MOON FALL

by Tamara Thorne

"Then you do think it's a suicide?"

  The doctor laid the arm back down. ''The angles are right for it. And notice-except for a few scrapes she probably suffered in the fall, there are no obvious signs of trauma. Of course, I haven't done a pelvic yet, so we can't rule out rape, but on the surface, it appears to be suicide."

  John nodded, wishing Cutter would cover up the pitiful, pale body. "That's a relief. This town doesn't need a murder, especially with tourist season coming up." The truth was, he didn't need a murder, especially one that would have him poking around St. Gruesome's. Fleetingly, he wished the place would burn to the ground before he could arrive there today.

  Cutter raised an eyebrow. "Your boys haven't found the knife yet, have they? Or the anonymous caller?"

  ''Not so far as I know." Two of his three day deputies, Scotty Carroll and Wyn Griffin, were scouring the Witch Falls area as they spoke. "If she's a suicide, Frank, what was she doing at the Falls?" Despite his wish to be done with this case, he couldn't overlook the contradictions, couldn't deny his instincts. "There's blood in her room, but she made it all the way to the Falls. And there didn't appear to be more than a few drops on the Mezzanine."

  "We don't know how much blood is in her room," Cutter observed. ''Maybe she started to cut, then finished it at the Falls. Maybe you'll find the blade in the water."

  "Blade," John said. "Razor or knife?"

  "I'd say razor, by the looks of the cuts," the doctor replied, as he picked up one dead white hand and examined the fingers through the plastic encasing it. He shook his head and came around to the other side of the table and repeated the process. "A single-sided blade, or maybe a small, very thin-bladed knife."

  "Why start in her room, then change her mind and go to the Falls to finish?" John probed. "Privacy?"

  ''Maybe so." Cutter covered the body and crossed to the sink. ''The cuts were made crosswise," he called over his shoulder as he washed his hands. "That's the slow way, Hollywood style-maybe she realized someone could walk in on her."

  "Do you know if the teachers' rooms have private baths?"

  "I have no idea," Cutter said, drying his hands. "I've never made a housecall at St. Gertrude's."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope. As I understand it, they've got their own doctor on the premises. Always have had. When are you heading out there? I'd like to go along."

  "I'd like you to," John said, and meant it. "Half an hour?" he asked, knowing that was the doctor's lunchtime.

  Cutter consulted his watch. "I'll be ready."

  John took his leave, wondering if he had time to stop by the Gingerbread House and question Minerva Payne, who lived near the Falls. He had never told anyone about seeing the old woman- ' 'the old witch," in those days-at the Falls the day his little brother drowned, but he would never forget. Scotty had said the caller who reported the body sounded like a young woman, and Minerva Payne, though unbent by the years, was at least as old as God, so she probably wasn't the caller. He consulted his watch again and decided against visiting her just yet. The decision lifted a weight from his shoulders. Although the day he'd locked eyes with her he'd seen sympathy in them, he'd been frightened, and to this day he'd never done more than nod a greeting.

  Old childhood myths never really died; instead, they gained power with each new generation. Moonfall's current generation of kids still loved to tell stories about the ''old witch." In his day, Minerva could make you sick just by looking at you, but the most popular story today-that she could turn you into a gargoyle decorating St. Gruesome's-was a minor one twenty-five years ago. He knew they were all ridiculous- he even knew it when he was a kid- but whenever he thought of her, a little thrill still wormed through his belly. It was a fun sort of fright, though; nothing like the lead that filled his gut at the thought of returning to St. Gruesome's.

  Eight

  Minerva Payne set a sheet of fresh molasses cookies on the counter to cool, then walked out into the sales room of the Gingerbread House and began sweeping the spotless floor. Anything to keep busy, to keep her mind off the vision of the young woman floating in the pool below Witch Falls this morning. Nothing worked; not the morning baking, not the sweeping. No matter what she tried, the image remained.

  Minerva lived in an old log cabin deep in the woods bordering St Gertrude's land, and each morning she walked the half mile through the woods to her bakery and candy store on Apple Hill Road. Today, as usual, she had taken the short detour to the bridge spanning the Falls, where she paused to take in the fragrance of pines and fresh water, to feel the rushing power of nature. And there, in the pool, she'd seen the girl, forlorn, dead, her hair fanning around her in the dark water. It's almost time. It's almost time again already.

  The last time she'd seen a body in the pool was in 1972, when the little Lawson boy had died. She'd seen the other boys that morning, the horror on their faces, but they hadn't seen her, except for one, John Lawson, who'd grown up to be sheriff. Because he saw her, she had expected to be questioned, at the very least, but Henry Lawson never came around. John hadn't told. She liked him for that, even though they had never spoken in the ensuing years. He would think of her now, however, with this new death, and she had a feeling that soon the silence would finally be broken.

  It's almost time. October will be here soon.

  Sheriff John Lawson had only one son, a bright boy with mischievous eyes and a kind smile. He came into her shop often and wasn't afraid of her, unlike most of the kids. He would die this October unless she could stop the cycle.

  And what makes you think you can stop it, old woman? She'd never succeeded before, and she was old now, so very old. It was becoming difficult to maintain her appearance, to perform tasks that had been easy only a few years ago. This morning, when she had placed the phone call, even making her voice sound young and full of life had been a drain.

  Minerva returned the broom to its place, hidden out of sight behind the doorway to the kitchen. Her heart beat hard against her chest. She couldn't give up now. Not now. This would be her last chance.

  Unable to stand still, she crossed to the front door of the Gingerbread House, hearing the familiar sound of the little bells over the door as she opened it. She stepped out into the noontime August heat. The shop stood alone on its small lot, surrounded by Moonfall Forest, though no one called it that: it had been Witch Forest-and Witch Falls-for as long as she could remember. Across the road was the Snowflake Orchard and a clutch of antique and gift shops. Just west of Minerva's shop were Moonfall Park and the Falls, then the orchards of St Gertrude's and the nuns' store, Apple Heaven. Directly across from the Apple Heaven was another tourist center with shops, a museum, and a petting zoo. From there, the road curved out of sight and down through town; then there were yet more orchards.

  Long ago, when the first monks had built their monastery, there had been only forests. The monks planted crops and orchards- peach, pear, and cherry-to feed themselves and those they took in, but it wasn't until Jeremiah Moonfall arrived around the time of the Civil War that apple orchards were planted. By then, the monastery, deserted for more than twenty years, had been taken over by the elements; though, within a year, it took on new life as St. Gertrude's Convent. As more settlers arrived, more apple trees were planted. Today, Moonfall was still small by any standard, but to Minerva, it seemed vastly populated.

  As she was about to go back inside her shop, she beard a car approaching from somewhere below. She waited. A moment passed; then a black and white sheriff's cruiser came around the bend. For an instant, she thought it was coming to her place, but its right blinker flashed and the car slowed and turned into the Apple Heaven lot. She recognized John Lawson's tall, lanky form as be got out of the cruiser and entered the store. Shortly, he returned and pulled out of sight behind the store. Going to St. Gertrude's. So that's where the young woman had come from.

  Minerva wasn't surprised at that, but she was at her own mild disappointment that her long overdue meeting with John Lawson was
not yet to be.

  Nine

  They drove past the orchards and into the forest surrounding St. Gertrude's Home for Girls, and as the pines and firs, the sycamores and aspens, thickened and spread their branches across the narrow dirt road, John felt as if walls were closing in on him. Between his sudden claustrophobia and the queasiness that had been growing since they'd turned off at Apple Heaven, be wasn't happy.

  "It's beautiful out here," Frank Cutter said. "If you must be an orphan, what a place to be one."

  How could the man sound so serene? "You have the soul of a poet," John said, then paused. "You ever come out here as a kid, Frank?"

  ''Me? No." A low branch brushed its leaves across the top of the cruiser. "I was never invited. I wore thick glasses then, and got straight As. Classic nerd." Cutter hesitated. "I always meant to as an adult, just to take a look, but, you know, the years go by. What about you?"

  "No." John suppressed a cringe. After finding Greg's body, the gang bad decided not to tell anyone they'd been on their way to St. Gruesome's that night--especially since they weren't sure themselves. They said they were merely having a clandestine camp-out and Greg had invited himself along. When the doctor and his dad questioned them, they'd all stood by their story.

  He felt a sudden urge to confess, but stopped himself. Confess what? How could be explain a feeling, a hunch? A few bad dreams meant nothing. The only fact that supported any of their fuzzy memories about that night was that they'd found Paul's toilet paper-loaded backpack in the town square. And of course they'd kept that bit of information to themselves.

  The fact was, they'd wound up at the Falls, and none of them knew how or why, or, more accurately, why they thought they'd been on their way to St. Gruesome's. Over the next few days, Beano and Winky bad grown more and more certain that all they'd ever planned was a camp-out, and as the weeks passed, they remembered more and more details of the night, as did he and Paul Pricket, though perhaps they were persuaded by a need to belong. Only Doug Buckman stoutly maintained that they had gone to St. G's that night, but he could remember no details.

  After that, the boys began to drift apart, uneasy with each other and the confusion they shared. Doug Buckman died in 1973 and Paul moved to Santo Verde the same year. Like John, Winky Addams and Beano Franklin still lived in town, Winky running the family orchard and Beano, his father's pharmacy, but the three of them, by tacit agreement, were little more than nodding acquaintances.

  ''There were always stories about the old abbey," Cutter was saying, "and there were always boys who claimed to have come out here and spied on the girls. Maybe the tales of ghosts and gargoyles were started to keep the youngsters away."

  John glanced at him sharply and was relieved to see that the doctor was oblivious to his discomfort.

  ''Of course, all those females-nuns and young girls, all those virgins- supplied the boys of Moonfall with all sorts of fantasies, but that was all. Except maybe once when I think some kids might've actually come out here."

  "When?" John asked, as a tire bounced over a small pothole. What was Cutter getting at? He felt like a kid himself right now and didn't have the nerve to be direct with the doctor.

  The physician glanced over inquisitively. ''Remember Brian Franklin and his buddies? Maybe they were a little before your time."

  ''I remember. They bragged about coming out here every Halloween. I thought it was all bull."

  "Maybe it was, but one November first in '70 or '71, Mrs. Franklin brought Brian in with a mild concussion and a gash on his back that took about twenty stitches, inside and out."

  ''Why do you think he was out here?'' John asked, relieved.

  "It was the day after Halloween and he'd been gone all night. He claimed he and his friends had been climbing the chain link fence at the schoolyard and he'd fallen off, cutting his back and bumping his head. His friends backed him up, but I had a hunch they weren't telling the truth. There should have been multiple cuts and scratches if it was chain link, but this wound was single and wide and he was damned lucky it missed his spine by a fraction of an inch. The boys were all a little confused about what they were doing at the school. You know ... "

  Cutter's words trailed off and John was sure he was going to compare Brian's confusion to his own in '72. But then the doctor cleared his throat and added, ''Your dad and I talked, and he became very curious about the whole thing, too. He even went to the school and checked the fencing for ripped material, blood, that sort of thing."

  "Did he find anything?"

  "No. But shortly after that, we met at Winesap's Tavern for a drink and got to talking. He'd noticed the spiked gate. Nasty thing, he said. He thought Brian's injury was more consistent with the spikes around the abbey than the schoolyard. But the boys stuck to their story. Your dad did speak to the nuns, though."

  John slowed as the trees thickened above them. His stomach was doing flips for no good reason. ''When was that?"

  "A few days after Brian's accident. They said they'd had no trouble, so he let it drop. Any reason you're so interested in ancient history all of a sudden?"

  "No reason," he lied. "Dad never mentioned coming here. All I really remember was that he was positive that Brian Franklin was the leader of the t.p. pack. He warned us not to follow in Brian's footsteps .... " In his mind's eye, he could see the light reflecting off his father's badge that Halloween night. If you see anyone hanging around the town square on your way to the Addams place, make sure and let me know ...

  "Something wrong? You're looking pasty."

  ''I'm fine." The trees thinned slightly and he saw bits of gray stone buildings looming between the most distant branches. The last few yards went quickly. ''My God." John braked as the outer walls and gates of St. Gertrude's came into view. For a horrible instant, he thought he was going to be sick; then it passed. The dirt road continued on around the stone and wrought-iron enclosure. Behind the outer walls, the Gothic turrets and steep roofs were clearly visible. ''No wonder they call it St. Gruesome's." John pulled the car slightly off the road and killed the engine, then stared at the old monastery. These buildings bore no resemblance to Father Junipero Serra's famous California missions, with their graceful arches and tile roofs. These medieval structures looked more like San Quentin dressed up with bizarre touches of Notre Dame.

  But it was the narrow, spiked front gate with its gargoyles ugly, grinning monkey-faced creatures crouching on either gatepost- that took John's breath away as be stepped from the cruiser. Queasy again, be forced himself to ignore the feeling as he took a camera and a briefcase containing a fingerprint kit, tools, and evidence bags from the back seat. He shut the car door, then turned and looked at the gate, his stomach in knots.

  "Speaking of spikes . .. " Cutter said, joining him, his own bag in hand.

  I thought the gargoyles were watching me when I opened that gate ...

  In his mind he could hear the rusty creaking of a gate. Sudden images flooded him in photographic black and white as he remembered taking hold of the bars and pushing the gate slowly open under the leering gaze of the creatures. The memory, if that's what it was, lasted only an instant, then fled, a nasty little fantasy, a piece of a nightmare. He felt Cutter looking at him and said, "Ugly, aren't they?"

  The doctor nodded, studying the gargoyles. "I've seen pictures of them, of course, but these are more remarkable than I'd ever imagined." There was a tightness in his voice that belied the calm words. ''The work is magnificent."

  "Maybe so, but those things are as ugly as sin. I'd hate to be an orphan here." You've been here. You were here.

  One corner of Cutter's mouth crooked up. · 'Ugly, yet beautiful. I'm surprised the nuns don't give tours. Judging by these fellows" -he gestured at the small gargoyles-"they could have a healthy business if they showed off the place."

  "When we were little kids we thought they could fly," John said. Don't worry about those stupid gargoyles, Greg. They're just stone.

  "So did we," the doctor said. "W
hen we camped out, we'd listen for them. We thought they screamed like banshees, but any night bird's call satisfied us."

  "They'd fly out to steal babies for the old witch in the woods," John added, as they moved to the gate. He hadn't thought about those ridiculous old stories in years. Greg was afraid of them. "Let's go." He made himself put his hand on the gate latch, trying to ignore his racing heartbeat.

  The gate swung open smoothly, without creaking, and the two men stepped onto the flagstone path that led across the lawn to the buildings. Despite the grayness of the structures, once the barred gate was behind them, St. Gertrude's didn't seem as forbidding. White wooden benches encircled the thick trunks of some of the sycamores that dotted the vast manicured lawn. Here and there were pristine chairs and benches of gracefully ornate wrought iron that looked as if they wouldn't dare rust. At the west end of the lawn were a few picnic benches in the shade of a cluster of oak trees.

  And straight ahead were the buildings, all with steep-pitched roofs that seemed to grow taller with each step. John could make out gargoyle waterspouts crouching at the edges of the gables and Gothic gingerbread vining along the eaves of all the buildings. To the left was a chapel, overgrown with ornamentation, with a tall scrolled cross above the door. A low privet hedge began at the rear of the building and John could see that it encompassed a small cemetery behind, the graves presided over by a weeping angel.

  To John's far right was the narrow end of a three-story rectangular building, and directly before him was the long main building, three stories of heavy rough-cut gray stone, relatively simple despite the gargoyles and gewgaws. A large cross-gabled entry at the top of a dozen wide stone steps broke the flat rectangle. The building looked cold and ominous, reminding him a little of the old schoolhouse in Prom Night.

  He could see the roofs of a few smaller structures peeking out from behind and between the chapel and main buildings, and from somewhere out of sight came the sound of a lawnmower. The smell of freshly cut grass wafted on the air, but otherwise the place seemed deserted.