Dear God. Sara nodded slowly, knowing that if she tried to talk Kelly out of her belief, she'd not only retreat, but would know she was lying to her. "Jenny was my best friend," she said at last. "She was the best friend I ever had, and I know she'd never do anything to hurt you." She looked Kelly in the eye. "Jenny's probably just lonely. I'm sure she wouldn't want to frighten you." Except what I saw-if I really saw it- wasn't Jenny. It was something pretending to be Jenny. She shivered, tried to hide it.
''I guess I know that," Kelly told her. ''Can I ask you something?"
''Of course."
''Why did she kill herself?"
Sara stared at Kelly, -unwilling to tell her the truth.
Kelly seemed to sense her discomfort. "Did you come back here because of her? Because of how she died?"
"I wasn't there for her," Sara said, reciting the tale she'd concocted for Mother Lucy and the sisters. ''I should have helped her with her problems and maybe she wouldn't have committed suicide."
"Please tell me the truth," Kelly said solemnly. Distance grew in her eyes.
"What makes you think I'm not?"
"I can tell. I can always tell. Nobody tells me the truth. You did, a little, but now you're not."
Sara gazed at the girl. Despite her youth, the look in her eyes was old and very wise. Or maybe she was just imagining it. Either way, she was losing her and knew that she didn't want that to happen. ''Kelly, do you promise .not to repeat anything I say to you?"
''Who would I tell?" she asked, then paused. ''Yes, of course. I promise. On my mother's grave." Her eyes glistened with tears as she spoke those last words.
"Kelly, I came back because Jenny Blaine was murdered. She didn't kill herself."
"Did you see it happen," she asked intently, "or do you just know?"
"I just know."
Kelly nodded. "That's what I thought."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know, exactly, but I believe you. Who killed her?"
"I don't know." Sara sighed. "That's why I'm here, but that has to be our secret."
"Jenny Blaine died in my room," Kelly said thoughtfully. ''And Miss Tynan tried to die in yours. It's kind of weird to think about, huh?"
''Yeah. Kind of weird."
Twenty-eight
Dressed in his most comfortable Levi's and a light blue chambray shirt, John Lawson sat at a small table nursing a beer in a dark comer of Winesap's Tavern. Mark was at the Addamses' for the night, and when John had entered his empty house, he realized that he didn't want to be there alone. The house, a modest but nice three-bedroom, though never good enough for his ex-wife, seemed to be closing in around him, to be sucking the air from his lungs. Restless, he'd wolfed down a TV dinner, then drove his Nissan pick-up into town, half intending to drop in on Frank Cutter, but finding himself at Winesap's instead.
The jukebox was playing Garth Brooks, seemingly endlessly, and people were Friday-night noisy- drinking, playing darts, a few couples dancing nearby. From the opposite side of the dark barroom came the mildly annoying sound of a television set tuned to the fights, and every few seconds the men gathered around it roared alternately with pleasure and pain.
John wasn't interested in any of it; all he could think about was Sara Hawthorne, how ill she had looked in that brief moment he'd seen her in Dashwood's infirmary, and how it seemed more and more like she was nothing but a nut case, trying to create murders and conspiracies where none existed. That saddened him, because over the last twenty-four hours, he'd been thinking about her a good deal, about her pale skin and wings of dark hair brushing her shoulders, about her mysterious eyes with their searching gaze, and her voice, smoky-soft. He'd been attracted to her, and that was something rare. He'd stayed away from women after Barbara had left him because he'd felt betrayed. He'd never even realized she'd been carrying on with that lawyer until she had told him one night, her words grinding him into the earth with their disdain. That was the night she announced in venomous tones that she was leaving him for a better life with a better man, one capable of being more than a simpleminded town cop. It still hurt when he thought about it, still angered him if he allowed it.
He'd gone out on a few dates over the years, mostly blind dates arranged by well-meaning friends, and though he'd met a few women he'd liked, none had the spark he searched for. For some reason, the blind dates had always been Barbara clones, and whether or not it was warranted, he judged these women by their perfect hair and perfect clothing, by the expensive jewelry they wore. And, always, he backed off.
Part of the problem was that Moonfall was a family town. There were few single women to meet, and he just didn't have the heart to go barhopping in the city, or the time to join health clubs where single women roamed. The fact was, he thought, as he sipped the warming beer, he wasn't attracted to the kind of woman he'd meet in either place. He wanted a lover, yes, but more than that, he wanted a friend, one he could trust, one who would enjoy Mark's company, too.
He wanted too much and he didn't think he'd ever find a woman like that, but when Sara Hawthorne had walked into his office, he'd liked her unassuming but professional attire, liked the sincerity she exuded and the kindness he sensed, even while she was driving him to frustration with her insistence that, despite a complete lack of evidence, a murder had occurred a dozen years before. She was going to investigate it herself. She's just another nut, he thought regretfully. Maybe even a dangerous one.
''Want a fresh one?"
He looked up into the eyes of Marlene May's too-painted face. The barmaid, dressed in a skimpy red dress with white petticoats and a ruffle-edged crisscrossed bodice that squeezed and pushed up her ample cleavage until it looked more like a behind than a bosom, put her red-nailed hands on his glass and smiled at him.
"No, no, thanks. Not tonight."
"Nonsense. He'll have another," came Frank Cutter's voice. "Doctor's orders," he added, as he and Gus Lawson appeared from out of the dark behind her. "Mind if we join you, John?" he asked, pulling out a chair before he could answer.
"No problem," John said, as his grandfather pulled up another chair and settled into it with a satisfied grunt. "We'll have whatever you've got on tap," Gus told Marlene. She tossed her bright platinum locks and smiled- Gus was a notoriously good tipper- then swept away John's stale beer and strutted her stuff toward the bar as the old man stared after her with unabashed appreciation. ''My, my, I'll bet she's a handful." Gus winked at John. "Ever date her?"
''Not my type," John said. ''Maybe you should ask her out."
"I just might, at that," his grandfather said, smiling as the object of his lust returned and set beers before them, careful to keep her cleavage in Gus's face. ''I'll get it," he said, pulling a ten from his pocket. "Keep the change, darlin', and keep 'em coming."
"You bet, Gus." She planted a kiss on his forehead, leaving a red tattoo, then moved to the next table, an extra little wiggle in her walk.
Gus beamed after her for a long moment, then looked at John. "Didn't expect to see you here, Johnny."
''Mark's sleeping over at the Addamses' and the house seemed kind of empty, you know?" John caught a glimpse of a man who looked like Richard Dashwood at the bar and wondered if it was really him. Winesap's seemed too declasse for St. Gertrude's physician, but then again, there was little to choose from around here.
"If you got yourself a wife, you'd love him to go off on sleepovers," Gus told him with another wink.
"Let the boy alone," Cutter chided. He swallowed half his beer in one gulp. "He'll get around to it when he's ready."
Gus started to open his mouth, but Cutter wouldn't let him speak. "You find out anything about that alleged suicide?"
"Yeah. I went out to the abbey and talked to Dashwood," he said, trying in vain to spot the man at the bar again. It had been a brief, hazy view and John decided he must have been mistaken. "His records show the girl graduated and left for college up north. So there's no suicide report at all. It's missing because
it didn't exist in the first place. Not a suicide, and certainly not a murder."
"But why would your Ms. Hawthorne make up something like that?"
"I think she believes it."
"Do you believe her?"
"How can I?"
"You have your doubts, that's obvious."
''When I went there today to see Dashwood, I saw her being led from the infirmary. Dashwood said she'd 'had too much excitement,' but she looked like she was in a daze to me."
''Drugged?"
John nodded. "Probably. Dashwood's nurse took her to her room. I didn't get to talk to her." He sipped his beer, enjoying the cold tang for the first time tonight. "She's supposed to come back to see me on Sunday. I'll be very interested in what she has to say." He paused. " The only thing that gives her any real credibility is the fact that Dashwood and Mother Lucy jumped all over me, wanting to know how I knew her name. I said she'd stopped at the office, asking for directions to the school. And I hope to hell that she says the same thing when they ask her."
"When," Gus said abruptly.
John raised his eyebrows. "When? What do you mean, 'when'?"
"I'm not sure what you boys are talking about," Gus said, wiping foam from his white mustache with the back of his hand. ''But Johnny, you said 'when,' not 'if.' That tells me you expect this young woman to be questioned by those damnable nuns."
Surprised, John looked at his grandfather. "I hate to admit it, but you're right. All the evidence- or lack of it-points one way, but my guts are going in the opposite direction." He quickly filled Gus in on the details about Sara Hawthorne and her story concerning the alleged murder-suicide.
"Johnny," Gus said when he'd heard it all, "are you attracted to this woman?"
John tried to hide his annoyance. "Don't you ever think about anything but sex?"
Gus stared him squarely in the eye. "Just answer the question." There wasn't a trace of amusement in his voice.
"She seems like a nice person, yes, but I don't see how that has anything to do with this- "
“It might affect your instincts."
John was all too aware of that. He took a long drink of beer.
"It'd sure as hell affect mine," Gus continued, motioning for Marlene May to fetch another round. The serious look returned to his face. "That's what's worrying you, isn't it, Johnny? Whether your instincts are working right or not."
John shrugged and finished his beer.
''Nothing to be ashamed of. Your dad talked to me about the same sort of thing. Before I retired, I had my share of confusion, just like every other preacher." A little twinkle came into his eye. "You'd be surprised at the number of confessions a minister hears, Johnny. A wife would come to me, tell me all about her husband's drinking and carousing, and the husband would come to me with the same stories about his wife. If I liked either one of them in particular, it could make it difficult to get a bearing on things."
"Did you?"
''Most of the time. You want to know how I did it?" He pulled out another ten, waving Cutter's proffered money away, then smiled at Marlene as she set down the fresh glasses. He got another lip tattoo and an eyeful as she walked away. "So," he said, after his eyes were back in place, "do you want to know?"
John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was starting to feel the alcohol, and that made it easier to smile at the old letch. ''Sure. Tell me."
"I'd rely on my past experience, Johnny, and that's exactly what you should do."
It was anticlimactic, to say the least. "I realize that, Gus. That's why I'm inclined to believe Sara Hawthorne is delusional."
Gus shook his head. "You're talking about logic; I'm talking about experience."
Cutter, who'd been quietly sipping his beer and listening with a half smile on his face, cleared his throat. "You referring to the Tynan suicide, Gus?''
"No, I'm not. I'm talking about the night Greg died."
John's hand shook, splashing beer on the table's thick finish. "Cut it out, Gus, right now." He took a long pull of beer, making himself count silently to ten before speaking again, but it didn't help. "I told you I don't ever want to talk about any of that again." He stared across the tavern, refusing to make eye contact with his grandfather.
"You've got to hear about it, Johnny."
"Don't call me that, and I don't have to hear about it."
"John," Cutter said softly. "You were on the verge of panic the entire time we were at the abbey. Something happened to you there, and you have to remember what it was. If there's something to that young woman's story, her fate might rest on it"
Livid, John slowly turned his gaze on his grandfather. "You not only eavesdropped on us, goddamn it, you told Frank." His voice low and controlled to suppress his gathering rage, he continued. "I trusted you. You eavesdropped, but at least you kept it secret all these years. What'd you do, tell Frank your story, then come looking for me to perform some sort of demented intervention?"
"He told me right after it happened, John, twenty-four years ago," Cutter said, in his best bedside voice. "Gus was very worried about you."
"Jesus Christ, Gus. Who else did you tell?"
"Only one other, Johnny- your father." There was regret in the old man's voice. "And he took it to his grave."
"His grave ... " John bent, resting his hands on the table between the two older men. "What are you implying?"
Gus looked at his hands for a long time before turning his face toward John's. There were tears in his eyes, and for the first time John could see all of his eighty-some years in his face. "If I had kept my big mouth shut, you might still have him, Johnny."
"He was answering a prowler call in the Heights and got his head blown off," John said. "That's pretty cut-and-dried, isn't it?''
"But his killer was never caught," Cutter reminded him.
''There were no footprints, no fingerprints, no clues at all. The killer vanished," Gus said.
''And there was the matter of the call itself," Cutter added. "The people living in the house in question insisted they never phoned the station, never heard a thing before the gunshot."
John sat down slowly. "I'd forgotten."
"That's not surprising. It was a long time ago- you were just a kid, and what kid wants to think about such things?"
"The new sheriff decided that the only rational explanation was that some punk who had a grudge against your father set it up and took him out," Cutter explained.
''Yeah, I remember that now. Gus, that's when you started sleeping with that loaded shotgun by your bed."
His grandfather nodded. "I was afraid whoever got your dad would come after you, too."
"Why not you or Mom?"
"Because after I told your father about your conversations with your friends about St. Gertrude's, he went out there a number of times, asked a lot of questions. I think those damnable nuns were behind his death one way or another, just like you think they have something to do with your brother's drowning. John, if they thought you knew anything, they would have killed you, too."
"That's absurd," John said, without any conviction.
"Listen to your instincts, Johnny, before you judge."
"But they're nuns, for God's sake." He was desperate to believe his own words. "Come on, Gus, nuns don't go around killing people."
"St. Gertrude's is a cursed place," Gus said, his eyes steady on John's, his voice taking on some of the righteous force he'd used in his sermons. "And I don't know what they are, but those nuns are no brides of Christ."
''Evil attracts evil," Frank Cutter said.
"You're a doctor, for Chrissake. How can you talk like that?" John shook his head. "The next thing I know, you two will be telling me that the gargoyles come to life at night and steal infants for Minerva Payne to make into soup."
"I'm a man of science," Cutter said solemnly, after he finished off his third beer. "I'd never say something like that."
"Neither would I, Johnny. This isn't a joke, and I think you know that."
"Then why didn't you two say anything before this?"
"Maybe I'm nothing but an old coward," Gus told him, ''but I saw no reason to stir things up again. The way I see it, they got Greg, your dad, and the Buckman boy."
"Doug. He was a suicide." He watched silently as Marlene delivered another round. She looked at his barely touched beer, then at him, questioningly. "I've had plenty, thanks."
"I guess when you're the sheriff, you have to set an example," she pouted.
"Just leave it here, darlin' ," Gus said. "When you're a retired preacher, you can drink all you want."
It amazed John how his grandfather could switch his mood instantly. All the more confused and depressed now, he wished he'd inherited the old man's gift. He'd realized that Doug's suicide had been related to that Halloween night, of course, but he always thought it was because Doug was the only one who couldn't cope with the confusion about what had happened that night. It hadn't even occurred to John that his leap off the bridge at the top of the falls- like Greg, he'd landed on sharp rocks below, crushing his skull-was anything but self-propelled. Maybe, he thought now, Doug had been forced off the bridge. Maybe his death was related to Greg's, and his father's, and even Lenore Tynan's. Maybe Sara Hawthorne was telling the truth about Jennifer Blaine. But it's all too much. If I start believing something so absurd, pretty soon I'll start taking midnight flights on UFOs ... or seeing gargoyles in the sky.
"John?" Cutter asked. Across the table, Marlene finished wiping lipstick from Gus's forehead.
''Marlene," John said, snagging his jacket from the back of his chair.
"Change your mind about that beer?" she purred.
''No. When these two are done, call them a cab." He took a twenty from his wallet. "It's on me."
She smiled, tucked the bill in her cleavage, and wandered toward the bar.
"I'm going home now," he announced.
''The ramblings of old men," Gus mused, obviously drunk now. "Young men think they're foolish," he told Cutter, "but they'd be well advised to listen." He turned to John. "Sit down. Since we've traveled this far, it's time to tell you one more thing."
MOON FALL Page 15
