Thunder Moon

by Lori Handeland

  Although she was probably only five years my junior, Sharon seemed very young to me. Probably because I’d never dreamed about anything the way Sharon did. Not my future, not boys, and certainly not men. I’d learned early and often that men were not very dream worthy.

  “You mean Mal?” I asked.

  “Mmmm.” The girl actually licked her lips.

  I had to resist the urge to laugh in her face. Malachi was way too old for her—by about two hundred years. Not to mention he was totally, hopelessly, in love with his wife. From the moment Mal had seen Claire, and vice versa, there’d never been anyone else for either one of them.

  A prickle of jealousy burned just below my breastbone. I was happy for Claire. She deserved some joy in her life, as did Malachi. But I’d never realized how lonely I was until Claire had come back and then gotten married. I wanted what she had so badly I ached with it.

  Out on the street the sun shone with the wattage of a nuclear blast. I slid my sunglasses from the pocket of my uniform and onto my nose. No pain. God, that balm was good.

  I hadn’t gone half a block when an ambulance wailed down Center Street, pausing at a small white house only a few paces ahead of me. The paramedics jumped out and ran inside. There was no way I could walk past and not stop to see what was wrong.

  Marion Garsdale appeared to have fallen asleep on her couch. It wasn’t until I got closer that I saw she was dead. I should have figured it out from the sudden lack of hustle on the part of the paramedics.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  They glanced up—two young men who appeared just out of high school, although they had to have had some training for this job and could not therefore be “just” out.

  “Sheriff.” The dark-haired one, who must be at least a quarter Cherokee, straightened.

  He was someone’s kid; I just couldn’t recall whose. My dad had always known everyone’s name, their children’s names, and their children’s children’s names, as well as their dogs’.

  “She was gone when we got here.”

  He seemed a little nervous, as if afraid I’d blame him for something. But what?

  I stared down at the face of Ms. Garsdale. Her eyes wide open, her mouth had frozen in an equally wide o of shock. I guess no one is really ready to go, despite any hopes to the contrary.

  Ms. Garsdale had once taught English at the high school. Though she seemed like a caricature of an English teacher with her white hair, flowered print dress, and thick glasses on her thin nose, she had in fact been quite the hippie.

  Her hair, when unbound, reached to her waist. The flower print dress had once been the height of fashion—a seventies maxi—and her glasses, while thick, were still the same granny frames that had once been popular in her days at Berkeley. I’d always liked her.

  “I thought dead people were supposed to be peaceful,” the dark-haired kid said.

  He was paler than he’d been before. His blond sidekick appeared more green than white.

  “First one?” I asked.

  “We’ve been on calls before, Sheriff,” the Cherokee boy said.

  “I’m sure you have, but no one’s been dead, have they?”

  Both shook their heads so frantically their moppy haircuts flew over their eyes. Why did every kid want to look like a greasy, grimy rock star? I didn’t see the appeal. But I wasn’t a seventeen-year-old girl any longer. Thank God.

  “What’s the procedure for a death?”

  “We need to have a doctor pronounce her.”

  “Here?”

  “No. We take her to the hospital. Then she’ll be DOA.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to have someone pronounce her at the scene?”

  “We’d have to call a doctor and wait for one to show. That’s not a good idea, especially when a lot of times the families are watching and wailing.”

  “Speaking of—” I glanced around the empty house. “Who called you?”

  The blond kid found his voice. “Neighbor. Said she heard shrieking last night but thought it was the wind from the storm. This morning Ms. Garsdale didn’t show for coffee like she usually does, and when the neighbor knocked, no one answered, so she used her key and—” He spread his hands.

  “The neighbor said she heard shrieking?”

  Blondie nodded.

  I stared at Ms. G. She’d never been the shrieking type, and if she’d died while reclining on her couch, what was there to shriek about?

  “Which neighbor? North or south?”

  “North,” the two said as one.

  “Don’t move her. In fact, don’t touch anything. Go back to your ambulance and play games on your cell phones until I tell you to do otherwise.”

  Their eyes widened, but they did as I ordered.

  I recognized the woman next door immediately. “Ms. Champion,” I greeted. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  Without a word, she opened the door wider and stepped back.

  Ms. Champion and Ms. Garsdale had been friends forever. They’d met at Berkeley and taken jobs in Lake Bluff the same year. Ms. C. had taught music. Since they’d never married and they’d bought houses right next to each other, a lot of gossips whispered the L word.

  I suspected if neither Claire nor I had married, the same would have been whispered about us in a few years. Such was the way of things in small towns. I wouldn’t have cared, and I never noticed that Ms. C. or Ms. G. did, either.

  Ms. Champion motioned me to a seat on her couch. She took a chair on the other side of the coffee table. She still wore her robe and slippers. Her hair was as short as Ms. G.’s was long and as black as Ms. G.’s was white.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Ms. C. seemed shaken, and I couldn’t blame her. The average Josephine didn’t often see dead people.

  “She never came over this morning. I figured she’d overslept, so I went to her.”

  “Did she often oversleep?”

  Ms. C. nodded. “She’d stay up late and watch shows, then fall asleep on her couch.”

  Which appeared to be what had happened, except— “Did you turn off the TV?”

  Ms. C.’s bright blue eyes jerked to mine and she frowned. “No. It wasn’t on.”

  “You heard something last night?”

  Her frown deepened. “Terrible shrieking. Like something was dying right outside my house. I had to put my hands over my ears, it was so awful.”

  Bing!

  If I were a cartoon, there’d be a lightbulb blinking over my head. The shower of sparks, the horrible sound, the fire that wasn’t.

  “What time was this?”

  “I’m not sure. My electricity was out.”

  Which could explain Ms. G.’s turned-off TV.

  “Probably three a.m. or thereabouts,” Ms. C. continued.

  Which was a lot later than I’d heard the sound, but who was to say Ms. C. could remember the day of the week, let alone what time it had been when she’d heard something in the middle of a storm without benefit of a clock?

  “You didn’t think the shrieking might be coming from Ms. G.’s place?”

  “Marion never raised her voice.”

  I didn’t want to point out that she might have if she was being attacked. Why upset the woman any more than she was already?

  “The door was locked when you got there?”

  “Of course.” She straightened, appearing concerned. “Not that Lake Bluff isn’t safe, Grace. I mean Sheriff.”

  I waved my hand to indicate she didn’t need to use my title. Ms. C. had been around since long before I wore diapers, let alone a sheriff’s uniform.

  “Okay, thanks.” I stood, held out my hand, and she took it. But instead of shaking, she sandwiched mine between both of hers. Her skin was paper-thin, soft, and mapped with roads of blue.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’d resigned myself to losing her soon.”

  “Why?”

  “When she had the diagnosis, I was upset, but I had time to make
my peace.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Marion had congestive heart failure. The doctors didn’t give her long, although she’d been doing so well... She spread her hands. “I’m glad she went in her own home in relative peace.”

  There went whatever theory I’d had about the shrieking being connected to some unidentifiable monster that was killing little old ladies.

  I returned to Ms. G.’s house. Just to cover all my bases, I walked around the yard, and didn’t find a single track. Big shock with all the rain. Then I checked every window—locked, with no sign of forced entry—and I did the same for the doors. Beyond Ms. G. being dead, nothing was out of place—neither outside nor in.

  I should have been happy that she’d gone to her reward without any help, but I had a funny feeling, and I’d learned long ago that my funny feelings were often premonitions.

  Chapter 7

  Back at Ms. G’s I discovered Ian Walker bending over the corpse as the two baby paramedics looked on.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded, even though his stethoscope made it fairly obvious.

  “Pronouncing her,” he said. “Now she can go directly to the funeral home instead of making a detour to the hospital.”

  I scowled at the boys. “What did I tell you?”

  “But he’s a doctor,” Blondie said.

  “I’m the sheriff. What I say wins.” I cast Walker a quick glance, but he was still messing with Ms. G. “The jury’s still out on if he’s really a doctor.”

  That made him glance up, but instead of being angry or even annoyed, he appeared amused. “Oh, I’m a doctor all right.”

  “I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”

  “Sheriff, I’m sure you’ve checked my credentials, or had one of your underlings do it. If you don’t have my info yet, you will soon. If I’m lying, you’ll arrest me. Since I’ve got better things to do than sit in a cell, believe me when I say I have a medical license and I know how to use it.”

  “Just because you were certified as a doctor in Oklahoma doesn’t make you one here.”

  “I’m a doctor everywhere, regardless of if I’m licensed in that particular state or not.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not licensed?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  I’d had enough. Not only was the scent of him reminding me of the kiss we’d shared, but it also made me want to kiss him all over again.

  “You two go play cell phone.” I jerked my thumb toward the door, and the kids left.

  I had a shoulder mike, which would raise Cal quickly, but what I had to ask him I didn’t want everyone else to hear, so I yanked my own cell phone off my belt, and seconds later my deputy answered.

  “I don’t suppose you checked those credentials yet?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “Top of his class at both places.”

  “His license to practice in Georgia?”

  “Funny you should ask.”

  I scowled at Walker, but he didn’t appear concerned.

  “He’s got one.”

  “Why would that be funny?”

  “His application was scooted through damn quick. He must have friends in high places.”

  “Terrific,” I muttered.

  “Why are you so interested in his license and credentials?”

  “He’s running around town pronouncing people. Wanted to make sure he was legal before I let him sign any death certificates.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Ms. G.”

  “I liked her.”

  “Me, too.” I disconnected, then contemplated Walker. “You’re good.”

  I heard the words an instant too late and wanted to snatch them back before he made some sexual innuendo. But Walker wasn’t the type. He merely contemplated me with an expression that said, Told you so.

  “How did Ms. G. die?” I asked.

  “I can’t say for certain without an autopsy, but if I had to make a guess, I’d say it was her heart. Did she have a history of problems with it?”

  He was good.

  “Congestive heart failure, or so her friend next door told me.”

  He sighed as if I’d said something he expected but didn’t much like. “That would explain it.”

  “What about her face? She looks ... scared.”

  Ms. G. had died at home in a way she’d been warned she might, yet her expression said otherwise, and that made all my nerve endings hum.

  “She was alone,” he said. “Probably in pain; she could have gone into shock. No matter how prepared we might think we are, when the time comes, we aren’t.”

  Walker brushed his hand over Ms. G.’s eyes and chanted a short chant in Cherokee. When he turned, his face appeared drawn. But why would he be upset over the death of an elderly woman who’d lived a full life, one he hadn’t even known when she was alive?

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He rubbed his forehead. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You seem upset.”

  “Death pisses me off.”

  “You can’t win them all, especially when you weren’t even her doctor.”

  “I know. It’s just—” He shrugged.

  Walker was a mystery. He seemed to mourn Ms. G.’s passing with a sorrow that mirrored my own. Although I was no longer completely suspicious of him, I was totally curious.

  “What did you say?” I waved at Ms. G. “The chant?”

  “The Cherokee equivalent of last rites.”

  “She’s not Cherokee.” Or Catholic.

  “Doesn’t matter. I told her spirit to go to Usunhi’yi.”

  “Translation?”

  His lips curved, reminding me of how they’d tasted on mine. “The Darkening Land in the West.”

  “Where the spirits go after death.”

  “You do know something.”

  My eyes narrowed. “There’s no need to get snotty.”

  “You can, but I can’t?”

  “Now you’re catching on. Why would you send a little old white lady’s spirit to the Darkening Land?”

  “You don’t want her hanging around here, do you?”

  I snorted, and his head tilted, making the eagle feather swing free.

  “You don’t believe spirits can come back from Tsusgina’i?

  “Hard to say when I don’t know what Tsusgina’i is.”

  “The ghost country.”

  Something in my expression must have revealed my skepticism.

  “You don’t believe in Heaven? No Hell below us, above us only sky?”

  “A John Lennon fan,” I murmured. “Imagine. You have a lot of strange beliefs for a man of science.”

  “And you have a strange lack of belief for a descendant of Rose Scott.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe in Heaven, even though I’ve seen no evidence of it.”

  “Belief in something for which there’s no evidence is called faith, Sheriff.”

  “So I hear.”

  I did believe in things I had no proof of. Werewolves, for instance.

  Chapter 8

  I finally made it to the Cartwrights’ around noon. The day, as usual, got away from me.

  I tapped on the front door, unwilling to ring the bell for fear I’d wake Noah from his nap. Then I heard voices in the backyard, so I skirted the wide veranda and found Malachi pushing Noah in his red plastic baby swing. For a minute I just stood at the corner of the house and watched.

  Mal had the dark hair, dark eyes, and bronzed skin of his Gypsy heritage. Combined with the brogue of Ireland, a place he’d once called home, he’d been a lethal combination of looks, charm, and danger. Claire hadn’t stood a chance.

  He’d come to town searching for a way to break a curse of immortality and found it in her. He’d also found love and a family.

  Since last summer, Mal had cut his hair and removed the earring from his ear, but he still stood out as a stranger in Lake Bluff,
though folks had accepted him for Claire’s sake.

  My gaze turned to Noah. The kid was only two months old; I don’t know why I had such an incredible crush on him. Could be because he was too young to run out on me.

  Today a tiny Braves baseball cap covered his bright red hair. His blue eyes were scrunched up as he did his best to keep his gaze focused on his father’s face.

  “Will ye be fallin’ asleep soon, son? You’ve worn me out, and the day’s not half yet gone.”

  The light shone so brightly it hurt my eyes, typical of the day after a horrific storm. It was almost as if the sun had to prove itself stronger than the wind and the rain and the moon.

  “I can take over,” I said.

  Noah kicked his bare feet at the sound of my voice and gurgled. Mal didn’t even turn around. He’d been aware I was there from the moment I’d set foot on their front walk. In truth, he’d probably known I was coming for a visit before I did.

  In the Gypsy tradition only the women had the gift of sight; however, Mal had a few gifts of his own. According to him, those who possessed the pure blood of the Rom—the name the Gypsies called themselves— were magic.

  I’d witnessed a few parlor tricks—appearing and disappearing coins—as well as a near-supernatural ability with animals and, according to Claire, a very convincing knowledge of things yet to come.

  I took Mal’s place behind the swing. Noah’s eyes followed me, and he kicked harder as I got closer. His father sat in the grass and stretched out with his hands behind his head.

  Mal and I hadn’t gotten on at first; I’d known he was up to something. But in the end, he’d sacrificed everything for Claire, earning not only my thanks but also my friendship.

  “I heard you saw a wolf last night,” he said.

  “I’m not sure what I saw. Any tingles on your end?”

  “I haven’t had a vision, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

  “I don’t know what I’m asking. Claire tells me you know things. I’ve seen how you are with animals.” I shrugged, then gave Noah another soft push. His head was beginning to sag against the headrest. Nap time would soon be at hand. I could use a nap myself.

  “I’ve had dreams that come true, but I’ve had just as many dreams that didn’t. Since I stopped living as a Gypsy, the ability’s fading.” He held out his hands as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I dinna mind. The magic for me now is in Noah and Claire.”