Stalking the Moon

by Angel Leigh McCoy

  “Bye, Jake,” said Corona with a small wave.

  “Bye, Corona.”

  Once he was out of sight, I tore the card in half and left the pieces on the table.

  ♦♦♦

  CHAPTER 25

  The next morning, shortly after breakfast, Detective Hayward stuck his head into my room. “I heard you had another break-down, Miss Rose.”

  I looked up from where I was sorting through my notes on Colin’s disappearance. “You could call it that.”

  I waved him in, and he entered, gaze drifting around as if he were in a museum. He didn’t look at me as he said, “You know, it’s funny, Miss Rose. Most people ask me, first thing, whether I’ve found the killer or not. You’ve never asked me that. Why is that?”

  “Because if you’d figured out what happened, you’d have a less stressed and more smug look on your face.”

  “Good answer.”

  "You've decided they were murders?" I asked.

  "It would seem so. The bruising kind of gives it away." He strolled over to the bedside table. “So, you’ve got everybody convinced you’re nuts, huh?”

  “God, I hope not.”

  “Well, I’m not convinced.” Hayward ran his hand along the metal footboard as he rounded the bed. “Your unhinged act is impressive. One might even say, ‘finely tuned.’ Have you had a chance to make a fuss yet over the pictures of Mr. Aubrey’s body?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I figured that’s why you wanted them—so you had another opportunity to lose your mind.”

  “I haven’t seen them.”

  “I had them delivered yesterday morning to Dr. Reuter. He hasn’t shown them to you? Mm. Probably trying to protect you. If he isn’t your accomplice, then he’s completely bamboozled by you. Personally, I think he’s in love with you, but that’s me.”

  I said nothing.

  Hayward put one hand on the back of my chair and leaned over me. He lowered his voice to a friendly whisper and said, “I know what you’ve been up to, Miss Rose. You may be able to fool everyone else, but you don’t fool me. I see the sanity in your eyes, the cunning. If you’re the one who committed those murders, I’ll prove it. Don’t think for one second that you can hide behind an insanity plea. You’re more transparent than you think.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Save it for your doctor.” He saw the papers on the desk. They were my notes, documenting the hag and its victims, the accident, Nathan, Colin, Doc Bella, and Ajani.

  “Keeping notes for when you write your memoirs from prison?” Hayward smirked and headed for the door. “I’m guessing it’ll end up in the Fantasy section at the bookstore.”

  ♦

  I had to see those photos. If Richard had them, they’d be in his office somewhere. He hadn’t mentioned them during our session the previous day, so I had no faith that he’d show them to me later that afternoon. I decided to hedge my bet.

  I had an idea for how to get him out of the office so I could search, but it was risky, and I needed a helper.

  Richard and I had just entered his office for that afternoon’s session. “I’ve got something I want to show you today,” he said. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable.”

  I got a little zing, a combination of dread and excitement. Was he going to show me the photos after all? “What is it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. I sat in my usual spot on the couch, but it didn’t feel as welcoming as usual. I perched at the edge and clasped my hands to hide their trembling.

  He waited until I was seated, then he picked up a cardboard box just big enough to hold a human head. He carried it over and sat down beside me.

  How many pictures were there? I wondered, eying the box.

  He watched me closely for a moment.

  “Well?” I prompted.

  He opened the box top. Reaching inside with both hands, he said, “I want you to know that you’re safe here. No matter what, you’re safe here.”

  He pulled an urn from inside the box. The cardboard fell to the floor with a hollow bump, landing on its side. I saw the stamp of Dolce Riposa Mortuary on the side.

  To his credit, Richard said nothing else immediately. He just handed me the urn.

  I took it automatically.

  The urn’s brass was cold and smooth. It curved upward and had a sealed lid on top. I held it in front of me and looked at it. There was an engraving. It read:

  Colin Aubrey

  10006593-3667IL

  My face was reflected back at me, distorted by the curve and color of the brass.

  Richard said softly, “This is what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  I held the urn to my chest, hugging it. I didn’t care who or what was in it. It represented my Colin and all the terrible things that had been happening. Besides, I had to make Richard believe my reaction.

  Richard put his arm around me. “It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. We’re going to—”

  A knock on the door interrupted him. He looked up.

  The second knock was more insistent.

  Richard shouted, sounding irritated, “I’m in session.”

  “Dr. Reuter?” It was Corona, right on time.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I’m fine. I’m just going to sit here for a minute.”

  After a brief hesitation, Richard stood, smoothed his jacket sleeves, and walked to the door. He opened it to reveal Corona.

  She looked freaked enough, but not too much. “Dr. Reuter! I just saw Henry Tomkins running down the hall with a black permanent marker.” Henry was one of Richard’s patients, and he had a compulsion for drawing giant penis graffiti.

  “How did he get… Never mind.” Richard shook his head. To me, he said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay,” I replied, casual as pajamas.

  Corona gave me a wink as Richard headed out, leaving the door ajar. She followed him, saying, “He went that way.”

  I set the urn aside. I had a mission, and I couldn’t let anything get in the way of it. I quietly shut the door, and it locked automatically.

  Corona’s distant chatter moved down the hall.

  Richard had no intention of showing me the photos. I knew he had them, and I knew they were the key to solving the mystery. But he didn't know I knew.

  Fingers nervous and clumsy, I went through the papers on the desktop first, looking for an envelope or folder. When that proved fruitless, I started going through drawers. I found a file with my name on it and pulled it out. Inside it, on top, was a document—a Petition for Involuntary Admission—signed by my grandfather. It confirmed what I already knew—that he believed I'd lost my mind and wanted nothing to do with me.

  I was in the process of flipping the page when something caught my eye. I stopped and looked at it more closely.

  The signature at the bottom read “Abram Rose.” It was my grandfather’s usual, prim handwriting, except he never signed his name “Abram.” On legal documents, he always used his full name, “Abraham.”

  I wasn’t sure what it meant, and I didn’t have time to think it through just then, but something turned screwy in my stomach. I folded the paper and stuffed it down the back of my pants.

  The next set of pages was a progress report to Dr. Min, written and signed by Richard.

  Viviane is showing no sign of improvement. Her symptoms have increased in frequency and severity. It’s my conclusion that her psychosis makes her a danger to herself and others, and I recommend that she continue her residence and treatment regimen for another twelve months, after which time, I will perform a reevaluation.

  The report was dated and time-stamped that very morning, after he’d promised, the day before, to work on releasing me.

  He had no intention of letting me go—not then, not ever.

  Pages stapled to the report included a transcript of one of our hypnosis sessions. I recognized it immediately as one from a week or so earlier. I didn’t, however, remember saying that I wa
nted to kill myself. I also didn’t remember saying that I’d hallucinated a visit from my dead grandmother who wanted me to go back to Hell with her and bring my mother along too.

  It was like reading someone else’s therapy—someone much sicker than me, a suicidal, homicidal maniac.

  I took those papers too.

  Shuffling through the rest, I saw no photos, so I put the folder back and kept looking. I pulled out the middle drawer, and there in the center of it was a white envelope addressed to Richard. It had the police logo on it, and it had been opened.

  My hands shook as I pulled the photos out and looked down at them. There were only three. One showed a man lying in a half-zipped body bag at the lakeshore; the other two showed the same man on a coroner’s table.

  The man in the photos had coffee-colored hair and shadowed skin, so different from Colin’s ginger curls and Gaelic pallor as to be immediately discernible.

  It wasn’t Colin.

  Joy and relief swelled inside me, threatening to overflow without restraint. I held the photos to my chest, torn between the urge to shout “Thank you!” to the Heavens and the urge to cry with relief. I landed on a combination of both, tears brimming, my gratitude flowing out in a gush of mumbled thank-yous.

  If Richard had looked at these, then he knew it wasn't Colin.

  I recognized the man in them. His face was swollen and the wrong color, but there was no denying it. The man in the photos was Jaxon Bellonescu. He was dead. Someone had faked my fiancé’s death by putting another man in his place. Suddenly, the false I.D. made sense.

  Out in the hall, Corona said, “I think he might’ve—”

  “I’ll find him later, Corona. Right now, I need to get back to my session with Viviane.”

  I quickly stuffed one of the morgue pictures into my jeans.

  "But wait, Dr. Richard," Corona said quickly.

  "What is it?" Richard asked, right outside the office door.

  I put the other two photos back in the envelope.

  The door’s lock clicked.

  Corona said, "I remember now. He definitely went this way."

  I shut the drawer too fast, catching my finger just at the edge and pinching it. An explosion of pain reverberated into my mind, and I couldn't keep from exclaiming aloud.

  "Don't worry," said Richard. "I'll find him after my session. He can't do too much damage."

  I shook my hand in a failed effort to make it stop hurting and hustled around the desk toward the couch.

  The doorknob started to turn.

  Richard said, "Go on back to your room, Corona," as he pushed the door open.

  By the time he stepped in, I had landed back on the couch. I wiped my eyes of the tears that had come with the pain and held the urn held to my chest.

  Richard made a sympathetic sound as he closed the door behind him.

  Getting through the rest of that session was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. I wasn’t fully successful, but I couldn’t let Richard see that anything was wrong. I had to get out of there with my treasures intact.

  Richard noticed that I was distracted. He had a hard time putting me under hypnosis. I paid close attention to what happened during the session, and it made me less susceptible to suggestion. I had lost all trust in him.

  When the time came for me to go back to my wing, I tried to take the urn with me.

  Richard wouldn’t let me. He pulled it from my arms and set it on the bookshelf by the door, like a trophy. “I’ll keep it here for you. That way, it’ll be safe. You can come see it whenever I’m here.”

  “Him,” I corrected. “See him.”

  “Right. Him.” Richard guided me out into the hall. He checked that the door had locked behind him, something I’d never seen him do before.

  We walked in silence, side-by-side yet separated by a vast new distance. Something had broken. I saw Richard’s manipulation for what it was, and for the first time in my life I didn’t just doubt, I knew he didn't have my best interests at heart. He didn’t respect my wishes. I wished I knew why, but ultimately, it didn’t matter. I had enough evidence safeguarded in my pants to prove my sanity.

  We arrived at the doors to the Women’s Wing. Beyond them, Corona sat at a table and pretended not to be waiting for me.

  Richard pushed the buttons on the keypad to unlock the door.

  I said, “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Reaching for the door handle, Richard replied, “Famous last words.”

  ♦

  Back in my room, Corona and I held hands and jumped for joy.

  She said, over and over, “I knew it!”

  It was easy to say "I told you so" after you found out you were right. The truth was that you'd just been hoping really hard. Pandora opened a box and the last thing to emerge was hope, but a whole shit-ton of nastiness came out first. Despite my joy at learning that Colin was alive, I suspected that some of Pandora’s fallout was waiting for me.

  Simon said, “He’s not out of the woods yet, my little chickadees.”

  We stopped jumping.

  Corona stopped singing her I Knew It song and looked at me.

  I smiled—big.

  Corona grinned back at me.

  “Now, I just have to find him,” I said.

  Simon warned, “You’re going to have to play this carefully.”

  I knew he was right. Richard had no intention of showing me those photos. He knew it wasn’t Colin in them, and yet, he'd said nothing to Detective Hayward. He wanted Colin to stay dead.

  Maybe it was better if he were. Someone bad was looking for him. Nathan was looking for him, but I didn't know whose side he was on.

  “I need to think,” I said, shooing Corona, and presumably Simon, out the door.

  ♦♦♦

  CHAPTER 26

  Late in the afternoon, there was always a lull in activity at the Center. Naps claimed some people. Oprah claimed the rest. I heard the siren call of Oprah’s theme song, and I got up to shut my open door.

  I needed time to figure things out, to think, but then I heard another sound, a ringing in my ears. It was quiet at first, and I stuck my finger in my ear and wiggled it around. The sound didn’t go away. It got louder.

  I put my head out the door and looked up the hallway. No one was there, so I headed toward the keening. The closer I got, the more obvious it was that the sound was coming from Corona’s room.

  I walked faster and then faster until I was running.

  I skidded to a stop at Corona’s door and looked inside.

  The hag stood in a cloud that swirled at her feet. Her skin glistened with rainbows, like rotting meat, and was pulled taut to the bone. Seeing her, I was struck with the urge to vomit—the same urge you get when you find half a worm in your apple. It was the sick realization that your worst fear has already come true.

  The hag had Corona by the throat and was lifting her off the ground.

  Corona’s legs and arms dangled. Her pajamas hung long and covered her hands and feet. A wet stain had spread between her legs, and urine dripped out of her pant-leg onto the floor.

  The hag’s sharp thumbnail cut into Corona’s cheek, drawing blood.

  Corona was a rag doll that had been dragged around one too many times. Her face was lifted toward the ceiling, mouth open, tongue sticking out. Her enormous eyes bulged.

  If only I could have looked away, even blinked, then maybe when I looked back, it would've been gone.

  But I couldn’t.

  The hag turned her head toward me.

  I shouted, “No!” and rushed at the monster. I threw myself at her, clawing and hitting as hard as I could. “Let her go!”

  I didn’t stop until I heard my name.

  Someone shouted, “Viviane!”

  I was breathing hard.

  The hag had released Corona. She crawled up the wall on all fours, until she reached the far corner of the ceiling, watching me with those terrible eyes.

  Someone said, “Viv
iane! C’mon! Let’s go!”

  I dared a glance behind me.

  It was Polly. “I’ve got her!” She had Corona around the waist.

  Corona coughed and gagged. She had thrown up on herself.

  I said, “Get out of here,” and I locked eyes again with the hag. I backed toward the door.

  The hag watched me, a predator gauging its prey, waiting for her chance.

  “Go toward the rec room,” I said. “That’s where everyone is.”

  Corona and Polly moved out into the hallway.

  I kept backing, slowly.

  The hag edged forward. Her stringy muscles stretched and bunched with each inch she reclaimed.

  I bumped into the doorframe and only broke eye-contact for a fraction of a second. That was all it took. The hag launched herself at me.

  I screamed and turned to run. I grabbed the door as I went, pulling it shut behind me. Red-hot pain streaked down the back of my shoulder, and I stumbled.

  Corona and Polly were ahead of me. They stopped to look back.

  “Go!” I hung onto the door, and the hag's nails gouged the back of my hand. I screamed again and let go, but only for a moment. I took hold of the door handle and tugged on it as hard as I could.

  The door slammed on the hag's arm.

  It shrieked, and the arm withdrew inside.

  The door shut completely.

  I ran down the hall, cradling my bleeding, throbbing hand against my chest.

  Corona and Polly hobbled along ahead of me as if in a three-legged race.

  I heard a door open behind us.

  The rec room was in sight. On the television, Oprah was talking about how important “right thought” was to living a healthy life.

  I caught up with Polly and Corona. Corona could barely walk by herself. She was sobbing. Polly was almost carrying her.