"Hot lemon," she told him.
"I'm on duty."
''Let me assure you, they contain no alcohol." She laughed her low, throaty chuckle again. "Now, you have some questions?"
"Yes, Mrs. Payne, I do."
" 'Minerva' will do better."
He nodded, then asked several questions about her whereabouts the previous night and this morning, if she'd seen or heard anything unusual; exactly the sort of thing she expected.
"You can ask me anything, Sheriff," she prompted, when he fell silent. "Isn't there something else?" She wanted him to bring up his brother.
He gazed at her, his mask dropping for an instant to reveal the frightened boy she'd seen so long ago. Then his expression turned all-business again. "I have just one last question: why did you expect me to come by to talk with you, yet find it humorous that Deputy Griffin might do the same?"
Bones creaking, she rose slowly from her chair, then looked down at John Lawson. "It's very simple." She bent slightly, staring into his eyes. "You and I have unfinished business. And why not? You never told anyone about seeing me at the Falls twenty-four years ago."
Slowly he nodded, then stood. Unlike many men, he was taller than her, but only by an inch or so, and be tried in vain to avoid her eyes. "I don't know what you mean."
''Yes, you do. And we must talk about it soon. Before Halloween, John, long before." At those last words, be flinched visibly. "Why didn't you tell, John?" she persisted.
For an instant, she saw the glint of a tear in his eye, but he had great self-discipline and it disappeared quickly. "I don't know," he said hoarsely, then turned and walked out the door, shutting it so hard that the glass panes vibrated.
"Remember, John. You must remember," Minerva whispered. "You couldn't save your brother, but you can save your son."
Twelve
"What the hell is the matter with me?" John ranted, as he paced his grandfather's old-fashioned veranda. He turned around and looked at Gus, who sat on the porch swing, calmly lighting one of his foul-smelling cigars. The butt glowed red in the twilight. ''I'm the goddamned sheriff, for Chrissake, and I practically tossed my cookies the minute I walked through the gates of St. Gruesome's."
"No need to swear, Johnny. No need to berate yourself, either. We've all got our demons." Gus leaned forward. "And yours are out there at the abbey."
John walked toward his grandfather, then leaned against the white wooden porch railing, facing him. ''My demons are at Witch Falls. St. Gertrude's has nothing to do with them."
"Sure it does, boy. Sure it does." He pointed the cigar at John. "You were going there on Halloween to have some fun, but something happened and you ended up at the Falls."
"What makes you think that?"
''Overheard you boys making plans." Gus blew a smoke ring.
"What?"
"You and your friends thought you were pretty clever, hunkering down behind the wisteria vine near my bedroom window, didn't you?"
''You eavesdropped on us?" John asked, shocked. Of all his family, it was Gus he'd always felt closest to, Gus he had trusted the most.
"Not on purpose, but I couldn't very well help it for a while. Remember why I moved in with your folks?"
"Sure. You broke your leg." That was an understatement. Mom and Dad had been after Gus to sell his huge old Victorian house-he'd been widowed for a decade and was still puttering around there by himself. One night, a drunk slammed into his car on the winding road below town. He was lucky to survive, but his leg had been shattered in several places. When he got out of the hospital, he went to stay in the Lawsons' single story California bungalow, and he never left, though he talked about it-at least, until Dad died. Then there was no question of his leaving. Mom died when John was still in high school, and he and Gus grew even closer. Yet he'd never brought up the Halloween of 1972 until now.
"Broke it good, too," Gus was saying, around puffs of smoke. "Almost missed the Haunt that year, but there you boys were under my open window, and I couldn't help listening."
"You knew we were going, but you didn't rat on us?"
"Heck no, boy. What'd you take me for?" He chuckled to himself, then began puffing out a series of smoke rings, bulls-eyeing each one through the last.
John watched fascinated, afraid of what his grandfather might say next. ''Maybe we'd better get home," John said finally. ''It's getting late, and Mark's probably cross-eyed from watching that oversized TV of yours." He pushed himself away from the porch rail; then Gus fixed him with The Look.
"Did you go to St. Gruesome's that night, Johnny?"
For a moment he couldn't answer; then he realized that was something else he, Doug, Winky, Beano, and Paul had talked about under the wisteria, and irritation replaced anxiety. "You overheard us, Gus. Why don't you tell me?"
"You went, all right." The old man sat forward, his thinning white hair blowing across his forehead in the evening breeze. "You might think you didn't, but you did. I don't know what happened out there, John, but St. Gertrude's is at the core of your problems."
"We didn't go. We were going to, yeah, but then Beano said that his brother made up all his stories about going and had written to him telling him we shouldn't go. So we went camping instead."
“Why is it that five boys didn't know whether they went to St. Gertrude's or not? You boys argued back and forth for weeks; then Doug Buckman died and you all stopped seeing each other." He grunted ... The way I heard it, you convinced one another you didn't go. Don't you remember?"
Walking our bikes up the long dark road. The gate, the gargoyles watching us . .. There's nothing to remember. We were just making up stories." Minerva Payne said we have to talk. How come you never told them you saw me, John? ''Serves you right for eavesdropping." John said this lightly, then crossed the porch, opened the screen door, and raised his voice “Time to go home, Mark. Get a move on!"
Gus stood, flicking ash from his dwindling cigar ... You ever want to talk about it, Johnny, you know where to find me."
“Thanks, Gus, but Greg's death is not something I want to talk about. Ever."
Mark flew out the door as Gus nodded. .. Just keep it in mind. See you two next week?"
“Sure. Come on, Mark. 'Night, Gus."
“Bye, Gus," Mark tossed in, running down the steps.
John followed his son to the car, not looking back at the house until he was inside with the engine running. Gus was still on the porch, invisible except for the glowing cigar butt. Damn that old man. Damn Minerva Payne, and damn Lenore Tynan for starting it all up again.
Thirteen
Sobbing. In the dark.
Kelly Reed came awake slowly, thinking the sounds were borne of some fleeting nightmare, but as she lay there in the dark, the soft, heartbreaking cries continued.
''No." Kelly whispered the word, willing the weeping to stop. As always, the sounds were close, so close that she was afraid that if she reached out, she would touch whoever made them.
She didn't know who was crying; she'd never known in the entire six months she'd been a resident- resident, hell, I'm an inmate!- at St. Gertrude's. Her roommate, a snotty senior named Marcia Crowley, claimed she had never heard it, and alternately told Kelly she was crazy, on drugs, or hearing the ghost of Jenny Blaine, the girl rumored to have killed herself in their room over a decade ago. Then Marcia told her friends, and they all made fun of Kelly. Whenever the nuns weren't around they called her "Ghost Girl." The worst was in the showers, where they liked to hide her clothes.
The sobbing, closer now, continued, and Kelly ducked her head under the covers, sure that if she didn't, she'd feel someone else's breath on her cheek. What if it's Marcia, playing a trick? Her friends are probably all hiding in a corner, laughing at me. They'd done that once a couple weeks ago, and she'd hidden, as she did now. Since then, on top of everything else, they'd started squawking like chickens at her when no one else was around .
The sobbing went on, louder now, louder than she'd ever heard
it. ''Marcia, cut it out," she hissed beneath the blankets.
Someone sat on the end of her bed. She felt the mattress depress and pulled her feet up and away, waiting for the sound of the bedsprings. But she heard nothing except the crying. It's Marcia and Buffy and those other twits, trying to yank your chain. Don't let them do it again!
Sudden anger killed her fear. Steeling herself, she swallowed hard and yanked the covers off ... I said, cut it out!" she cried, fumbling for the light switch. "Cut it out now!" Her hand closed on the bedside lamp and she quickly found the switch and pressed it.
Light blossomed in the room and there was no one there except Marcia Crowley, sitting up in bed, blinking and pushing her long blond hair out of her eyes. "What the fuck's wrong with you?" she demanded, her voice thickened from sleep. ''You see another ghost?"
"You didn't hear it?" Too angry to be intimidated, Kelly swung out of bed. Her knee-length white nightgown had crept up over her thighs and she pulled it back down without even being embarrassed. She stalked the room, looked in the closet, behind the curtains, under the beds.
''Poor little Ghost Girl," Marcia taunted, wide awake now, and grinning her cheerleader grin. She curled a golden lock around her finger. "Did that mean old lady in white come visit you? Maybe she pulled up your nightgown!" She giggled. Kelly opened the door and peered out into the corridor. Nothing. Turning toward Marcia. she put her hands on her hips. "You used a tape recorder, didn't you?"
The other girl shrugged. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Hey!"
She jumped out of bed as Kelly started opening bureau drawers, looking for a tape recorder. "Get out of my stuff!" She grabbed Kelly by the shoulders and tried to yank her away, but Kelly shook her off and started tossing her socks and underwear on the floor.
''My locket," she whispered, as the small gold chain with a heart almost slipped through her fingers. She fumbled it open, relieved to see the tiny picture of her mother still inside. It was her only possession, the only connection she had with her past, and she'd worn it forever, through all the foster homes she'd lived in since her mother had died. She'd worn it until she'd ended up here, at St. Gertrude's, where the nuns forbade the girls to wear jewelry. It had disappeared from her dresser three months ago, and it hadn't even occurred to her that someone had stolen it. How stupid can you be?
The ghost forgotten, she turned to face Marcia. "You-" Marcia leapt at her, driving her to the ground, pulling her hair, digging her nails into her arms. Kelly fought back, got a grip on Marcia's hair, and yanked her down. Simultaneously, she forced her knee up into the other girl's stomach, knocking the wind from her, the same way it had stopped one nasty foster brother from picking on her. Marcia raked her nails down Kelly's cheek and Kelly heard herself scream, but she didn't let go; then Marcia started screaming, too.
Vaguely, she was aware of the door opening and nuns in dark nightgowns pulling them apart. One of them started prying her fingers from Marcia's hair with so much force that she finally let go, afraid the nun would break them.
They were apart. Someone was holding her from behind by the arms, and Sister Mary Oswald held Marcia the same way. The blonde's nostrils were flaring and there was spittle running from her mouth. Kelly twisted her neck. saw that she'd been captured by Sister Agatha, mean and old and surprisingly strong. On the floor between them lay the locket, the chain broken. ·
Mother Lucy stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face grim, supervising it all, and behind her, Kelly saw Buffy and Jan and the others, all watching with glee.
''What's going on here?'' Mother Lucy asked abruptly.
At that, Marcia went into her act, crying loudly and turning to embrace Sister Mary Oswald. She lifted her tearstained face and said to Lucy, ''Kelly tried to steal my locket. I woke up and tried to stop her, and- and- and- "
"It's all right, Marcia." Mother Lucy said, and Sister Mary Oswald held the girl to her breast and stroked her hair. Lucy turned. "All of you, back to your rooms this instant!" The faces disappeared.
Lucy, a woman carved in stone, pulled her black robe tighter around her and approached Kelly, pausing only to scoop up the locket. Sister Agatha's grip tightened.
''Is this true, Kelly?" the Mother Superior asked harshly.
"No!" She felt her lower lip trembling and felt blood trickling down her cheek, but she refused to give in to tears. "She's lying, Mother. That's my locket. Remember, when I came here, you said to keep it in my bureau, that I couldn't wear it? I did, and I told you it disappeared, remember? It has a picture of my mother in it. Look and see!"
"She's lying!" Marcia sobbed. "That's my locket. That's my mother in the heart, see? She has blond hair, just like mine."
Lucy opened the heart, looked briefly, then shut and pocketed'it. "Kelly, you've been a troublemaker ever since you've been here. You've sinned repeatedly, lying, making up stories to scare the other girls, and now stealing." She looked over Kelly's head, at the nun holding her. "Sister Agatha. clean her up, then put her in the solitary room for the night."
"But it's my locket!" Kelly cried.
Lucy's hand flashed out and slapped her bloodied cheek. Shocked, Kelly said nothing. ''Don't cause yourself more trouble, young lady. In the morning, you're going to see Dr. Dashwood, and then I'll decide on your punishment." Lucy turned her back on Kelly. "Marcia, I'm sorry this happened, and if this girl gives you any more trouble, I will remove her from this room. She'll stay in solitary every night."
Kelly let herself be led away, thinking that whatever solitary was, it had to be preferable to being tortured by Marcia Crowley.
Fourteen
Monk music sung in feminine voices, minor-keyed and beautiful, enveloped him. He was on his back, tied down; dark figures, the singers, moved around him, and above, the moon watched it all. A shadow began to eclipse the moon, and then he saw the bare outlines of a face hidden under a cowl. He could see only the eyes, preternaturally bright, brilliant whites, irises the color of night, boring into his own, digging into his soul. ''Tell me your name!"
"No!" John Lawson came bolt upright in his bed, his cry still on his lips. The full moon shone through the window, casting abstract shadows across his bedroom, and the sheets, tangled around his legs, were damp with sweat. He reached up and turned on the light, saw his body sheened with droplets of perspiration. ''Christ," he muttered. The nightmares were always at their worst when the moon was full. ''Christ Almighty."
"Dad?" Mark stood in the doorway, clad in boxer shorts and an ancient Rude Dog T-shirt. ''You okay?"
''Fine, son, just had a whopper of a nightmare." Thinking that he was getting tired of being asked about his well-being, first by Frank Cutter, then Gus, now by his own son, he climbed out of bed and began straightening the sheets.
"Maybe you should get some sleeping pills, huh?" Mark's question was innocent enough, but it only reminded him of Dashwood telling him about Lenore Tynan's alleged drug problem. "I think I'll get some warm milk instead." He glanced at his watch, saw it was past two in the morning. ''You want some?"
"Nah, not unless you're going to put chocolate in it."
"Sounds good." He knew he shouldn't let Mark stay up just because he wanted company, but what could it hurt? After all, he didn't have to be up for school in the morning.
In the kitchen, which was white and sterile because Barbara, his ex-wife, had wanted it that way and he'd never had the time to strip the paint and restain the cabinets light oak and replace the chrome handles with copper, Mark got out the Hershey's chocolate and sugar while John took a pan from a cabinet and the milk from the brushed chrome refrigerator. Ugly and cold. The whole room was as ugly and chill as the insides of the too-large refrigerator. He had to do something about it. Someday.
Mark was oblivious as he started jabbering about basketball scores, moved on to Parker clan gossip gleaned from his friend Pete, and then to plant collecting, the latest hobby in a lifelong fascination with collections. At one time or another the boy had collected ev
erything from snails to rocks to feathers to the screw-on caps on soda bottles. Now it was plants. Herbs, to be precise. The kid was talking about wild mugwort, and as John brought two cups of chocolate to the kitchen table, which was chrome and glass and all Barbara, he looked at his son. ''Mugwort? What in the world is mugwort?"
''It's an herb. It's kinda fuzzy and it grows all over Witch Forest. It keeps ghosts away."
John burned his tongue on the chocolate and set it down again. "Ghosts? I thought you didn't believe in ghosts!"
Mark snorted, then blew on his chocolate too hard, spattering the glass with tiny brown drops. It improved the looks of the table, as far as John was concerned. Made it homier. '' 'Course, I don't believe in ghosts, Dad. It's just lore."
John smiled. "Lore?"
''Minerva- " He cut his sentence short, watching for a bad response, but John kept his smile pasted in place. What else could he do? Tell him the old lady was a witch, that she sent gargoyles out to fetch babies? Even he'd never believed that. "Go on."
"She says herbs were the first medicines. They weren't just used for casting spells 'n' junk like it says in witch books. Like foxglove, it was heart medicine-"
''Digitalis," John said
His son beamed at him. ''You knew that?" he asked in amazement.
''Sure. And garlic kills worms," he added, exhausting his knowledge of medicinal herbs.
''Wow. Did Minerva teach you?"
"No." He couldn't help smiling. "That's pretty common knowledge. ''You know, like when Gus plants in his garden, he always puts a couple rows of beets around it to distract gophers?"
Mark nodded ''Minerva says he should put marigolds in, too, because they keep bugs away."
"You sound like you know Minerva pretty well," John ventured. "How'd you meet her?"
MOON FALL Page 6
