Moon Music

by Faye Kellerman

  Y nodded.

  Poe returned several minutes later. It took some maneuvering, but between the two of them, they managed to carry Alison inside without waking her.

  Poe walked Y back to the car. "You want to talk now?"

  "Talk about what?"

  "Linda Hennick."

  "That'll take time."

  "You're in a hurry?"

  "I thought you wanted me to find Steve. Make up your mind."

  Poe rubbed his face. "Yeah, go find Steve." He thought about the two twenties in Y's pockets. "You will look for him?"

  "Yes."

  "You won't get distracted?"

  "I said I'd look for him." Y's face hardened. "You want me to write it out in blood, brother?"

  Poe tossed him the keys, watched Y slip into the driver's seat and drive away. As soon as he walked across the threshold of his door, he remembered that his cell phone was still in the car.

  His phone.

  His lifeline to the world.

  Settling down with his Scottish girlfriend and a pack of smokes, Poe felt himself loosen as the liquor worked its way into his gray matter. Ten minutes of staring at star-studded sky, breathing in fresh air, and drinking smoky firewater. When Mom moved in, he'd have to hide the Dalwhinne. But in the meantime, life was decent. His pager broke the spell. It was Patricia, but without his phone, he couldn't call her back. Y should return soon, if he didn't get involved with Mrs. Poker Machine and her daughter, Miss Vodka.

  For the first time in his career, Poe turned his pager off. He was dressed in a tank top and beach pants, his toes wiggling in the warm sand.

  The solitude gave him time to think about Alison…how she had just happened to stumble into that alley just as he appeared, looking for Bowler. There was a connection here. Maybe even one rooted in the past. Linda Hennick had been associated with the Bogeyman. Alison Jensen was now paired with Bowler—who might or might not be responsible for the deaths of Brittany Newel and Sarah Yarlborough—

  "Rom?"

  He startled, leaping up from the ground and wiping off his pants. "Yo. I'm here."

  Alison stepped outside, looking absolutely edible. She had donned his gym shorts and a loose tank top. The side of her luscious breast peeked out from the open arm area. Her hair was wild, blowing in the warm breeze, and her feet were bare. A blink later, she was beside him, linking her arm around his. "Beautiful night."

  Poe nodded.

  She blinked back tears. "Hard to imagine that the same night can be so pristine, yet so…obscene."

  Poe put his arm around her, drew her close. "I'm sorry." She laid her head on his shoulder. He could feel wetness on her skin. He said, "Would talking about it help?"

  "Later. Why spoil the moment? You…me…it seems just like it once was." She nestled into his arms. "So innocent…so virginal."

  Poe didn't speak. Waist down, he felt anything but virginal. He continued to stroke her head, his fingers tracing the rise and fall of her upper back. Graceful shoulders, delicate shoulder blades. His head pulsated as he wondered how to get out of it. At the moment, he was poking through his zipper.

  She raised her mouth to his. "Kiss me, Romulus."

  "Alison, this isn't right—"

  "One kiss—"

  "You're married—"

  "For old times' sake."

  He closed his eyes, pressed his mouth on hers. Her lips parted and he fell into her sweet abyss, their juices mixing in a heavenly dance as her tongue played upon his.

  This couldn't go on.

  Her lips caressing his as her hands snaked under his shirt, stroking his chest, gliding over his nipples. Then the fingers began to travel downward. Onto his belt, then under his waistband. Dipping between his legs.

  Instantly, he broke off and backed away—erect, panting, and dripping sweat.

  "We can't do this."

  She moved toward him. "Yes, we can—"

  "No, we can't." He moved backward. "You're married—"

  "I don't love Steve," she spat. "I never loved Steve. It was always you—"

  "Don't say that."

  "But it's true, Romulus. You know I love you."

  Bullshit personified. Still, Poe's heart jumped at the words.

  She came closer to him. "And I know you love me."

  He took a half-step back, still breathing hard. In a flash, it all crystallized. This wasn't a quickie round of head. Being with Alison meant the point of no return—a permanent wedge between Rukmani and him. Did he really want to screw up what he had?

  Wiping droplets from his brow, Poe said, "I love you, Alison, but I can't. I'm in love with someone else."

  Her face fell flat, her eyes turning hard and cold. Like lightning, she was instantly upon him, lunging at him, ripping at his shirt with long needlelike nails. He saw her raise her hand. He tried to snap his head back. She caught him on the side of his cheek.

  He expected to feel the sting of a slap. Instead, he felt razorsharp nails stab into his skin, raking his right temple all the way down until they gouged at his throat. His neck was immediately aflame. Brutally, he shoved her away, then grabbed his throat, blood oozing from the open wound. He screamed as his fingers clutched his wet Adam's apple. He yanked off his shirt and wrapped it around his neck. He shrieked, "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

  Terror in her eyes as Alison moved away. Covering her mouth with her hands as tears poured from her eyes. She turned and bolted into the open space, toward the shelter of the mountains, tearing across the open terrain with winged feet even though she was barefoot.

  It was a few seconds before Poe could react, get his hands to stop shaking and his feet to move. Mentally cursing her while he ran after her. "Alison!" he screamed at her speeding shadow. "Alison! Stop!"

  Within moments she had disappeared behind a monolith of bedrock granite.

  "Alison!" he bleated out. One side of his shirt had become soaked with blood. He turned it over, pressed the dry side against the raw cuts. His entire face throbbed, pain searing clear down into his throat. He could barely talk, let alone yell. "Alison, come out, for God's sake! I'm not mad! Just come out so we can go home!"

  Silence greeted his pleas.

  "Alison, please! I need help! And I can't get help unless I know you're safe. Please—"

  His begging was cut short by a sharp howl. The reflection of a set of red eyes, the flash of pointed teeth.

  A coyote, smelling the blood of the wounded. It inched forward. Poe was used to scrawny, mangy dogs. This one's coat was…thick…glistening. A good pelt of fur…like a short-haired wolf. Unlike any of the other wild dogs Poe had seen in the desert.

  Elegant paws with long, tapered nails, the points gleaming in the moonlight.

  Moving toward him, its red eyes bearing down upon him, staring him down with an almost human expression.

  A look of intense desire.

  Poe stepped back as the animal began to close in.

  Do something!

  Backing him into the mountain as it crept forward, bared its teeth—sharp and deadly.

  Poe glanced around, picked up two large rocks. He hefted the lighter one, then hurled it at the dog, nicking it on the paw. He had expected the coyote to charge. Instead, it whimpered, eyes cast downward. Then it looked up with melancholy eyes.

  Poe was momentarily stunned. Quickly, he regained his wits, tossing the heavier rock against a boulder. It shattered into bits of stone. Immediately, the doleful coyote retreated.

  Disappearing into the mountain.

  Poe continued to lean against the granite wall for support—panting, sweating, bleeding. A wounded animal himself. Swallowing had become difficult. He straightened up, peered behind the mountain wall, into a dark cave of rock and stone. He heard a slight whooshing. A whimper—as if the coyote was still crying.

  "Alison, I hear you breathing! Come out now!" He took a couple of steps forward. "Alison, stop playing games. I need your help, baby. Please come out."

  Whoosh, whoosh.
<
br />   "I'm going to go back if you don't come out." Poe moved deeper into the blackness. "Alison, I can't see in here. And I don't feel too good. Please, please. I'm not…"

  He exhaled forcefully. "Please come out!"

  Whoosh.

  Poe began to inch out backward. "Alison, I'm leaving now. If you don't come out, I'm not going to save you."

  Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

  He kept walking in reverse as he made his way toward the entrance. "This is it, kid! Your last chance!"

  Then his ears perked up as hair pricked up on the back of his neck. He froze instantly. The whooshing sound had transformed. Now the rattling was unmistakable.

  The weather had turned warm, and the rattlers were up from hibernation. He'd probably alarmed a denning female who was pissed at the intrusion.

  Before him was a sea of nothingness, behind him his escape was blocked by a diamondback. He felt as if he'd just been assigned some Herculean challenge. Remaining paralyzed, he tried to think without panicking. Because panic killed faster than the known venom.

  Listening to that ominous shaking, rattle and rolling. Just his luck that the reptile was behind him. Out of his direct line of vision. The sound grew in intensity.

  This was bad!

  His eyes frantically searched the dark for the glint of a weapon—a stick or a rock. But everything seemed out of reach.

  He was going to get bitten; that was a given. The trick was to maneuver his position to accept the bite in the least harmful place.

  The rattling became louder. He was barefoot. If he didn't move quickly, the sucker would take away his options and plunge into his ankle. The ankle wasn't good. A bite on the ankle would fuck up his ability to run home. The left forearm seemed to be the best of his bad options. He didn't need his arm to walk.

  In one fluid motion, he turned and attempted to fling the rattler away with his left hand. Instantly, the snake sank its fangs into his wrist. Poe screamed as liquid fire shot through his veins. With all his strength, he squeezed the reptile's head until the rattler unhooked its evil jaws. Poe yanked the rattler upward and tossed it away.

  He raced back toward his house, which appeared as only a small light in the distance. His heart hammering as his feet pumped, his head spinning as his breathing grew unsteady and more shallow. His gait was as wobbly as a drunkard's.

  Don't freak out, don't freak out. You've got time—although not as much as you'd like.

  Flying into his house, he tore through his kitchen cabinet, hoping to find an old bottle of antitoxin. Finding nothing, he fell into a rage, sweeping his arms over the shelves as bottles and dishes smashed onto the counter and floor. He quickly wrapped a light tourniquet around his wrist as it swelled with a speed that defied Einstein's theorems. He took a cold pack and laid it on the open bite.

  Without a phone, without a fax, and without flares. No car and he was miles away from civilization. His left arm had grown to twice its normal size, his neck pulsed out stabs of pain. He felt as if he had just gone a round with the Grand Inquisitor. No sense sticking around waiting to die.

  He threw off the wet shirt that had been wrapped around his neck and put on a clean one. Then he grabbed some fresh linens and gently draped them around his neck. He slipped on Nikes, then dosed himself with analgesics.

  He had about an hour before the bite went from just being painful to life-threatening.

  Stumbling, he started walking toward city life. He was dizzy and nauseated, but willed himself to remain upright, forcing his numb feet to go one step at a time, ordering his brain to remain conscious.

  Breathe, Rom. Just keep breathing.

  Fifteen minutes into his trek, he saw the priceless glimmer of headlights. Standing in the road, he waved the car down. His own Honda with Y at the wheel. The old man paled when he saw Poe's condition. He glanced at his bandaged neck, then at his gigantic wrist. Instantly, he knew what had happened. With a fleetness that belied his age, Y scooped Poe into his arms and placed him in the backseat. The Indian jammed the accelerator and the car flew forward.

  Poe's body felt like molten lead. "Alison…still out there."

  "Is she hurt?"

  "Don't know." He swallowed hard. "She got pissed at me and took off. I followed her and that's…" His voice trailed off. He began to shake uncontrollably.

  "I'll find her. But first things first." Y was going around eighty. "Your neck was bitten, too?"

  "No…only my wrist."

  "How long has it been?"

  Poe muttered, "About a half hour."

  "We've got plenty of time, son. Just hang in there."

  Poe croaked, "No problem."

  And then he passed out.

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE NAUSEA swept over like tidal waves, Poe's conscious moments punctuated by heaving and retching. Afterward, he fell into sweaty shivers that left him lifeless and disoriented. Sometimes he slept soundly. More often he dozed, hearing things in his semi-stuporous state. Disjointed voices reverberated in his head—sounds but no words. Eventually, the raging flames in his body quieted, choosing to flicker instead of burn. When that happened, Poe felt other things—needles in his arms, bandages ripping at his face.

  Time passed. Then one day, he suddenly realized he was fully awake. Though the inferno had passed, his body still ached, his innards cramping, his muscles sore and rusted, his left arm painful to lift. He dared to open an eye.

  Rukmani was sitting by his bedside, reading some charts. She looked calm…inscrutable.

  He opened the other eye. He wanted to sit up, but he couldn't get his limbs to move. Panic enveloped his heart. Was he paralyzed?

  Slow down, Poe. Move the fingers.

  He could move his fingers and toes. If the digits moved, the limbs had to work. They were just "on strike."

  Staring at Rukmani as memories flooded his pounding head. How long had she sat by his bedside? A while, he figured. Because someone had held the basin as he retched. He attempted speech. It came out as garbled sounds, but it got Rukmani's attention. She turned to him, wide-eyed. Her fingers touched his face, then stroked his brow, pushed hair from his face. "Hi, sweetheart."

  Poe could make out her words, could almost see her features with clarity. He grunted out, "Where am I?"

  "University Medical Center."

  Ah, so he was intelligible. That was good. "What day is it?"

  "Tuesday afternoon."

  Poe did the simple mathematics. He had been bitten in the wee hours of Saturday morning. He'd lost about three days. Two things flitted across his brain—Alison and his mother, in that order. So much for filial loyalty. Rukmani kept petting his face. Specifically, one side of his face. The other side seemed as if it had been smashed with a meat tenderizer.

  "My mother?" he got out.

  Rukmani said. "She's doing great. I've set her up with the nurse at my place. I'll stay with her until you've recovered. Don't worry about a thing."

  Rukmani continued to stroke him as though he were a cat or a talisman.

  He must have had one foot in the grave. "And Alison?"

  Rukmani stopped caressing him for a second, then continued her loving movements. "What about her?"

  "Is she all right?"

  "Far as I know." She paused. "She hasn't come to visit, though. But Steve has. He sends his best wishes for a speedy recovery. So do the others—Patricia, Weinberg, Y, your brother…all of them were here."

  How touching, he thought. Then wondered why he felt so cynical. Probably because he had been flattened by a steamroller. With effort, Poe managed to hoist his tortured body into a semireclining position. The back of his eyes throbbed as his visual field moved with each turn of his head. He took in the surroundings. Muted sunlight coming through orange translucent drapery. A curtain rod encircled his bed, an IV was hooked up to his arm, a tube from his body carried urine into a bag. He'd been catheterized.

  He sensed his face going hot. Not only had he been intruded upon but demeaned as well.


  No bad thoughts, Rom. Keep going.

  The room held a ceiling-mounted TV, a bed, a nightstand, and a phone. He had a blanket over his legs. His left wrist and arm were bandaged, but his fingers were exposed. He could wiggle them, although it smarted when he did. There was tightness over the right side of his face. He touched his neck. His throat had been wrapped in gauze. He wore a hospital gown. He wondered who had undressed him.