(Moon 2) - Edge of the Moon

by Rebecca York

  After returning the captain's thanks, Jack rocked back in his chair. "Sounds like he's joined the team."

  Kathryn seesawed the wand in her hand. "Want to tell him about the demon?"

  Jack laughed. "Sure! Just when he's acting like we're not insane. Let's see if we can feed him some more information." He switched to a web site with various makes and models of automobiles.

  "We already know he's got an '88 Crown Victoria."

  "How did you know that?"

  "I'm a cop. I know cars. So let's figure out the one you saw at Sugarloaf and across your driveway. What was the shape?"

  "Angular. With a strange kind of projection at the rear window. Something unusual."

  "Speaking of the rear—how many taillights? Three—or just two?"

  She answered quickly. "Three."

  "Then it's a newer model—after the upper taillight law came into effect."

  He brought up another web page with premium models, and they began paging through the pictures.

  SIMON clenched and unclenched his fists. He had missed his chance to kill the woman while she was in the dream. The demon had woken her up. With fire.

  He'd felt the heat. Heard her gasps of pain. That was something, anyway. The demon didn't mind hurting her. The damn thing was getting desperate. Driving Reynolds and Thornton to the limit. Maybe the creature would make a mistake and kill them.

  Simon chuckled. That would be a nice irony. The demon was flailing around in its death gasp—and it didn't care whom it hurt. Even the man and woman it had chosen to save its miserable hide.

  He felt a tug on his consciousness, and the focus of his thoughts quickly changed.

  For a moment, a picture of his own face floated in his mind. Not a photograph. A drawing—that looked like it could have come from a computer.

  Reynolds and Thornton had worked up his image. And not just one drawing—two. Himself as he looked now. And himself as the old man.

  As he stared at the two images in his mind's eye—so real, so accurate—he felt his heart blocking his windpipe.

  He'd been careful with his disguises. But he'd made a mistake at the hospital. He'd figured nobody was going to identify him. So he'd only relied on the mustache and the wig.

  Christ! They'd nailed him.

  The walls of the library seemed to close in around him, and he took several breaths, then crossed to the window and flung it open.

  He stood staring out at the woods in back of his house. He'd thought he had time to plan his attack.

  And now he was going to have to move fast. Very fast. Not just with magic ceremonies. With modern technology.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  « ^ »

  HE SAT FOR a long time, sending his thoughts toward the man and woman in the small, rustic bedroom.

  A cabin in the woods. About an hour away, he guessed.

  He smiled, thinking that the connection was growing stronger—thanks to the demon. The creature had thought it was so clever, sending their image to screw up his concentration the night he'd used Heather DeYoung in the ceremony.

  But it worked both ways. He could watch them easily now. They had finished with the composite drawing. And they were looking at pictures of cars.

  He cursed again. They had looked at the Ford the old man had driven. They had the make and model.

  He gritted his teeth, ordering himself to think this through. He was so close to success. One more ceremony, that was all he needed. The demon was weak. It couldn't hold out against another direct attack.

  He looked around the library. He loved this room. Loved the house he had decorated to his own specifications.

  Was it time to leave? Yes, he'd better go to one of his other residences. For now. When he had all the power a man might need, he would come back and reclaim his rightful place.

  But first he had some things to do.

  JACK brought up some pictures of Acuras.

  "Any of those look familiar?"

  She peered at the shapes. "I don't think so."

  They went on to Mercedes-Benzes.

  She leaned forward, peering at the screen. "Not that."

  When he brought up Saabs from the early '90s, she gasped. "Yes!"

  "It's got the strange projection over the back window, all right. And there's nothing else quite like it. I should have thought of it myself."

  He was typing in another web address. It turned out to be the Department of Motor Vehicles. After giving his police authorization, he waited for a menu to appear.

  First he went into the database of vehicle registrations. In the state of Maryland, there were only eight men who owned all of the cars in question—an early '90s Saab, an '88 Ford Crown Victoria, and a van.

  Jack marked their names, then went to the register of licensed drivers.

  Kathryn watched, her heart pounding, as he brought up the driver's license of the first guy, James Butter-worth.

  They stared at the picture. Butterworth was a sixty-year-old black man. Definitely the wrong guy.

  They went on to Timothy Folger. He was white. But he had close-cropped red hair and had gotten his license only two years earlier—as soon as he was of legal age.

  "Simon Gwynn." Jack read the next name on the list, then brought up the picture on his driver's license.

  Kathryn gasped as she stared at the color picture. "That's him. Without the wig and the mustache or the old-man makeup."

  Jack let out the breath he must have been holding. "One and the same."

  They looked at each other, and she felt the sense of triumph bubbling between them. He jumped up, picked up his cell phone from the table, and pressed the activation button.

  "You're calling Granger?"

  "Yes." He punched in the number, then waited, tapping his foot. When the captain came on the line, he said, "I've identified the bastard through his car registration and driver's license." He walked back to the computer screen. "His name is Simon Gwynn. He lives at 2935 Tilbury Way. A pretty swanky address."

  In response to something Granger said, he answered, "Then bring him in for questioning. Kathryn and I will come down there and identify him as the guy who tried to inject the insulin into my IV line."

  He hung up, turned to her. "Granger is sending Culligan and two uniformed officers to bring him in."

  "So we're going back to Rockville?"

  "Let's wait until we hear from the captain." He looked at the phone in his hand. "I want to stay out here where Black—uh—Gwynn won't be looking for us, and I want to see how the kids are doing at Ross's."

  He punched in another number, and the phone was answered almost immediately.

  "So how is everything going?" Jack asked.

  She saw him grin, then listen some more. "We may be able to pick them up tomorrow. But don't say anything yet. I'd like to talk to Craig and Lily, if they're not too busy."

  She smiled as he spoke to each of his children in turn. It was obvious that the kids still needed reassuring. And Jack told them that he'd be seeing them soon.

  When he had completed the call, he looked better than she'd ever seen him. More at ease. "When Granger picks up Gwynn, he'll call us." He looked at his cell phone. "There's no reason why we can't go out for something to eat."

  "Okay," she agreed, when what she really wanted to do was stay here, holed up with him. "Do you want to shower first?" she asked.

  "Yeah. But you're going to have to help me in and out of my shirt—and sling."

  "I don't mind."

  In fact, she enjoyed the intimacy of being close to him, helping him with simple, everyday tasks.

  Then she took her own quick shower. They stopped at the office, where the manager recommended an old inn up the road, where they could go dressed in the casual clothes they'd brought.

  The restaurant was charming, with log walls that contrasted nicely with crisp white linen. The waitress found them a table in the corner by a fireplace.

  The crisis was over, and she wanted to talk about w
hat might happen between them now. But they were both worn out, and she didn't want to put any pressure on him. So they were mostly silent, except when she asked about his shoulder. Or when they discussed what food to order.

  They had finished an excellent bruschetta appetizer when his cell phone rang.

  With a look of anticipation, he answered. She watched his expression quickly change—heard his low curse.

  "Shit!"

  Every muscle in her body tensed. From what she could hear of the conversation, she gathered that Gwynn hadn't been home when the cops had arrived.

  Jack hung up and took a swallow of the red wine they'd splurged on.

  "I guess the celebration was a little premature," he said.

  "What happened?"

  "Gwynn skipped out on us."

  "Because we chased him out of the hospital?"

  "Maybe. All the cars we identified were in the garage. Granger went back to his DMV record. It turns out that he also owns a Dodge SUV and a Mustang. He's in the SUV."

  "Strange he didn't take it to Sugarloaf," she mused.

  "I guess he wanted to travel in style when he was going up there to bury bodies."

  "Have they dug up the graves?"

  "The Frederick County cops have excavated two of the sites that Ross and I marked. There are three more."

  Their meal came, and Kathryn was sorry she'd asked about the burial ground. The chicken cacciatore that had sounded so wonderful tasted like paste.

  Silently they picked at their food. Then Jack pushed back his chair. "I can't eat any more. But you go ahead."

  "That's okay. I can't either."

  Outside, they paused in the garden, and she looked around. The feeling of being watched was strong, and she drew closer to Jack.

  "What?"

  "I just feel… spooked."

  They drove slowly around the parking lot. There was no Dodge SUV. And no person who looked remotely like the old man or the real Simon Gwynn—which proved nothing, of course.

  Still, it was hard to wipe away the dread hanging over her.

  "You think he's looking for us?"

  "That would be a logical assumption."

  "Do you feel like we're being watched?" she whispered.

  "Yeah. But not necessarily by Gwynn."

  She felt the hairs on her arms prickle. "The demon?"

  "I was hoping that if the police picked up Gwynn, he'd leave us alone. Now I have to assume he's still around."

  "We haven't seen him recently."

  Jack shrugged. "You mean since he set you on fire in that last dream?"

  She made a low sound. "Right, since then. I've felt like he wasn't in this world. Maybe he can't stay here for long periods of time."

  "Maybe."

  They rode silently back to the cabin, where she watched Jack set his gun and his phone on the table, then settle down in front of the computer. "You sleep for a couple of hours," he said. "I'm going to see what else I can find out about Simon Gwynn."

  He was right; they had to take turns sleeping. So she crawled under the covers, conscious of the scent of lovemaking. She glanced over at him. For almost an hour he'd been happy and relaxed. Now his face was as grim as she'd ever seen it. It hurt to look at him, so she rolled onto her side and pulled the covers up to her chin.

  This time, there was no interference with her sleep. As she drifted off, her last thought was that she was being given a precious gift.

  It was dark, with the only light coming from the cracked bathroom door when Jack gently shook her shoulder. She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

  "I hate to wake you."

  "It's okay." She turned her face, kissed his cheek.

  His hand came up to stroke through her hair. "I was going to let you sleep all night. Then I figured I'd better get some rest."

  "Yes. You need to sleep, too." She wanted to lie beside him. Just hold him while he slept. But she knew that was too dangerous.

  So she climbed out of bed and forced the conversation back to business. "What else did you find out about Gwynn?"

  He eased under the covers. "As far as I can figure out, the name is an alias he adopted six years ago."

  "Oh."

  "I have no idea what his real name is. Probably he's used other names, too."

  She nodded, still standing beside the bed, looking down at the man she loved.

  His next words were hardly romantic. "The gun and the phone are on the table."

  "Yes. Thanks."

  He lay back and closed his eyes. She carried the weapon into the bathroom while she used the facilities. By the time she came back to the bedroom, it looked like Jack was already asleep.

  After switching on the lamp, she picked up the book that he'd been reading earlier, The Portal to Another Universe.

  It was hard going—full of convoluted sentences. The best she could do was thumb through it, picking up various bits of information.

  "The magic circle was a bastion, its protection paramount, a girdle of tutelage against the cosmic forces which waited in the ether to overwhelm him and tear him asunder. There were yet forces which might leap the moat and challenge him."

  She shook her head as she tried to work her way through that. Was it English? Sort of. But she could translate it into clearer terms: The magician protects himself within a magic circle, yet the circle doesn't offer absolute protection.

  She set the book on the table, got up, and walked restlessly around the room. But she was drawn back to the volume. Opening it to another section, she read:

  "The magician must make his bargain with the forces of the universe in a bubble of utter and serene calm. He must subjugate all external abstractedness to his will. Distraction from his purpose is the fatal flaw in the attainment of his goal through magic agency, and may lead to the disharmony of all he strives to achieve."

  Okay—so that seemed to be saying that the magician had to concentrate fully to make his ceremony work.

  She wanted to get up and pace again. Instead, she stayed with the book. Despite the convoluted language, she was gaining some understanding by reading it.

  A passage caught her eye, and she felt her breath go shallow. "The sacrificial victims are of two discrete modes. One is passive—rendered unconscious by the magician. That is the way of safety. But the victim's consciousness is the bolder stroke, for the terror of the one to be sacrificed is a powerful enhancement to the working of the spell."

  She shuddered. That was pretty clear. You could have your sacrifice unconscious—or awake. Awake was better, because then you could use her fear as part of the ceremony. The downside was that you'd have trouble controlling her.

  She felt nausea rise in her throat, trying to picture what kind of person would want to follow this advice. She huddled in the chair, fighting the feeling that someone was watching her. Her and Jack.

  Around the edges of the curtains, gray dawn was filtering into the room. But there were still dark shadows gathered in the corners. She kept turning her head quickly, her gaze probing those corners and the line where the ceiling met the wall. The notion came into her head that the demon was here—that it had been reading over her shoulder. Or, even more spooky, that it had been picking the passages it wanted her to know about.

  She struggled to release the claws of fear jabbing at her. All along Jack had felt some outside force was using him—them. And he'd been right. The thing had burned her. Terrified her. But it had also saved Jack from the dog. And she had to thank it for that. If the truth be told, she had to thank it for bringing them together.

  She looked over at the man sleeping on the bed, one arm strapped to his chest. So many of her relationships with men had turned out to be disappointments. This one might turn out the same, yet what she'd found during the short time with Jack was precious to her.

  "So, why did you pick us?" she asked, her breath stilling as she waited for an answer. "Why did you throw us together?"

  If the thing was here, it didn't choose to answer the questio
n.

  Dawn had broken outside the window, and she lowered her voice, thinking that it would be a shame not to give Jack a few more hours of sleep—if he could get them.

  "Why couldn't you just tell us Gwynn's name?" she asked.

  A jumble of images flooded her mind then. She saw Gwynn, standing inside a circle, a circle she knew gave him some kind of protection—from humankind and from the demon's kind as well.

  So what could you do to the circle to make it less effective?

  She was pondering that when the cell phone on the table suddenly rang, making her jump.

  Jack instantly sat up, and she brought him the instrument.

  Pressing the Transmit button, he said, "Hello."

  She saw his face drain of color. "You lying bastard!" he shouted, but he kept the phone pressed to his ear.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  « ^ »

  JACK'S VISION BLURRED as he listened to the gloating voice on the other end of the line.

  "I have your daughter."

  "I don't believe you, you scum," he answered, because he didn't want it to be true.

  "Well, I'd let you talk to her, but she's sleeping at the moment."

  He couldn't hold back a strangled protest.

  "Call your friend, Ross Marshall. I'll be back in touch with you in fifteen minutes. And don't call the cops. The second you call in your cop buddies, she's dead."

  The phone clicked off, and he was left with the feeling that he would never draw another full breath.

  Kathryn came into focus.

  "Please—tell me what's happened," she breathed.

  "The bastard says he has Lily."

  "Oh, God," she gasped, and moved to his side, wrapping her arm around his shoulder even as he began punching numbers again. He felt the tension in her arm. When he finished, he pressed his hand over hers.

  Ross came on the line almost immediately.

  "Is Lily there?" Jack asked in a voice that was barely under control.

  He heard his friend make a sharp, anguished sound. "Jack, she's not in her bed."

  "You're supposed to be watching her!"