Blue Moon: Mundy's Landing Book Two

by Wendy Corsi Staub

But where is Oliver?

  Oh! They must have been playing hide-and-seek.

  “Olly olly oxen free!” she calls, the way she did when he was little and she’d pretend she couldn’t see his little Velcro sneakers poking out beneath the curtains. He hid in the same spot every single time. “Time to come out, Ollie Ollie Oliver!”

  Even the familiar childhood nickname doesn’t lure him out.

  She runs down the hall, opening doors, looking for him.

  “Oliver . . . where are you?” She rushes up the stairs to another hallway lined with closed doors and opens one after another, calling for her son, calling, calling . . .

  Up another flight of stairs. More doors. More stairs, and . . .

  I don’t remember the house being this big, she thinks, exhausted, confused as she climbs a steep flight that twists and turns. She can see a light glowing above, and she realizes that it’s the cupola. He must be up there. Yes, she can hear the electronic sizzles and explosions of his new video game.

  “Oliver? Oliver!”

  But it isn’t a light at all. And she isn’t hearing high-tech sound effects.

  The cupola is filled with shooting stars. Surrounded by their dazzling light reflected in all four windows, Annabelle is blinded.

  “Mommy! Help me, I’m afraid!”

  Relieved to hear his voice, and yes, even those familiar words, she feels her way to his bed. Why is it up here? she wonders. It’s so strange, because it was just downstairs.

  There’s a large, human-shaped bump in the middle of the navy and turquoise patchwork quilt. She reaches out, laughing, to pull back the covers. “Gotcha!”

  But it isn’t Oliver at all. It’s . . .

  Annabelle awakens with a start. Her heart is racing as if she’s just run miles, or . . .

  Or climbed stairs.

  Okay. It’s okay. It was just a dream.

  She finds herself looking at the bedside clock. It’s well past four in the morning.

  Trying to shake the nightmare, she rolls over to her husband’s side of the bed. She won’t wake him; she’ll just snuggle into him, taking comfort in his warm, reassuring presence.

  But he isn’t there.

  Is it like the dream? If she pulls back the covers, will she find him—or something, someone else, so hideous that she can’t get the image out of her head even now.

  The comforter on Trib’s side of the bed is still neatly tucked beneath the pillows. It hasn’t even been slept in.

  He must have fallen asleep on the couch. She left him there with the remote control, and he said he’d be up soon. He just wanted to find something to eat.

  She’d considered offering to make him something, but she was just too weary to imagine being on her feet longer than it would take to go upstairs to bed.

  Yawning, Annabelle wonders with a twinge of guilt whether she should go down and get him.

  No. If she does that, she’ll be irrevocably awake, and he might not be able to get back to sleep again, either.

  If she stays where she is, she can drift off again for another hour . . .

  But not into that same dream, she promises herself as she closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to see the dead girl—the one who looks like the stone angel—hiding under the covers in Oliver’s bed, in the room where the second Sleeping Beauty was found.

  “Indi?”

  Awakening to the sound of her name, she’s rudely jerked back to reality. Cold, damp, dark.

  Juanita’s gone now. Dead.

  But Kathryn is here, and she’s talking again, and her voice is closer than it should be. Kathryn is closer than she should be.

  “I did it,” she’s saying. “I got them off. The cuffs. Come on, wake up. Please—you have to wake up!”

  Indi feels her hand, Kathryn’s hand, on her shoulder.

  No one has touched her in . . .

  A long time. Such a long, long time.

  It’s a simple thing: human touch. So easy to take for granted: that people are there, and they care.

  Indi is so overwhelmed by the physical contact that she fails to grasp what Kathryn is actually doing; what she’s saying.

  She gasps. “You did it? You’re free?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t easy, and it hurts, Indi. My wrists . . .”

  “I know. I’m so sorry. Here, put them near my hands, and I’ll rub them for you.”

  “No!” She feels Kathryn recoil in the dark. “No, you can’t touch them. They’re so sore. Bleeding.”

  Of course. “I’m sorry. I forgot. But you did it. Oh, Kathryn—we have a chance now. We can save ourselves.”

  There’s a long pause.

  Then Kathryn’s voice says, in the darkness, “But how?”

  “We’ll figure it out. I know we will. This is the first step. We’re not going to—”

  “Indi? Where do you think he took Juanita? Do you think he let her go? Do you think she’s already gone for help?”

  So Kathryn doesn’t know. She didn’t hear, or she doesn’t remember, or . . .

  No. She must know. It’s no accident that she finally worked herself free of the shackles now, after he murdered Juanita right above their heads. She may have passed out, but she had to know what was going to happen.

  I did. Juanita did, too. She begged. She wanted so badly to live . . .

  But she didn’t fight hard enough, Indi tells herself. That’s the difference between her and me. I’m going to fight with everything I have.

  Right now, what she has is . . . just Kathryn.

  And Kathryn, she realizes, is crying again, softly, in the dark.

  It’s not right.

  Holmes steps back from the bed, aiming the flashlight over her, and then again at the black and white photo print he’d pulled from his pocket.

  In the historic photo, the backdrop was simple: a headboard, a curtained window, a fireplace, wallpaper.

  The modern room is different. Electronics seem to dominate every surface. The walls are painted a gaudy turquoise color. The bed is made of wood, not iron, and it’s in the wrong spot. But he can overlook all of those details.

  It’s her.

  She isn’t right.

  It isn’t the hair. The braids might be lopsided, but you can’t tell that from the angle of her head on the pillow.

  The nightgown is almost exact. Purely by chance, so is the white bedding. And the body’s position is identical to the one in the photo. He’d even managed to tug the folded coverlet into the narrow crevice between Juanita’s folded arms and chest.

  She and the first Sleeping Beauty are identical, with one notable exception: the eyes.

  They’re still staring at him, bulging, horrified.

  “Are you still up? You’re supposed to ‘Sleep safe till tomorrow,’” he says, quoting the note he tucked beneath her pillow. “You’re ruining everything.”

  She offers him an equally accusing stare.

  Not really, of course.

  Intellectually, he knows she’s not really here. She’s long gone, having expelled her last breath on a horrible death rattle.

  This is as close as he’s going to get to perfection, unless . . .

  For a moment, he entertains a spark of an idea.

  But no, that would be crazy. He can’t find someone else at this late date. As much as he’d like to imagine it—especially with Lindy, the frizzy-haired girl who lit the candle. Or Amanda, or her mother, or . . .

  Catherine.

  He glances at the window. The sky is still dark, but the sun will be coming up soon. The Akita is still out cold in the hallway, having gobbled down the hunk of steak with a tranquilizer embedded in the bloody flesh. But it won’t sleep forever. Nor will the tourists, who will soon be camped out at the curb in front of the house.

  Juanita Contreras, with her lopsided braids and ogling eyes, will have to do.

  “Unfortunately, it appears I’m stuck with you,” he tells the still figure on the bed, and he takes out his phone.

  He snaps se
veral photos, using the black and white filter, hoping that will soften the eyes.

  Next time, Holmes promises himself as he pockets the phone, gathers the empty tarp, and slips down the back stairs to the French doors.

  Next time, at 46 Bridge Street, will be perfect.

  From the Sleeping Beauty Killer’s Diary

  June 21, 1916

  The Solstice commenced at 6:24 this evening. That moment found me strolling the midway at Valley Cove Electric Pleasure Park. I visit nightly, occasionally accompanied by a child so as not to arouse suspicion. However, I believe I needn’t worry, for I encounter familiar faces each time. Those of us who have the means consider the Pleasure Park a most agreeable spot to while away an overheated June night.

  My meandering, however, is purposeful.

  There will be three girls altogether. Two would be too few; four would entail additional, and unnecessary, risk. As in science, math, nature, and literature, three establishes a pattern.

  Since last week, I have regularly encountered Calliope and many other young women of her ilk. This makes me smile, as the enclosed Tribune clipping indicates that they are most unwelcome here:

  While there have been concerns among the upstanding citizenship of our fair village—particularly those of a gentle female persuasion—that the park might draw vagrants and unsavory characters from far afield, management offers utmost assurance that this is a family-friendly endeavor. Undesirables shall be refused admittance.

  I engage these ostensible undesirables in conversation—or rather, they engage me. My own intention is no less nefarious than theirs, for time is growing short in my search for the two who will best suit my needs.

  I hastily extract myself from those who travel in pairs. Also from any who mention families, friends, or even, in several sad cases, children who await their return with the day’s earnings. For my purposes, I seek loners who will not be missed.

  When I find them, will I also find the nerve to act?

  Yes.

  I must do something.

  I must.

  Soon.

  Soon rhymes with June, and tune, and croon, and moon . . .

  Senseless poems meander through my brain of late, recited by voices only I can hear, accompanied by music to which I find myself humming along.

  I isolate myself wherever possible. I must be careful, lest someone notice that I’m talking to myself and draw the conclusion that I’ve gone mad.

  I have not—of course I have not—and yet the songs and the poems persist:

  By the light of the silvery moon . . .

  Moon . . . tune . . . croon . . . June . . . soon . . .

  Soon.

  Moon.

  This evening, I attempted to banish imaginary words and music with Amy Lowell’s Sword Blade and Poppy Seed collection. But there was no escape. A sliver of waning silvery moon shone through the pane as I read “The Last Quarter of the Moon.” Long after I closed the book and extinguished the lamp, having resigned myself to sweat-dampened sheets in an airless room, these lines buzzed about my head like bloodthirsty mosquitoes, stingers poised to breed endemic disease:

  A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark,

  Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests,

  And the fierce unrests

  I keep as guests

  Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark.

  Hours later, I prowl the house. There is no escaping the smothering heat, or the melody, or the unbearable words, the words . . .

  I must do something.

  Soon.

  June.

  Moon.

  Chapter 14

  Annabelle has given up on sleep. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees that carved granite face resting on Oliver’s pillow, and Oliver is missing.

  Intellectually, she knows he’s safely tucked into his bed on the other side of the wall, yet she can’t seem to shake the uneasiness that’s crept over her. She’d get up and go check on him if she knew he wouldn’t awaken the moment she turned his doorknob.

  Even as a baby, he was a light sleeper, rousing at the slightest hint of movement. The hypervigilance made sense later, after he was diagnosed with GAD.

  Lying awake, listening to the buzz of insects through the screen, she thinks about the stone angel monument. She’d been disappointed that Ora hadn’t been able to shed light on it, and even more disappointed when Lester hadn’t e-mailed back. The trip to the mall and the evening with Kim distracted her, as did sleep, but curiosity has taken hold again.

  The details flit through her mind.

  Z.D.P.

  3/31/04.

  7/7/16.

  Outside, a bird twitters.

  Momentarily, others take up the chorus. The long night is coming to an end.

  She hears creaking on the stairs: Trib coming up to bed.

  Ordinarily, he’s lighter on his feet.

  Much lighter.

  She’d assumed her husband was asleep on the couch, just as she had assumed her son was safely tucked into bed.

  What if you were wrong?

  She breaks into a cold sweat as the heavy footfalls reach the second floor.

  “Trib?” she calls. “Is that you?”

  Noxious dread slinks into the silence that follows, and Lieutenant Colonomos’s words come back to haunt her: You haven’t had any trouble here, have you?

  The footsteps approach the bedroom door.

  Her mouth is too dry to muster a sound, let alone a scream, as the knob turns.

  The door opens. A shadowy human form appears.

  “Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?”

  It’s just Trib.

  Of course. Of course it’s Trib.

  “It didn’t sound like you, coming up the stairs. You usually walk faster.”

  “It’s almost five in the morning, Annabelle. Guess I’m too exhausted for sprints.” His weight sinks into the mattress.

  She closes her eyes, relieved, hoping she can catch a little more sleep. Instead, the puzzle pieces return to drift through her mind.

  Z.D.P.

  3/31/04.

  7/7/16.

  If indeed the second batch of numbers on the statue are a date, and if it refers to July 7, 1916, it makes chilling sense.

  Trib cuts into her speculation. “Why are you awake?”

  “Bad dream.”

  She doesn’t offer to tell him about it, and he doesn’t ask.

  She waits for his silence to become deep, even breathing. But after a few minutes, he’s still lying awake in the dark beside her. She can feel the tension radiating from his body.

  “Trib? What’s wrong?”

  “Hmm?” he asks, as though she’d disturbed him as he was drifting off. But she knows better.

  “You’re stressed.”

  He sighs. “Yeah. Sometimes I feel like it’s just too much.”

  “What is?” As if she doesn’t know. It’s just like she told Kim. Everything. Everything is too much.

  His reply, however, is the opposite: “Nothing. Never mind. Go back to sleep.”

  So he’s not in the mood to talk. That’s all right. Neither is she. She rolls over, away from him, staring into the dark.

  Z.D.P.

  3/31/04.

  7/7/16.

  Ora Abrams, asking, Do you think someone is buried beneath the pool?

  No, Annabelle doesn’t think that . . . does she? Even if she did, who would it be? The Sleeping Beauty whose corpse was found in this house?

  Aunt Etta was at the service when they were buried. They’re all there, in the cemetery.

  All right. Then the stone angel isn’t likely a grave marker. Maybe it has nothing to do with the Sleeping Beauties, and the date isn’t connected with the case. It might not even be a date at all. Maybe the numbers signify something else.

  Oh, come on, like what?

  Ora Abrams, again, echoing in her brain: I wouldn’t mention anything to Lester.

  Well, of course
she wouldn’t. There’s no love lost between Ora and Lester. But when and if he gets back to Annabelle, she’ll use her own judgment.

  Back to the dates.

  Why might 1904 have been relevant to the Purcell family?

  George and Florence had married in 1899. Augusta wasn’t born until 1910—a long stretch of childlessness, in that era. Perhaps they, like Annabelle and Trib, had endured fertility issues. Or maybe they put off parenthood for other reasons.

  What else might have transpired under this roof, in that decade? Floyd had died, the servants had disappeared, and . . .

  It hits her.

  “Trib?” she says softly, pretty certain he’s still awake.

  He doesn’t reply.

  Either he doesn’t feel like talking, or he’s sound asleep, and she shouldn’t wake him. Not for this. Not until she knows for sure.

  She gets out of bed and hurries out of the room.

  Holmes is utterly depleted.

  After leaving Juanita Contreras tucked into the empty bed at 65 Prospect Street, he intended to speed straight home to grab a few hours’ sleep. But here he sits in his SUV, still parked behind the apartment house on the adjacent block, brooding.

  After all that buildup, he’d expected to feel intensely satisfied. Instead, disenchantment has overtaken him.

  “What went wrong?” he asks himself aloud, trying to pinpoint the reason his expectations remain unfulfilled.

  Is it simply that a letdown is inevitable after a year’s worth of painstaking buildup?

  Is it that the family is gone and he knows they won’t wake up any moment now to discover his handiwork?

  Is it because the gaudy turquoise-painted room was wrong, or because the Beauty herself was all wrong, wide-eyed, refusing to sleep?

  “All of the above,” he concludes, staring moodily at the gambrel roof of 65 Prospect Street, barely visible through wisps of fog and dense growth along the property line.

  He drives away, dogged by an intense dissatisfaction and the need to compensate somehow for all that went wrong. But it’s too late. The lunar crescent is fading, and the sun will be up soon—at 5:24, he recalls.

  We’re going to plant flowers next Thursday morning at sunrise . . .

  Hence, the Sunrise Project.