Dark of the Moon

by Parrish, PJ

  “I thought you wanted me,” she said.

  “Abby, don’t.”

  “I thought…I thought you would want me more if I acted more, more…” Her voice trailed off into tears.

  Louis suppressed a sigh. He started to stroke her hair, but then stopped, knowing somehow that it would seem parental and that the last thing she wanted right now was to be treated like a child. The fearful expression that had clouded her face just moments ago came back to him in that instant and he closed his eyes as the realization struck him. God, he was stupid.

  “Abby,” he said softly, “you’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. She had stopped crying but still lay nestled against his chest. Finally, she pulled back, wiping her face and smoothing back her hair. She let out a long, shuddering sigh.

  “I wanted you to be the one,” she said softly. “I’ve dreamed about it, and saved myself even though all my friends were screwing around like crazy. I wanted it to be perfect.” She lowered her eyes. “I wanted you because I knew it would be.”

  Louis smiled slightly. “I’m flattered.”

  She looked up suddenly, eyes flashing. “Don’t make fun of me.”

  Louis touched her cheek. ‘Tm sorry. I meant that I really would have been flattered to be your first.”

  “Then why not?” she said, her eyes tearing.

  Louis shook his head. “Because it isn’t right…at least right now. We would be using each other, Abby, just to fill up some gaps inside us. I’m too damn lonely right now, and you are—” He was going to say “too young and too desperate” but stopped himself. “You are just not ready.”

  She picked at the tufts of the chenille bedspread. “I suppose you’ve had hundreds of women,” she said.

  “Hundreds…”

  A car honked down in the street below, drawing Abby’s eyes briefly to the window and then back to Louis. Her tears had washed away the makeup she had so carefully applied and her hair was tangled. The silk blouse was wrinkled and she had buttoned it up lopsided. Louis slowly undid it and buttoned it up right. She held her breath until he finished, and then let it out in one big sigh.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” she said, not looking at him.

  “Don’t be.”

  “I had a couple glasses of my mother’s sherry before I came over here.”

  Louis smiled. “I don’t recommend drinking before your first time. I got drunk my first time and I can’t remember a thing. And it should be a moment in your life that you don’t want to forget.”

  Abby’s eyes held his. “I wouldn’t have forgotten.”

  Her face was lifted toward his and he wanted to kiss her in that moment. And a part of him, the cold nub inside him that had warmed to her touch, was urging him forward.

  He leaned over and kissed her forehead. Her scent swirled up to him, and he shut his eyes, memorizing it. “You’d better go,” he said softly.

  She nodded and got up from the bed. He helped her on with her coat and she pulled a velvet hat over her ears. As she picked up the poetry book, her expression turned forlorn, and he realized that she was trying to find a way to say good-bye.

  “When are you leaving?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m resigning tomorrow. Soon after.”

  “When I came here tonight, I was hoping I could convince you to stay…for me.” She looked down at the poetry book in her hand. “I thought that if that didn’t work then maybe this would.” She held the book out to him.

  He shook his head. “I don’t need it anymore.”

  She nodded sadly. “I guess not.” She went to the door, opened it and turned back to him. “Good-bye, Louis,” she said softly.

  “Good-bye, Abby,” he said.

  She closed the door softly. He stood still, listening to the retreat of her footsteps down the creaky stairs. He waited for the thud of the front door closing and the sound of her car engine starting before he went to the window. He stood, his arms wrapped over his chest against the chill, watching until the red tail lights of her car disappeared.

  Chapter 14

  The brown Blazer pulled up to the curb in front of the station just before Louis swung his Mustang into a spot nearby. Louis watched as Dodie climbed out of the Blazer and paused to zip up his jacket against the morning cold. He hadn’t intended to tell Dodie about the resignation at that moment, but it seemed better to get it over with here outside, away from the others. He got out and hurried after Dodie.

  “Sheriff, wait.”

  Dodie turned, pulling a fresh cigar from his pocket and slipping it between his teeth. “Mornin’, Kincaid.”

  “Sheriff,” Louis began, “my mother died Monday and—”

  Dodie took the cigar from his mouth, frowning. “Monday? That why you didn’t come in yesterday? Why didn’t you say?” He hesitated then patted Louis’s arm awkwardly. “Shit, Kincaid, I’m right sorry. You need more time, you take it.”

  “No, wait. Sheriff, I don’t—”

  “Sam!”

  Louis turned to see Bob Roberts hurrying over to them. He must have just come from the courthouse next door; he wasn’t wearing an overcoat.

  “Sam, I gotta be in court in fifteen minutes and I’m tied up the rest of the day,” Roberts said. “So if you wanna do this Mulcahey thing, it’s now or never.” He stood there, bobbing up and down, flapping his arms across his chest.

  “Fine with me,” Dodie said, and started into the station. He turned to Louis. “Kincaid, you’d better sit in on this, too—if you don’t mind.”

  Junior was waiting for them in Dodie’s office, his face a rare picture of doom. He had spread the contents of the Earl Mulcahey file out on Dodie’s desk.

  “Junior, get me a cup of coffee, will ya?” Dodie said, hanging up his jacket. “Bob?”

  The district attorney shook his head.

  “What’s this about. Sheriff?” Louis asked.

  “Eucher put a rush on that search warrant you wanted and the boys up in Starkville found a .30-.30 rifle in Leverette’s dorm,” Dodie said. “I wanted Bob to go over the rest of this to see if we’ve got enough to arrest him.”

  Louis dropped into a chair. He watched as Roberts sifted through the material on the desk, knowing what the DA was probably thinking. The rifle, combined with the rest of the evidence—the prints from the deer hide, the insurance policy, and the statement of one neighbor who overheard father and son arguing about money—all made for a strong case against Leverette Mulcahey.

  “We still can’t match the rifle,” Louis said weakly.

  “Leverette lied to us, Louis,” Dodie said. “The kid hid the damn rifle in his dorm.”

  “He’s got no alibi, either,” Junior said.

  “But—”

  “I bet if we brought him in and scared him a little, he’d fess up,” Junior interrupted.

  “That’s called badgering and coercion. Junior,” Louis said. “It’s against the law.” He shook his head. “Sheriff, I just don’t know about this.”

  “The kid’s getting a quarter million bucks,” Junior said, sliding off the windowsill and pointing to the policy. “Pretty damn strong motive.”

  “People do strange things for money,” Louis replied, “but I just don’t see it in Leverette.”

  Dodie was looking at Louis carefully. Then he turned to Roberts. “What do you think. Bob?”

  “I think we’ve got enough here.” He kept glancing at his watch.

  Louis sighed, shaking his head.

  “Kincaid, what’s the matter with you?” Dodie said. “You’re the one who started all this.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Look, Sam,” Roberts said, “I can’t be dickin’ around all day on this. Let’s get moving. The mayor wants this thing wrapped up now. People think there’s a crazed sniper out there. It’s killing the hunting season.”

  Louis looked up at Roberts. What an idiot. He looked back at Dodie and started to say something. But what was the poin
t? He looked at the floor, elbows on knees.

  “Too bad,” Roberts said, shaking his head. “He seemed like a nice kid.”

  “Bob,” Dodie said, “maybe we should let Kincaid here look into this a little more.”

  Roberts shook his head impatiently. “We’ve got enough to arrest him. Just do it, Sam.” He leveled his gaze at Dodie. “Okay?”

  Dodie hesitated then looked at Junior. “Go get Mike and get over to Ethel’s,” he said quietly. “Try to keep it low-key, you hear?”

  Roberts gave everyone a quick good-bye and left. Junior hurrying out after him. Louis remained seated, watching Dodie as he settled into his chair, took out the Zippo and lit his cigar. The fetid smell of the El Producto filled the room, making Louis wince. It was time to tell Dodie he was leaving.

  “Sheriff—”

  “Now, don’t start harpin’ on me, Kincaid,” Dodie said quickly, raising a hand. “If Leverette’s innocent, I’ll be the first one there to unlock the cell door.”

  “No, it’s not that. I need—”

  The phone rang, cutting him off. Dodie jumped on it. “Gonna be one of those days,” he muttered. Louis watched as Dodie waited, drumming his fingers on his desk in irritation as the secretary on the other end took her time putting the call through.

  “Yeah, Walt, what is it?” Dodie said flatly. Dodie’s eyes narrowed. “Christ, Walt, the damn service ain’t till Saturday. Can’t this wait?” He let out a disgusted sigh and slammed the phone down. He rose, grabbed his jacket, and without looking at Louis stomped out of the office. “Goin’ to the mayor’s office,” he called out to Junior.

  Louis got up and went out to his own desk. He had to get over to the funeral home and make arrangements for Lila, but he wanted to wait until they brought Leverette in. He didn’t know why, really. There was nothing he could do or say now that would make a difference. He sat down and idly surveyed his few personal items. Not much to pack up. His eyes fell on yellowed paper taped to a comer of the scarred desk. It was the incomplete poem. He picked at the Scotch tape and peeled it off.

  He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. He hadn’t slept well, kept awake by the same thing that was troubling him now: the gnawing feeling of defeat deep in his gut. Today, Leverette Mulcahey would be thrown in jail for murdering his father. Even if he were proven innocent, the stain of the accusation would always be there. And Saturday, the bones of another innocent man would be buried, his identity lost forever. Louis crumbled up the yellowed paper and threw it in the trash can.

  They brought Leverette in soon after. Louis watched as the young man trudged in, his hands cuffed behind him. He was put straight into a cell to be held until he could be taken upstairs for processing. Louis went back to the cell block.

  Leverette was slumped on a bunk, eyes closed.

  “Leverette…”

  His head shot up. He got up and came up to the bars. His dark hair was disheveled and his eyes were liquid with fear, but they were locked on Louis’s with a desperate fierceness. Louis couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “I didn’t do this,” Leverette said. “I loved my dad.”

  “It’ll be all right, Leverette,” Louis said weakly. “You’ll get a lawyer and—”

  “No!” Leverette said. “It won’t be all right! I didn’t do this. No one believes me.” His hands, gripping the bars, were shaking. “I’m scared,” he whispered.

  Louis swallowed hard. “Leverette, a lawyer—”

  With a cry, Leverette spun away. He crumbled down onto the bunk, holding his head in his hands. Louis watched him for a moment then turned and slowly walked back into the office.

  Ethel Mulcahey came in at that moment and saw him. She was wrapped in a gray coat and had tied a scarf haphazardly over her hair. Louis saw that she was still wearing her bedroom slippers. She stared at him, her eyes glistening beads in the pleated white cushion of her face.

  Louis went over to her. “Mrs. Mulcahey—”

  “Go away,” she said hoarsely. “Jst go away and leave us alone.”

  Her eyes welled and she turned away. Louis watched as Mike led her into the cell block, then he picked up his jacket and left.

  As he sat on the small white bench in the foyer of the Wallace-Pickney Funeral Home, Louis thought about all the times he had been in such places. Twice for cops’ funerals and once for a little boy who had been killed by a drunk driver. But this was different. This time he was burying his mother.

  It was quiet, except for the muted organ music coming from the parlor down the hall. Louis laid his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. A door opened and he looked up.

  A man was coming out of the office, gliding across the white tile floor as if he were on ice skates. He was tall, with deep-set, hollow eyes and thin blond hair that he combed from the left ear to the right to cover his baldness. His suit had a sheen to it, as if it had been pressed too often.

  “I’m Mr. Wallace,” he said. “You wanted to see me?”

  Louis stood up and introduced himself.

  Wallace shook Louis’s hand tepidly. “You work for Sam Dodie,” he said, making it a statement rather than a question.

  “Yes, but I’m not here on police business,” Louis said. “I’m here to make arrangements for my mother.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  Louis stared at Stan Wallace in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” Wallace said, his nostrils flaring as he drew in a deep breath. “We cannot accommodate your mother.”

  As Louis stared at Stan Wallace’s pallid face, he felt the muscles in his shoulders flex involuntarily. Suddenly Wallace’s pinched face went fuzzy. The organ music drifted in and out.

  “Excuse me?” Louis said.

  “We only take white people.”

  The words had been spoken so casually that at first they didn’t even register in Louis’s brain. Then, very slowly, they did, one word at a time, each cutting him, not like a knife but like a razor, so clean, sharp, and quick that he didn’t feel the pain, just the gap it left. A sensation shot through him, something so foreign that it took him several seconds to realize what it was—sheer, cold rage.

  “You can’t do that!” Louis hissed.

  Wallace blinked quickly. “Sue me.”

  “What about Willie Johnson?” Louis said between clenched teeth. “He’s black.”

  Wallace shrugged. “We’re making the arrangements for the memorial service but he won’t be brought here. The city’s paying for it so it’s not a funeral…per se. It’s business. Strictly business.”

  Wallace’s words seemed to ricochet around the sleek walls. Louis felt his right hand clench into a fist and for one second in his mind he could see it landing in Stan Wallace’s face. He could feel the give of the man’s doughy flesh, the satisfying sharp jolt of bone against his knuckles. He closed his eyes, pulling in a deep breath, trying to quell the fire inside his chest. When he opened his eyes, Wallace was looking at him with strange mix of apprehension and smugness.

  Wallace tilted his head back and his nostrils flared once again. “I suggest you try Collins Funeral Home.”

  “I suggest you go fuck yourself.”

  Wallace’s mouth formed a small O and he took a step back. The man was afraid of him, afraid of what the “crazy nigger” was going to do. Louis wanted to laugh. His mother was dead, goddamn it, and this fucking piece of shit wouldn’t bury her. A sound gurgled up from inside him, the beginning of a laugh, but it caught in his throat and came out as a small cry.

  Louis turned quickly and hurried to the door. He jerked it open and slammed it—loud enough, he hoped, to wake the dead.

  Louis closed the front door softly.

  “Louis? That you?”

  “Yeah…”

  Bessie came through the parlor into the hall. Her hands were covered with flour. “You’re home early.”

  He hung his jacket on the hall tree. “There wasn’t much for me to do at t
he station,” he said flatly. He didn’t meet her eyes. He had told her last night that he was leaving soon. She was taking the news badly.

  “You don’t look good,” Bessie said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Come in and sit with me. I’m making chicken and dump-lin’s.”

  Louis followed her into the yellow kitchen and dropped into one of the chrome-and-yellow vinyl chairs. The small room was fragrant with the smells of cooking. His stomach growled suddenly. He had forgotten to eat all day. Bessie put a glass of milk in front of him. He grimaced; he never had liked milk, but Bessie kept trying to pour it down his throat as an antidote to the Heine-kens she knew he kept up in his room.

  “Leverette Mulcahey was arrested today,” Louis said, leaning back in the chair.

  “For what?” Bessie asked from the stove.

  “They think he murdered his father.”

  “Lordy, lordy,” Bessie clucked. “Do you?”

  Louis stared at the milk. “No,” he said softly.

  The kitchen fell silent.

  “What time is that service Saturday?” Bessie asked suddenly.

  “It starts at nine.” Louis looked back at her. “You planning on going?”

  Bessie shrugged as she stirred the stew. “I will if you want me to, Louis. I’ll go for you. But truth be told, I think it’s all a big put-on. I jus’ got a feelin’ about it, a bad feeling, that the man they’s puttin’ in the ground ain’t who they says he is.”

  Louis stared at Bessie for a moment. “Me too, Bessie,” he said softly. “Me too.”

  He turned back and put his head in his hands, resting his elbows on the table. There was a thud on the table. He looked up. It was a bottle of Heineken.

  Smiling wanly, he took a long swig, closing his eyes. A moment later, Bessie set a plate of the thick chicken and gravy in front of him. She sat down opposite him. He took a bite of a dumpling. It was delicious. The kitchen was silent again as he ate.

  “Louis,” Bessie said finally. “You ain’t said nothin’ about your mama since she passed.”