MOON FALL

by Tamara Thorne

  "Hey, Ghost Girl," Marcia called in a singsong voice.

  "Where do you think you're going?"

  Kelly turned and glared at her. ''I have to clean the third floor bathroom. Do you want to help?"

  "Gross," Buffy Bullock whined.

  "We're supposed to go with her." Marcia didn't sound too enthusiastic.

  "Then you go," Buffy sniped back.

  "Yeah, Marcia, you go," echoed a couple of the other girls.

  Her face set in an ugly sneer, Marcia stared at Kelly. "I'm going to come and check up on you in a few minutes, so you'd better be there."

  "I'll clean a toilet just for you," Kelly called, as she headed for the door.

  "Use your tongue," Marybeth Tingler called after her.

  Kelly didn't respond. A moment later she reached the dorm and went straight to Sara's third-floor room. She knocked. "Miss Hawthorne? Sara? Are you okay?"

  She waited a moment, then opened the door and walked inside. The bed was unmade and Sara's robe and nightgown were tossed across it. Her purse was on the table. Kelly thought she must be on the grounds someplace.

  She left the room and hurried downstairs. If anyone saw her running around, she'd end up in solitary again, and she didn't want that. She stepped outside and flattened herself against the wall as Buffy and Marybeth passed by.

  Kelly held her breath until they were out of sight, then glanced at her surroundings. The big kitchen building was nearby, and since the nuns weren't around, it would be the perfect route out to the garage to see if Sara's car was there. She knew it was more likely that Sara might be in the infirmary, but she didn't want to risk looking there- at least, not yet. It was too dangerous.

  She sprinted the fifty yards to the old stone kitchen, then around to the back. She'd never been inside; this wasn't the cafeteria kitchen, but the monstrous antique one used by the nuns to bake the pies and make jams, jellies, and candies to sell at Apple Heaven.

  Moving to a window, she peered inside and saw wooden tables just under the window and ovens lining the far wall. A long central counter was piled with large chunks of meat, and the grinders- huge, old-fashioned ones with hand cranks had meat oozing out of them. Gross.

  But no one was around. Wherever the nuns had gone, they'd left everything in a hurry. She moved to a door and tried it, breathing relief as it opened. She slipped inside, crouching low and listening, ready to bolt if anyone came along.

  No one did. She crossed the huge kitchen and saw large pots simmering on the stoves on the far walls. The place stank of simmering meat, a cloying scent she had smelled on the wind before. She despised it.

  Flies buzzed around the top of an open garbage can and she glanced into it as she passed. Kelly stopped in her tracks as she saw a pair of eyes staring up at her. Dead eyes in a dead ' face. The severed head of a man, one of the gardeners, gazed blindly up at her. She caught sight of fingertips poking out from beneath the bloody neck. Her stomach roiled, and she couldn't move, couldn't think.

  The slam of a door startled Kelly out of her paralysis. She crouched and moved quickly toward the far door, which she thought would bring her out fairly close to the garage. Behind her, women's voices chattered. Someone laughed, high-pitched and witchy.

  Trying to push the grisly image from her mind, she reached the door and turned the knob. It opened silently. She glanced around, saw no one, and sprinted toward the small garage door. She made it in a few seconds, and breathing hard, let herself inside.

  Dim light bulbs illuminated the long, gloomy building. At the far end, sunlight shone through the open double doors. She waited a moment, but heard nothing except a lawn mower somewhere in the distance.

  Keeping to the shadows, she walked through the building until she saw Sara's car. Okay, she's still here, for sure. Kelly shivered, thinking of what she'd seen in the garbage can, knowing that the chunks of flesh on the counter and oozing out of the grinders probably belonged to the dead man. God, that's the secret ingredient in their mincemeat pies- people! Might they have done the same thing to Sara? She had to find her, and fast.

  She continued on toward the other end of the building, knowing it was less likely someone would notice her if she went back that way. Near the end of the building, she saw Dashwood's black Beamer, noticed something bright red poking up above the seat. She peered in the window. It was a backpack, with a Hootie and the Blowfish patch on it. Mark's! What was happening? Whatever it was, she knew she'd better get help fast. Cautiously, she peered out the garage doors, waited forever for a pair of nuns to walk from the chapel to the school building. Finally they disappeared inside and Kelly sprinted across the lawn, then raced past the chapel.

  "Hey!" someone called. She glanced back and saw Marcia running after her. Kelly increased her speed, racing through the cemetery, and broke through the bushes, onto the road. Marcia's voice was more distant now. Kelly crossed the road and entered the woods, zigzagging through the trees until she was deep in the forest. Marcia wouldn't find her now. She probably wouldn't even follow her.

  After resting a few minutes, she started walking. She'd check Minerva's cottage first, since it was closest. If the house was deserted, she'd go to the Gingerbread House, knowing Minerva would let her call the police from there. Overhead, above the trees, a nightflyer screeched. Another replied and a shadow momentarily blotted out what little sunlight filtered through the trees. They're hunting for me. The creatures circled, their screams hurting her ears, and she crawled under a giant conifer and waited until their calls receded into the distance before moving on.

  Seventy-nine

  Sara Hawthorne had told John that Minerva was sure Mark was at St. Gertrude's. He had thanked her, then asked her to go back to his house and wait.

  She'd been irritated as hell- he was worse than Minerva. He'd promised to take her with him to the abbey, but he'd gone back on his word, saying instead that he would pick up her property and turn in the letter of resignation for her. She'd paced his living room for an hour and a half, wanting, needing, to do something. Like pick up my own property and formally resign. Right in Lucy's face!

  Now she was in John's blue mini-truck again, driving up the road to St. Gertrude's. She'd finally given in to the need to go there, to pack up her things, grab Kelly, and get the hell out.

  John would be furious if he found out, so she pulled the Nissan around to the back of the abbey and parked in the first stall in the garage, just in case he showed up while she was here.

  She stepped out of the truck and locked the door, then turned and found herself face to face with Richard Dashwood.

  "Hello, Sara," he said, beaming at her. "I missed you."

  Eighty

  John rubbed his throbbing temples, then reached in his desk drawer, found a couple Excedrin, and popped them in his mouth, washing them down with the dregs of a two-hour-old Coke.

  His son was missing and he hadn't even managed to leave the station yet to look for him. His deputies, Scotty Carroll and Wyn Griffin, were cruising, at least, and they'd already alerted many of the merchants in town to keep an eye out. John had spent half the morning dealing with citizens of Moonfall and the other half on the phone, calling Mark's friends and their parents, but no one knew anything.

  Sara had come by to tell him that Minerva was sure the nuns had taken the boy. He didn't want to believe it, and he'd been spending much of his time arguing with himself about it. Minerva Payne was old, maybe crazy, maybe senile- maybe both. She made no secret of her hatred for the sisters, and the stories she told him were patently absurd. All that, and she had no proof to back her allegations. So why, he asked himself once more, was he inclined to believe her?

  Listen to your inner voice and you'll never go wrong. She'd told him that every time he'd seen her, and he realized now that it was his inner voice that was trying to be heard over the voice of reason and logic.

  Someone rapped on the door. "Come in," he called out. "Jeff," he said, as Deputy Thurman stepped in. "Take over here for a
while," John said, rising. "Whole town's a zoo today." He moved to the door.

  "Must be the full moon .... “ Thurman paused. "Sorry about your son."

  “Yeah, thanks." He fought down a lump in his throat. “No reason to be sorry. He'll turn up." He rushed out of the station before Dorothy could torture him with yet more pity, climbed in his cruiser, and drove over to the Gingerbread House.

  Eighty-one

  "Did it go according to plan?'' Lucy asked, as Dashwood entered her office.

  ''Miss Hawthorne is resting, none too comfortably, I might add, in the old root cellar."

  "Why didn't you just toss her in the vault with the boy? It's more secure."

  "My dear Lucy, you're far too soft-hearted. Do you really want them to have one another for company? It would lessen their fear." He gave her his most charming smile. "They wouldn't be as much fun tomorrow evening. And the root cellar is secure enough. It doesn't have a padlock, but it does have that nice big bar latch."

  Lucy pursed her lips. "You're right, Richard, on both counts. I like the way you think," she added, smiling. "She came like a moth to the flame. I'll have to compliment the sisters on their spell casting. Now, regarding the boy .... "

  ''Yes?"

  ''You mentioned taking his backpack to make it appear as if he's run away."

  "Indeed I did."

  "Where is it?"

  "In my car."

  "We're likely to be entertaining the sheriff soon, Richard. Make sure you ditch it. Throw it in with the boy, or something."

  Dashwood nodded. ''Immediately." He started to leave, but Lucy wasn't done yet.

  "We have only two flies left in our ointment, Richard. Three, if we count the old woman, but I hardly think she's worth counting." She laughed. "Our flies are the sheriff, who has no proof of anything, and Kelly Reed."

  "Have they found her yet?"

  "Not yet, but I expect good news soon. She can't get far in that forest without being spotted."

  ''I have one more problem to take care of." Dashwood dangled Sara's car keys from his fingertips, eager to be on his way. "Our runaway teacher returned in what I believe is Lawson's personal vehicle. A small blue truck."

  "She what?" Lucy stood up, her eyes blazing. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

  "You didn't give me a chance to tell you, Lucy dear. Don't worry. I'll take it into town and leave it in a crowded parking lot, where it will be so obvious no one will pay any attention to it. I'll have Sister Regina pick me up in the station wagon."

  "Don't take it into town, you fool. Too many people are likely to recognize the truck and wonder why you, not Lawson, are behind the wheel. Honestly, I expected better of you, Richard! Just drive it up the fire trail on the other side of Apple Hill Road, and be careful no one sees you when you cross the highway. Take it at least a few miles away."

  "Lucy, the station wagon can't go up that road."

  She smiled thinly. "Walk. You need the exercise."

  "You're right, of course," he said, keeping his temper with great effort. "It wouldn't pay to get sloppy for the sake of my comfort. But, Lucy, I should be here when Lawson shows up.

  He'll want to talk to me."

  She nodded. "Have Boullan take it, then. But be quick about it.”

  Eighty-two

  Can they smell me?

  Kelly had traveled very little distance since the first time the nightflyers had passed overhead. She thought there were at least a half dozen of them, circling, screeching. She knew they were trying to find her, and if they did, she thought she wouldn't survive. At times, when the cries sounded very far away, she sprinted as far as she could- fifty feet, one hundred, who knew?- and had so far been lucky enough to find trees to hide under or outcroppings of boulders to crouch below.

  The nearly impenetrable forest of St. Gertrude's had aided her, but now she was ready to cross the stream into Witch Forest, which meant there were more places where the nightflyers would be able to see her. Minerva. She thought the name as hard as she could, picturing the old woman's face in her mind. Minerva, help me.

  She continued the thought as she waited for the screeches and wingbeats to fade. After an eternity they did, and she ran the twenty feet to the stream, then pounded through it to the other side. Hearing a nightflyer approaching, she threw herself under a wide-limbed pine and waited, her thoughts still on Minerva.

  Eighty-three

  "If they have Mark at St. Gertrude's, I'm going to need a search warrant," John told Minerva Payne. "Even if they let me search the place without one, I can't have a free hand with the nuns and Dashwood looking over my shoulder. The place is a warren. They could have him right under my nose and still keep him hidden from me."

  "I have no proof for you," Minerva said. "I wish I did."

  "Sara mentioned the basement or a root cellar below it."

  "The sub-basement. You should begin your search there." Minerva cocked her head as if she were listening to something he couldn't hear. She turned her gaze back on him. "John, you may have to go clandestinely. Not as a sheriff, but as a father." The faraway look came into her eyes again.

  "I suppose I might have to, at that." The thought sent adrenaline coursing through his blood. His uniform and badge were armor that gave him a sense of authority and purpose. Without them, he would feel like he was fourteen again, sneaking around where he shouldn't. Greg lying on a slab, an altar of black stone, candlelight flickering across his nude body ...

  "John?" Minerva asked. "Are you all right?"

  "I- I remember something. About Greg. An altar, candles, dark figures around him."

  ''Good. I told you weeks ago that you must remember in order to save your son. Your memories will lead you to Mark, if you let them." Minerva put her hand over his, then suddenly flinched, her nails digging into his skin.

  He drew away. "What's wrong?"

  "I'm sorry. I have to go." Minerva took a set of keys from her apron pocket and crossed to the front door. "You remember what I've told you, John," she said as she opened it for him.

  "Come to my house in an hour or two and I'll help you capture your memories."

  "Minerva," he repeated, as she almost pushed him out the door. "What's going on?"

  "I'm needed."

  She strode away before he could open his mouth to offer her a ride. He watched, amazed at her speed as she crossed the parking lot and started down the narrow road to her cottage. She was out of sight within a minute, and he wondered how a woman that old could move so fast. Magic, he thought wryly.

  He sat down in his cruiser and rubbed his forehead. Tune was wasting and he didn't know what to do next. The brief flash of memory was promising, and for a moment he thought he might spend the next hour with his eyes shut and his mind open, trying to remember more, but he knew himself better than that. Sitting still wasn't one of his talents. He had to do something.

  He picked up his cell phone and punched in his home number to talk to Sara. He'd rushed out of the house this morning with barely a word, certainly nothing that would reassure her. Then he'd been short with her when she'd come to the station to tell him about her conversation with Minerva. After spending the night in the same bed, he felt he should at least say hello and let her know what was going on- or, more precisely, what wasn't. Besides, he was worried about her.

  He phoned the house twice, but the machine picked up both times. Where was she? Cursing away his fear, he started the car and drove home. His truck wasn't in the driveway.

  Damn it. He left the cruiser idling while he ran up to the house and let himself in. ''Sara?" he called, knowing she wasn't there. "Sara?"

  In thirty seconds he was back out in the cruiser. For a moment he tried to convince himself she was in town, shopping or driving around looking for Mark, even though she'd promised to wait for him here. But in his gut he knew where she was: St. Gertrude's.

  He used his phone again, this time to call the unlisted number for his office. He didn't want to talk to Dorothy, and this wa
s the only way around her. "Sheriff's office." Deputy Thurman answered halfway through the first ring.

  "Jeff, it's me. Sara Hawthorne isn't at the station, is she?"

  "No, not as far as I know. I'll ask Dorothy-"

  "No. Just take a look out the window and see if my pickup is in the lot."

  "Sure." He heard a clunk as the phone was laid down. Ten seconds later, Thurman returned. "It's not there, boss."

  ''How busy are we right now?"

  "Scotty's on a domestic, and Wyn's at the high school. Principal Simmons found a pistol in a student's locker."

  "Great, just great," he sighed. "What about you?"

  "I'm on my way out to Parker's. Larry Finney got drunk and is exposing himself to the ladies again."

  Suddenly, John missed the annoyances of normal life. Finney, a retired insurance salesman, had a love of apple wine and a problem with his pants. Ordinarily, John would pass the call off to his deputies, but right now he wished he had the luxury of taking it.

  ''Do you need help on something?" Thurman asked.

  "No. I'm going out to St. Gertrude's to take a look around. If you get freed up, feel free to join me."

  "Sure thing."

  "And Jeff?"

  "Yeah?"

  "If I don't call in two hours, come and get me. And bring at least one other deputy along."

  "You got it. Are you expecting trouble?"

  "I don't know," John told him. "But it's possible. I have a weak lead on Mark. He might be out there. I'm just going to take a look around. And Jeff, tell the others to keep an eye out for my truck and for Sara Hawthorne. If you find either one, give me a call." John clicked off the phone and grimly set off toward St. Gruesome's.