MORE THAN THE MOON

by A Rosendale

  “Deal.” With that, Nolan tipped his hat and left the house.

  Alma didn’t step from her hallway hiding spot until the Bronco’s squelching faded. “Tire tread marks?” she demanded anxiously.

  “It’s okay,” Ramsey assured her quickly. “I’ll run the ID, which will turn up as Honda CRV tires, right? Unless I’m mistaken, you still have the factory tires on the car?”

  She nodded nervously.

  “We’ll trade tires from my Explorer to your CRV. Anyone looking will be looking for CRV factory tires on a CRV, not tread-worn Goodyears on a Honda or factory tires on an Explorer.”

  Sighing, Alma nodded her consent.

  * * *

  The three of them trudged back inside at dusk. They were covered in mud and grease from changing car tires. Cooper whistled for Bailey, who came running around the corner of the house more black than golden.

  “Cooper!” Alma chastised. “He’s a disaster! You can’t bring him inside!”

  The boy grabbed his dog before he could run inside. “I…I…” He looked at Ramsey. “Do you have a hose or something?”

  The agent shrugged. He held the front door open and waved inside. “Just put him in the bathtub.”

  Mother and son shot him a stare of disbelief.

  He shrugged again.

  Alma nodded at Cooper and he ushered Bailey through the house. Ramsey locked the door when they were all inside and turned on a living room lamp. He frowned at his guest.

  “What?” she demanded.

  A rare smile cracked his lips. “You’re a mess.”

  “You are, too!” she shot back with a touch of sass.

  He laughed at her defensive tone. “I have extra clothes.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well aren’t you special,” she sneered.

  The attitude only made him laugh harder and he slapped her muddy shoulder. “Here. I’ll loan you a T-shirt and some gym shorts and we can throw those,” he scrunched his nose, “in the wash.”

  Chapter 58

  It was too dark to see. Alma stretched her hands out in front of her, blindly mapping the twilight.

  “Dirk!” she called. “Dirk!” Her voice echoed back to her in the wide, black space, but she continued shouting. “Dirk!”

  It felt like ages that she yelled into the pitch dark.

  “Alma,” a deep, warm voice finally replied.

  Alma’s heart filled and she hurried toward it. “Dirk?”

  “Alma,” the voice said again, this time from a different direction.

  As she stumbled through the void, it sounded again, this time practically in her ear. She reached through the dark, but her hands found nothing but empty air.

  “Alma.” It was quieter now, fading. A weak exhalation of air whispered through the dream.

  Alma flinched awake, confused as to why she couldn’t find her husband. Then everything returned to her and the hope that had filled her in the dream dispersed instantly to be replaced by a painful ache. She swallowed a sob and rolled into a ball around her blanket.

  The hope that Dirk was still alive had slowly faded over the past two weeks. Instead, anger boiled inside her. Above all else, she was furious with Eric Johnson. ‘What kind of human can plot the deaths of thousands? What man can send a minion to kill someone in cold blood?’

  But she found a surprising amount of infuriation directed at Dirk. ‘If he hadn’t hung onto his job so long, maybe Johnson would have ignored him. If he’d focused on our family sooner… If he’d pursued his career in computer programming rather than join the CIA…’ She washed the thoughts away with a wave of guilt. ‘He was doing his job, a job you told him you accepted and supported, just like he always supported you,’ she told herself.

  * * *

  She rose a few hours later and slipped out of the office without waking Cooper. The sun had yet to rise; the forest outside was cast in pre-morning shadows. Heavy with exhaustion and grief, she trudged barefoot through the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. With a hot mug in hand, she curled herself into the single living room chair and stared out the window.

  It had rained during the night. Drips played a muffled staccato beat on the metal drain outside. The scent of the damp pine forest wafted in the open kitchen window. She inhaled it like a diffused vapor, sucking in the calming scent of her childhood.

  * * *

  Ramsey was surprised to find his guest already up. He thought getting up at sunrise was early enough, but she’d beaten him to it.

  “Uh, morning,” he muttered gruffly.

  “Morning,” she whispered. She unfolded herself and followed him to the kitchen.

  He noted the gray T-shirt and red gym shorts he’d loaned her were wrinkled with sleep. ‘Or lack thereof,’ he thought as he took in the dark circles under her eyes.

  “I should change the laundry,” he said.

  “I’ll get it.”

  “You pour the coffee,” he handed her a clean mug from a cabinet, “I’ll get the laundry.”

  She nodded agreement and he crossed the cabin to the dingy, dark laundry room. This is why he’d insisted on undertaking the task; the floor was bare plywood, there were no windows, and the room often had a dank, damp smell he’d not wish on any guest. He opened the Maytag washer and moved several items of boy’s clothing to a GE dryer.

  ‘Crappy government can’t even buy the same brand appliances,’ he thought bitterly, then wondered when his opinion of his employer had sunk so low. He was still thinking when a black bra fell from the bundle of clothes he was moving. The item shocked him momentarily; he’d forgotten women wore these garments. The sight brought back memories of his wife and he suddenly knew exactly when his opinion of the government had dissolved.

  It had been that night in the ER when a trench-coated madman had peppered the hospital staff and patients with automatic gunfire. A doctor, one of three survivors, claimed that Lilly Ramsey, RN, had crawled across the linoleum floor, leaving a smear of dark red blood trailing behind, to scoop a little girl into her arms as life faded from the child’s body. Hospital personnel responding to the massacre had found Lilly still curled around the girl, her own heartbeat still and silent. The shooter was arrested and spending the remainder of his life in prison, with unlimited television and free food.

  Ramsey looked at his hands in the dark laundry room. The black undergarment was wadded in his fists. He quickly stuffed it in the dryer with the rest, started the appliance, and cursed the woman in his kitchen that brought these memories of grief and death in her wake.

  He returned to the table in a dark mood, pulled a steaming mug to him, and tipped the ever-present whiskey into the liquid before glancing at her. He was surprised to find not an ounce of judgment in her eyes at his early alcohol consumption. He offered the bottle to her, but she waved it away.

  They sipped caffeine in silence for a long while. Alma’s tired brain honed in on the drip-drip from the drains and the quiet burbling of the stream. She winced when Ramsey’s voice cut the silence.

  “If you didn’t have the kid, what would you do right now?”

  She glanced at him, but he was staring wholeheartedly at the black liquid. She frowned and turned her gaze on the substance in her own mug. After brief consideration, she said, “I would cross the continent, find Johnson, and do my best to try to kill the bastard.” Her voice was startlingly dark.

  Ramsey took a drink while her words sank in. He faced her finally, his voice equally ominous. “You don’t do your best to try,” he said. “You do your best to just kill him. No trying.”

  Alma set her jaw and nodded once in understanding. “Is that what you did?”

  “To Johnson?”

  She shook her head. “No. The man that killed your wife.” The FBI report was vague at best, at least the amount she’d been able to read before the assassin arrived in the café.

  Ramsey sucked in a tight breath. He’d been writing a report at the office when the call came demanding he report to the hospital imme
diately. By then, Lilly had been moved to the morgue. She was covered in a sheet, but blood from the numerous wounds had seeped through so he knew the pain she’d endured. Another hospital employee filled him in, tears sparkling on her cheeks. At first he’d felt completely and utterly empty, certain he’d go home to find her actually in the kitchen with a cup of tea. Then a blinding rage had filled him to the brim. He kissed Lilly’s cold cheek and hurried from the hospital.

  “I tried to,” he admitted to this strange woman in his kitchen. “I went to the jail and demanded to see him. They took my gun at security, but they had no reason to deny an FBI agent in good standing an audience with the mass-murderer. He was in an interrogation room. The door closed behind me and I…I…” He heaved a sigh and took another gulp of whiskey-rich coffee. “I tried to strangle him and beat him. Another two minutes, I think, and I would have finished him. But the guards hauled me away. And…” He motioned grandly to the dark cabin. “Here we are, in BFE North Dakota. They pitied me enough to let me keep my job, but shoved me away in the darkest, furthest corner of the top shelf of the pantry.”

  The woman met his gaze, but not with pity. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely, but her gaze burned with understanding.

  “Me, too,” he muttered, sipping at the mug.

  The next couple hours of silence were filled with individual mulling. The shuffle of stocking feet accompanied by the click of nails on the hardwood floor announced the arrival of Cooper and Bailey.

  “Mom?” the boy muttered groggily. He wore a white undershirt and boxers and stood in the center of the living room with his hair tousled from sleep.

  “Good morning,” she greeted.

  Ramsey was impressed with how bright she sounded compared to the sinister tone of her voice earlier.

  “Is there breakfast?” he asked with a yawn.

  Alma arched a brow and looked to Ramsey for an answer.

  “Uh…I…I, um…I think I’ve got some instant oatmeal,” he stammered with a wave at the corner cabinet. Breakfast was not a meal he frequently remembered, let alone provided for others.

  Alma stood to get food started, but he got to his feet quickly.

  “I’ve got it.” He started a teakettle to boil while the boy moved to the table with his mom.

  Bailey stared out the back door and gave a low whine.

  “Oh! I’m sorry, boy,” Cooper apologized and opened the sliding door for him to go outside. Once it was closed, he returned to the table. “Mom, why are we here? What are we going to do?”

  Now it was her turn to scramble for an answer. “Um, your dad wanted us to get Agent Ramsey’s help.”

  “Dad’s dead,” the boy said bluntly.

  There was an awkward silence in which Alma stared at her lap, forcing the tears back.

  The dryer dinged from the laundry room and she popped up and disappeared. Ramsey couldn’t help the resentment he felt at her abandonment. He turned to face the cabinets. When he turned back around with three bowls in hand, Cooper was at his elbow.

  “Agent Ramsey, what are we going to do?”

  “Well, uh…” He flapped three packets of instant oatmeal in his hand. “We’re going to eat breakfast… And, um, then, we’ll go to town.”

  “But what about the guy that’s after us? The guy that Mom killed?”

  “Um, well, your mom and I,” he emphasized the words as she passed through the living room, a pile of clothes purposely obscuring her face from his frown, “are going to sit down and make a plan today.”

  “Do you think-”

  The whistling teakettle cut off the question. Ramsey couldn’t remember ever being so thankful for an interruption. By the time he’d stirred steaming water into the oatmeal, Alma had returned dressed in her own clothes.

  “We’re going to town today, Mom,” Cooper told her as they ate. “Why are we going to town, Agent Ramsey?”

  “You can call me Wyatt. I thought you guys would like to get some new clothes and I obviously need some groceries.” He shot a laugh at the empty refrigerator.

  * * *

  Ramsey leaned against the counter while he waited for them to shop. He grinned when he heard Cooper say, “Mom, have you ever seen a JC Penney’s this small?”

  He had to give her props for how she handled the boy’s shopping. He wanted every jersey in the store, but she reminded him they were purchasing practical outfits and steered him toward the jeans.

  While it took her son 45 minutes to pick out and try on two pairs of jeans and four shirts, Alma swept through the women’s section, gathering a couple sweaters, two button up shirts, and two pairs of jeans in less than ten minutes.

  He noted with approval that she paid in cash. Living with a spy for twenty years had worn off on her.

  “Is this what Dad always meant when he talked about a ‘one horse town’?” Cooper asked when they got back in the Explorer.

  Alma and Ramsey laughed.

  “Something like that,” Alma confirmed. “Your dad grew up in a place kind of like this.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I think we drove through his hometown in Montana.”

  “You didn’t tell me?” He sounded hurt.

  “You were asleep, Coop,” she defended.

  Ramsey watched him cross his arms in the backseat and pout.

  “So, groceries,” Ramsey said as he parked outside the market.

  “You’re not used to shopping for more than yourself,” Alma guessed with a slight grin.

  He shrugged as confirmation.

  “We’ll split our forces. You get what you would normally get and we’ll shop for meals. Hopefully, we won’t be in your hair for long.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Once inside, he went directly to the coffee aisle. His detest of Folgers and other mainstream brands stemmed from a lifetime of appreciating quality coffee with his wife. After a long moment of perusal, he reached for a bag of Seattle coffee on the bottom shelf. The motion of standing back up made him dizzy and he stumbled.

  ‘I’ve got to stop drinking in the morning,’ he thought lamely as he righted himself and started to the oatmeal aisle.

  He was waiting at the register while Alma and Cooper combed the store. Whereas he was certain she would be fine with the bare necessities, he noticed she was making a concentrated effort to gather all of the child’s favorite foods. The owner of the grocery store appeared at Ramsey’s side where he leaned against a closed register.

  “Hot piece you’ve got there, Fed,” he said with the accent of the region.

  Ramsey looked at him in confusion, then followed his gaze to Alma navigating a shopping cart with Cooper by her side.

  “No, no,” he corrected hurriedly.

  “Oh. Then she’s on the market?” The man laughed heartily. “Get it!? On the market? We’re in the-”

  “I got it,” Ramsey assured him. “And no, she’s not on the market.” He couldn’t account for the sudden rise of anger the notion initiated.

  The owner, Walt, gave him a look of confusion.

  “That’s my niece,” Ramsey lied. “Keep your paws off.” With that, he pushed away from the register and crossed to join his ‘niece’ and ‘great-nephew’.

  “Everything okay?” Alma asked at his sudden appearance.

  Ramsey forced a chuckled. “Sure. Just some locals with some fanciful ideas.” He noted her quick, knowing glance towards Walt, who was watching her with a glint in his eye.

  “Thank you,” she muttered quietly.

  She allowed Cooper one more item, a sugary box of cereal, before ushering them to the checkout.

  Chapter 59

  The three of them put away groceries in an awkward silence. Bailey lay in the center of the living room, his head on his paws, his eyes shifting to follow their movements. Ramsey put a fresh bottle of whiskey in the cabinet, then glanced at the dog’s accusing eyes with a guilty scowl.

  When they were done, Cooper filled a bowl with Fruit Loops and disappeared
into the office with a book and the dog.

  “Well?” Alma said, at a loss what to do next. She leaned back against the counter in a Dirk-like gesture.

  “Um, well, I’d like to read those notes you said Travers left, get a sense for what he was thinking.”

  She nodded and disappeared into the office. While she was gone, Ramsey crossed the kitchen and reached for the bottle of whiskey, then stilled his hand. He needed a clear head to read the CIA agent’s notes. By the time Alma returned, he was seated at the table.

  She set the book down tenderly and slid it towards him.

  “Do you have any family you can stay with, Mrs. Travers?” Ramsey asked off-hand as he opened the cover.

  Alma frowned and shook her head. “It’s Alma. And no. Johnson…” Shaking her head again, she flipped to a middle section of the book. “All of our family is dead,” she finished in a whisper and tapped the page.

  He read the looping, elegant writing.

  Dr. William Decker: killed aboard his vessel, the Pretty Lady, Friday Harbor, Washington. Bloodstain analysis confirms Dr. Decker’s ID. Hypothesis: vessel boarded before storm, probably under duress, victim tortured and killed in cabin, body disposed in open water, explosion caused by external gas barrels, grounded in Makah Bay. Suspect: E. Johnson.

  Dr. Ava Decker: killed in household fire, Friday Harbor, Washington. Mysterious visitors preceding. Dog missing. Stranger encountered outside house. Suspect planting of incendiary device. Explosion. Suspect: E. Johnson.

  Sara Travers: crushed by forklift. Coincidence?

  In the margin near Dr. William Decker’s name and description, he made out minute blue scribbling that said, “Confirmed: E.J. orchestrated W.D.’s death, confession, D.C.”

  Ramsey looked over at Alma. “These are family?”

  “My mother and father and Dirk’s mom.”

  He was at a loss. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Her jaw clenched and she stared fixedly at the scuffed table.

  After a long silence, he said, “Dr. Decker and Dr. Decker, huh? Family of doctors?”

  “Scientists,” she corrected. “Through and through.” When he looked at her in confusion, she added, “I’m Dr. Alma Decker-Travers.”