grab them for me? Mom wanted chicken.”

  Phinney opened the fridge and surveyed the nearly full shelves. “Forget how things stack up in the fridge when you have a houseful.” He put the plate on the counter. “How’s your dad doing?”

  “He’s all right.” Kitty didn’t look at Phinney. She already knew how skeptical the old man would look. Instead she looked for a can opener in the clutter of the drawer. The opener was just visible at the back of the drawer and she made a grab for it, shoving her hand in. Her eyes filled with tears as her fingernail bent back painfully. Putting her finger into her mouth, she sucked at it for a few seconds. “I don’t know how he is…really. I can tell you what the weather’s like in Iraq.

  Hot. I can tell you the latest joke—something about this colonel who goes into a bar looking for weapons of mass destruction.” She shrugged, bitterness rising in her throat. “That’s all I know. Guess I’m not old enough to know.”

  I’m old enough to make supper and take care of Sam. I’m old enough to hunt werewolves. But I’m not old enough to know whether my dad is going to die or not.

  She managed to grab the can opener on her second try, cranked open one can of condensed soup and started on another. “Mom tells me zilch. Dad was always the talker. If Dad doesn’t talk, then I don’t know anything.”