(Moon 1) - Killing Moon

by Rebecca York

  One foot splayed to the side, peeking out from the edge of the sheet, and she could see his toenails, blunt cut across long toes.

  She had no excuse for standing here watching him sleep, yet she remained where she was, looking her fill.

  She'd been in his room several times during the night, drawn by her need to take care of her patient—and by something more, some deeply buried compulsion that she was powerless to describe.

  In the hours after the sun had set, she'd felt an invisible force gathering in the room around them, drawing them to each other on levels that existed below conscious thought.

  Then, afterward, she couldn't be sure that anything had really happened.

  Suddenly she found herself fighting the impulse to wake him and demand that he tell her if he'd felt the same disturbing pull. But she wasn't selfish enough to interrupt his rest. And she wasn't crazy enough to ask about feelings she couldn't articulate—feelings that she might have conjured up from some self-conscious need of her own.

  Perhaps she was simply reacting the same way she had to previous patients—getting involved with them on a level beyond the professional. Getting her emotions mixed up with Marshall's. And the problem was worse than usual because she'd avoided this kind of situation for so long that her nurturing instincts were working overtime.

  She folded her arms across her chest, reassured by rationalizations as she struggled to view her patient with professional detachment.

  He had been sleeping for the past four hours, and he'd barely awakened when she'd changed his bandage again and given him another Keflex. But it seemed to be a normal sleep, not a fevered stupor.

  Sometime during the night he'd dragged himself out of bed, put on a pair of white undershorts, and somehow made it to the bathroom without her help. She knew that because she'd been startled to find the toilet seat up in the morning.

  She couldn't imagine how he'd managed to stagger down the hall—not in his condition. Apparently his determination and his stubbornness were formidable. Which meant he'd probably set his recovery back. The assumption gave her a good excuse for staying. That was better than admitting she was in the grip of a compulsion she couldn't explain—as if leaving had become somehow unthinkable.

  And even if he'd heaved himself out of bed during the night, he wasn't going to be cooking any food. Or driving his car to the pharmacy. He was down to his last caplet, and he needed a lot more to finish the course of the medication.

  Again she walked through the house, this time searching for the telephone she knew he owned, since she'd left a message on his answering machine.

  She didn't find the machine. So he was probably using the phone company's answering service.

  But where the heck was the phone that went with it? All she found was the charger for his portable.

  Finally, she went outside, intending to use the one in her car. But she stopped to look around first, picking up details that she hadn't noticed on her way into the house the day before or in the dark.

  Near the front door and extending along the side walls were natural looking plantings of ferns, violets, and other woodland vegetation that she couldn't identify this early in the season. Interspersed among them were bright blue, yellow, and red primroses, some of the earliest spring flowers. The plants could have grown there by accident, she supposed, but the arrangement was a little too artful to be accidental.

  Apparently Ross Marshall was a talented gardener as well as a private detective. A strange combination. Thinking that the man was full of surprises, she walked around the side of the house, noting the way the garden blended with the edge of the woodland. After staring at it appreciatively for a while, she went back to her car.

  Knowing she was stalling, she clasped her hands and stared at the holder below the dashboard where she kept her portable phone.

  She'd never bothered to get a license to practice medicine in Maryland, so she needed Walter to write Ross a prescription for Keflex. Still, she knew instinctively that telling her boss a lot about Ross would be a mistake. Prevarication wasn't her strong suit. After hesitating for several more moments, she picked up the phone and switched it on.

  The Bio Gen receptionist, Betty Daniels, answered.

  "Can I speak to Walter?"

  "Who's calling, please?" Megan asked.

  "This is Megan Sheridan."

  "Oh, Dr. Sheridan. I'm sorry I didn't recognize your voice. Where are you? We called your house, but nobody answered. We were starting to get worried."

  "I'm fine. I'm with a client."

  "You are? You don't mean the one from yesterday? Ross Marshall?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh, my. What are you still doing there? Was he as… sexy as he sounded over the phone?"

  Megan blinked. For Betty, interjecting that into the conversation was definitely out of character.

  Ignoring the question, she said in a no-nonsense voice, "Mr. Marshall is sick. I've got the situation under control. But I need to speak to Dr. Galveston."

  "Uh, you had a couple of other calls. One from Dr. Stillwell again. He says he needs to talk to you."

  "Oh, shit," she blurted, and immediately wished she'd kept the reaction to herself.

  "What?"

  "Betty, I'm sorry. I don't want what Stillwell's selling."

  "And your sister called."

  "Dory called me at work?"

  Betty made a throat-clearing noise. "She was quite… uh… forceful. She says you owe her a check."

  Megan struggled to control her anger. She wanted to protest that she didn't owe her sister anything. Instead she said, "It's in the mail. You can tell her that if she calls again. And please put me through to Dr. Galveston."

  "Certainly. Just a moment."

  Walter came on the line, his voice querulous. "Megan, where are you?"

  "With that client. Ross Marshall."

  "I thought you went out there yesterday afternoon. What's going on?" he demanded.

  "I did come out here yesterday. He's sick. I stayed to take care of him."

  "That's not your job."

  "Well, if he dies, you won't get a fee out of him."

  "He's dying? What the hell is wrong with him?"

  "He has an infection. He had some leftover Keflex. I gave that to him last night and early this morning. But he needs more."

  "What's he got, some sort of immune deficiency that makes him susceptible to opportunistic infections?"

  That was the last thing she'd ascribe to Ross Marshall, but she hedged. "I don't know. He hasn't been in shape to tell me much."

  "How long are you going to be out there?" Walter demanded.

  Megan closed her eyes, picturing her boss's stormy expression. Walter didn't like surprises, and he wouldn't like having to juggle the workload. Maybe he'd even have to do some of the lab tests himself. Too damn bad.

  "Until tomorrow, at least," she answered.

  "Well, if you're taking care of him like a private duty nurse, charge him at that rate. What is it, fifty dollars an hour? Seventy-five?"

  "Walter…"

  "Either charge him, or come back to town."

  She sighed. "Okay."

  "Okay what?"

  "I'll charge him," she answered grudgingly, knowing that she was lying. It was getting to be a bad habit. "But I can't write a prescription. I need you to order him some more Keflex. He got the last bottle at the Giant Pharmacy in Lisbon," she added, giving Walter the phone number.

  He asked more questions. She answered with evasions. And when she hung up, mission accomplished, she was shaking. Yet she found it impossible to share anything with Walter beyond the bare essentials. She'd been angry when she'd had to drop her work and come out here. Now her feelings had changed, although she wasn't willing to go into the reasons too deeply.

  ROSS listened for the sound of her moving around the house. She'd been in his room earlier and thankfully hadn't come over to put her hands on him again. Now she was gone. He hoped she'd left. He should get up. E
at some meat. But he was too weary to move.

  He dozed, then slipped deeper into sleep. As another dream dug its claws into his mind, a moan rose in his throat.

  When he realized he was back in the terrible summer of his fourteenth year, his whole body began to shake. It was late at night in the room he shared with his brother, sixteen-year-old Michael. A deep fear clogged his chest, making it almost impossible to breathe.

  He and Michael had always been best friends. Troy was older. He'd moved out of the house two years ago. Adam was five years younger—a pest. But he and Michael had stuck together. They'd played cops and robbers. Sat next to each other at the dinner table. Climbed the fence at the rich kids' pool and gone for a midnight swim. Gotten sick trying cigarettes. And run away together—staying in the woods half the night until the Big Bad Wolf had sniffed them out and nipped their flesh all the way home.

  Michael was the one who helped him with his math homework. The one who had kept Thad Stevenson from beating the crap out of him on the way home from school.

  But after tonight they were going to be separated forever—one way or the other.

  Michael's body was making the change from boy to man. And with that change came another demanded of the werewolf species. A demand that could not be denied.

  His time had come. Tomorrow night he was going to the forest alone with Dad for the ancient ceremony. No one else could be there. Michael would say the chant he had learned. And he would transform to a wolf for the first time. Or he would die.

  The scared, sick feeling in Ross's chest threatened to overwhelm him. With every scrap of self-control he could muster, he struggled to keep it from showing in his voice as he and Michael talked long into the night.

  They wouldn't have dared to stay up so late if Dad had been in the house. But he was out, getting money. Stealing money, although nobody was allowed to talk about that secret. But Mom knew. And the boys knew.

  "Are you worried about tomorrow night?" Ross whispered.

  "No."

  Ross didn't believe the emphatic denial. And his stomach clenched painfully when Michael continued, "I've got fifty dollars saved. In the bottom drawer of my dresser. I want you to have it… if, you know…"

  "You're gonna be fine!"

  "I know. I memorized the words and all. And Dad coached me how to…" He swallowed. "How to ride above the pain. But just in case. Don't let Dad get his hands on the money. It's mine. I saved it up."

  "I won't. I promise, Michael. I promise."

  Desperation rose in his soul as he fought the need to climb out of bed, throw his arms around his brother, and hold on tight. But that would have embarrassed both of them, so he stayed where he was, because if he hugged his brother, then he might start to cry. And if Michael could be strong, then he could be, too.

  In the way of dreams, the scene changed. Time compressed. He was standing at the front door in the twilight, feeling small and alone—watching Michael and Dad get into the car, seeing the rigid lines of his brother's face and knowing he was terrified.

  And then, in the blink of an eye, the car was coming back. Not their real car but a long black hearse. Pulling slowly into the driveway.

  Panic stabbed a dozen knives into his chest, choked off his breath.

  Michael. Where was Michael?

  Then his father was standing at the back door, holding Michael's body in his arms.

  His mother was falling to her knees, weeping. And his father was staring at him over Michael's body—telling him with his eyes that it was his turn next.

  WHEN Jack got back to the squad room, most of the reports he'd requested on Ross Marshall were sitting on his desk. The Pi's credit record, his phone company records, his credit card statements. He didn't have cable TV out where he lived in Howard County. Or a satellite dish, for that matter, so he apparently didn't watch much TV. He also didn't have a wife or an ex. Or any children that he acknowledged.

  Ross's credit rating was excellent. He paid his mortgage on time every month, and he owned only the one piece of property—a twenty-four-acre plot off Route 99.

  He kept a minimum credit card balance. Most of his purchases weren't extravagant, except for big orders of expensive meat from a place called Omaha Steaks. Apparently the man liked his beef.

  In the past six months he'd acquired a state-of-the-art digital camera and a pair of expensive binoculars, both of which he undoubtedly used for surveillance. He'd bought ammunition for a .40-caliber gun a couple of months ago. And he had a license to carry a concealed weapon.

  Interestingly, he didn't seem to own many of the other fancy toys Jack had expected a PI to acquire—nightscopes, listening devices, recorders, transponders—unless he'd bought the stuff several years ago. But then why hadn't he updated his equipment, when technology was changing so fast? Either he couldn't afford the newest and best—which the credit report belied—or he'd decided he didn't need all that fancy stuff.

  So how did he come up with his amazing leads? Jack had the sudden image of a comic book superhero endowed with powers beyond those of mortal men. Ross Marshall could make himself invisible at will. Or he could see through walls.

  With a shake of his head, Jack dismissed the absurd notions and shuffled the reports into the folder. Ross was the only lead in a case that had gone cold five years ago. But Jack had done his homework on the PI and couldn't find any evidence of criminal activity.

  So why did he still have the feeling that there was something missing from the picture? Something he could figure out if he fit the pieces of the Ross Marshall puzzle together correctly.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  « ^ »

  BUSINESS CLOTHING WAS an important part of the self-image Megan had created for herself over the years—another proof that she wasn't the "slob" Ray Sheridan had raised. This morning, however, she'd decided she'd look more presentable in her sweat clothes than her rumpled skirt and blouse from the night before.

  But as soon as she stepped into the Giant Food outlet in Lisbon, she felt uncomfortable about appearing in public in sweats.

  At the pharmacy counter, she struggled not to squirm under the clerk's scrutiny.

  "Ross Marshall," the petite redhead behind the counter repeated, looking Megan up and down as she glanced from her to the name on the prescription Walter had called in.

  The redhead flicked a glance at her left hand—which was absent of rings.

  Megan could almost read her thoughts. Who is this woman picking up medicine for Ross Marshall? His girlfriend? A nurse?

  Well, Lisbon was a small town. And Ross Marshall was a good-looking guy. So it wasn't strange that the women around here had noticed him—and would notice a woman who was doing errands for him.

  Still, her relationship with Ross was none of the clerk's business.

  Although words of explanation bubbled at the back of her throat, she kept her lips pressed together as she waited while the woman searched through the box of medications that were ready to be picked up.

  "Does he have an insurance card registered?" the clerk asked.

  "I don't know."

  The woman went to a computer, called up a file. "Yes. He owes a ten-dollar copayment."

  Megan had intended to pay for the antibiotics with a credit card. Instead she pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet and waited for change.

  Stuffing the envelope with the prescription bottle into her purse, she fled into the grocery aisles. She might have left the store at once, but there was hardly any food at Marshall's house. So she grabbed some chicken soup off the shelves, then bought eggs, milk, bread, and a few other staples. Because this was one of those big stores where you could buy almost anything except a hunting rifle, she put a three-pack of panties into her shopping cart and an orange-and-black Baltimore Orioles T-shirt. Then she went back to one of the drugstore aisles and grabbed a toothbrush.

  She didn't have enough cash to pay for the groceries and other purchases. At the checkout counter, she was forced to fork over her
credit card, repressing the urge to look over her shoulder to see if the pharmacy clerk was watching the transaction.

  She was fully aware that she was acting paranoid. And out of character. What did it matter if the clerks at the grocery store knew the name of the woman who had come in to get medicine for Ross Marshall?

  It didn't matter at all—unless her own emotional investment in the man was making her jumpy as a cat on thin ice.

  Maybe it was hormonal, she told herself with a disgusted shake of her head as she clenched her hand around the strap of her purse. It had been a long time since she'd gone out with a man she was attracted to—let alone made love with anyone. That long dry spell had made her susceptible to Ross Marshall, and now she was feeling things that she had told herself could stay on hold until she met the right guy.

  Her mind switched gears again. Did that mean Ross Marshall was the right guy?

  It hardly seemed likely, yet from the moment she'd found him lying on the floor, she'd been on an emotional roller coaster.

  So if the women in the Lisbon Giant Food store were looking at her speculatively, it was really no more speculatively than she was looking at herself.

  Making a rapid exit from the store, she plucked the two bags from her shopping cart and headed for her car.

  It had been sunny when she'd left in the morning. As she got into her car, she saw that heavy gray clouds had begun to gather in the sky. By the time she crossed the bridge leading to the meadow, the atmosphere had darkened, making her feel like the sky was pressing down on her shoulders.

  Braking at the edge of the meadow, she stared at the sign she'd seen the first day. Not the ones that said NO TRESSPASSING. The one that said DÍTHREABH. This time she pulled out her notebook and copied it down.

  Inside, the house was dark. After stopping to turn on a lamp in the great room, she set the bags of groceries in the kitchen, then tiptoed down the hall to her patient's room.