Moon Music

by Faye Kellerman

  Rukmani took his hand. "Romulus, I hope to God she's all right. I really mean that."

  Again, Poe swallowed dryly. "I know you do. Thanks." He snapped his fingers, then stopped himself. "Maybe you should take another sweep of the place with the camera."

  "I have enough." Rukmani looked around. "What we really need are some techs."

  Weinberg said, "If we find a body and it turns out to be…either Alison or Steve or someone from Vegas, then I can make a case for jurisdiction. One thing at a time."

  Rukmani said, "By the way, Rom, how'd the pictures come out?"

  "Pictures?" Poe asked.

  "The snapshots that Y took last night."

  "I haven't had a chance…" He rubbed his face. "Who do you have to fuck to get a ladder in this place?"

  "Patience, Poe," Weinberg said. "Look, if it's too much, let Bruckner—"

  "I'm not letting that bozo touch anything." Poe stomped out of the room, saw Bruckner schlepping a ladder. He was as thin as the implement he carried. Poe jogged over to help him.

  Bruckner said, "Who is that woman?"

  "Dr. Kalil? She's the deputy coroner."

  "She any good?"

  "Is she any good?" Poe glared at him. "You talking personal or professional?"

  Bruckner turned red. "Look, I just…"

  Poe let him retreat into embarrassment. They brought the ladder into the bathroom and steadied it under the crawl-space entrance. Bruckner was suddenly obsequious. "Are you sure you want to do this, Sergeant?"

  No, I don't want to do this, you asshole. "I'm fine. I'll need a good strong flashlight."

  "Right away." Bruckner left.

  Poe started up the rungs as Weinberg held the ladder.

  When he reached the opening, he pushed the cover to the side. A rush of blood came streaming down, landing on Weinberg's head.

  "Shit!" the lieutenant groused. But he kept a firm grip on the ladder. "Will someone get—"

  "—a towel," Rukmani finished his sentence. "Right away." She rushed out and came back holding a pile of linens. She wiped Weinberg's bald pate and face. "It's fresh blood."

  "I figured that out, Doctor."

  Rukmani smiled. "Sorry, Lieutenant."

  Bruckner came back with the flashlight, wrinkled his nose. "Goddamn, that's…let me help you out, Lieutenant."

  "If you could hold the ladder for a moment so I can wipe—"

  "You bet." Bruckner gave the light to Poe. "Is this okay?"

  "Perfect."

  Weinberg released the ladder, dabbed himself off. "Whenever you're ready, Sergeant."

  Poe took a deep breath, let it out, then stuck his head up into the steamy crawl space. He cringed at the smell: overripe meat in the beginnings of the decay process. There was also a heavy, metallic stink that hung in the hot, idle air. He shined the light into the vast cavern between the ceiling and roof. In the dimness, the floor appeared wet and shiny as if coated with tar. Poe could make out puddles. As he circled the beam around, he saw the lifeless lump lying about five feet from Poe's head.

  He came down for air, into the bathroom. After taking a couple of breaths, he said, "There's something up there. But it's out of my reach while standing on a ladder. I'll have to go in to retrieve it." He eyed Weinberg. "Which means I'll trample on evidence…maybe muck up some shoe prints. The proper alternative is to come in through the roof. Take about half of it off—"

  Weinberg said, "Poe, look at this place. You start mucking with structure, it's going to fall down like a house of cards."

  "That could very well be."

  "Go in and do what you have to do."

  Rukmani said, "Let me get you goggles and a mask—"

  "I'm okay. I've got my VapoRub."

  "Please, Poe," Rukmani insisted. "Besides the blood and the smell, there's probably years' worth of dust and bat and bird guano. Believe me, you don't want to breathe it in, nor do you want it in your eyes."

  "She's right," Weinberg said.

  "All right." Poe waited for her to give him the protective devices. As soon as he was masked up, he said, "Here's to nothing."

  "Be careful," Rukmani called out.

  Hoisting himself upward, Poe squeezed his body into the limited space.

  Sometimes it was good to be short.

  With a throbbing head and a stomach filled with acid, he crawled into wet, sticky liquid. The goggles cut the light even further. He could hear himself breathe, smell the rot through the mask. It was scorching and humid and as pleasant as wading in a cesspool.

  Inching his way over to the lump as his gloved hands splashed up blood. Trying to keep his lunch down as he reached out and grabbed a lifeless arm. He began dragging it back over to the crawl space.

  Light. Definitely not Steve. It was a woman.

  His heart took off. He felt the room spin around him, a smothering sense of vertigo.

  Don't faint, you schmuck!

  Towing it closer to freedom. But he couldn't make out the face in the grayness. When he got to the crawl-space opening, he shouted, "I can't carry her down—"

  "It's a her?" Weinberg shouted.

  "Yeah, it's a her," Poe answered back. "I don't know who, though. The face is messed up, and it's way too dim. I'm going to lower her down and you have to catch her."

  To Bruckner, Weinberg said, "Why don't you hold the ladder? I might as well catch her. I'm already bloodied up."

  Bruckner nodded. "Sounds like a good game plan."

  Weinberg had noticed that the sheriff had gone pale.

  Poe clutched the body around the torso, felt his fingers dig into soft, raw flesh. A wave of nausea shot through his gullet. "I'm going to bring her down."

  "Slow, Poe."

  "As slow as I can."

  He lowered her down, feet first. "Got her?"

  "Not yet—"

  "Now—"

  "A little more…to the left."

  "Now?"

  "More."

  "I'm slipping—"

  "Got her," Weinberg said. "You can let go."

  With an audible sigh, Poe rid himself of the body. For good measure, he shone the light around the attic space for a second time. This time, no lumps caught his attention. But he knew that something could be stashed in the corners. Later on, he'd make a more thorough check.

  Later on…

  Just as soon as he identified…

  Weinberg shouted, "It's not Alison."

  He answered back, "You're sure?"

  "Positive."

  Relief shot through Poe's body. He waited a second to compose himself, then began his climb downward. As his feet touched the floor, he ripped off his goggles and studied the corpse.

  He grimaced.

  Like Brittany Newel's, half the face was untouched, with the other half neatly raked in raw furrows. Not unlike his cheek. Poe forced himself not to touch his face, to concentrate on the job.

  Unlike Newel's, this one's body had been devoured, eaten away, with whole chunks missing from the torso. All that remained was a massive lump of torn flesh and tissue. Her legs had been gouged and, in some places, skinned to the bone.

  "Dear God!" he said.

  Rukmani took his hand. "At least it isn't her."

  "I know." A breath in and out. "Thanks for giving a damn."

  "Even a damn and a half."

  He blew out air, studied the face. And then it hit him. "Oh my God! I know who this was! Gretchen Wiler!"

  All eyes went to him.

  "Who?" Weinberg asked.

  "Gretchen Wiler!" Poe repeated as he bounced on his feet. "You know Gretchen. She was Steve's mistress!"

  THIRTY-SIX

  ROOM 24 had been designated the "hospitality suite," although the fleabag had plenty of vacancies. As soon as Poe stepped inside the room, he ripped off his gloves and goggles and slammed the door with his foot. Beelining it to the bathroom, he turned the taps on full blast and splashed tepid water over his dirty face. Head pounding, he popped pain pills, then peeled off his cloth
es and showered, drying his body with a towel as absorbent as cheesecloth. The unit was hot and stuffy, but still he breathed deeply, thrilled to be away from the slaughterhouse. At present, the crime scene was thick with techs and black from fingerprint powder.

  An APB had been put out for Steve and Alison.

  Sitting on the bed, he dabbed his injured cheek, then wiped his face and towel-dried his hair. He was smearing ointment over his wound when the door opened. Rukmani stepped inside, mopping her sweaty face with a sleeve, oblivious to his presence. When she saw him, she took a step back. "My God! It's a naked detective!"

  Poe raised his eyebrows. "Take a shower, babe. Soap'll do you good."

  "And you'll still be here when I get out?"

  "Are you kidding?"

  She smiled, went into the bathroom, and shut the door. A moment later, Poe got up and walked into the steambath. He slipped his arms around her dripping, bony body, his hands traveling up to her firm, small breasts, his fingertips grazing her nipples. Her hair was braided but soaked. He could see her ribs. She looked like a waif. "When was the last time you ate?"

  "I'm Indian. I'm used to starvation." She faced him, water pouring off her face. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his lips, then licked the tufted line of black hair that ran down the middle of his chest. "God, you're beautiful when you're wet. Like burnished leather." She sucked his nipples. "You also taste wonderful."

  "Likewise." He brought her lips to his and kissed her hard, their mouths mixing with the fresh, running water. He moved down to her neck and breasts.

  He turned off the water.

  They made frantic love on the shower floor.

  They rinsed off anew. This time they didn't even have the luxury of dry towels. Damp and hot, they began the arduous process of redressing in dirty, sticky clothing.

  Slipping on her bloodied surgical pants, Rukmani said, "There's got to be a better way to shoot this."

  Poe looked up, his fingertips oily from his face salve. "Pardon?"

  "If this were the movies, we'd have clean clothes."

  Poe put on his sweat-soaked shirt flecked with bits of serum and tissue. "When we sell the story to Hollywood, we'll put clean clothes in the script."

  The doorknob jiggled.

  Poe shouted, "A minute."

  "S'right." The loo's voice. "Take your time."

  "How are they doing over there?" Poe asked.

  "Still got ground to cover. You almost done? I want to take a shower. Somebody should supervise."

  "I'll be out in a few minutes."

  "Did Rukmani go back with the body? I can't find her."

  They eyed each other. She giggled like a schoolgirl. Out loud, she said, "I'm here, Lieutenant. I'm going back with the two of you. That doesn't mess anything up, does it?"

  "No, no," Weinberg said. "It's fine, it's fine."

  Silence.

  She whispered, "Stop smirking."

  "Like he doesn't know—"

  "That's not the point. Being obvious is crass."

  Poe put on his dirty pants, turned flat-faced. "Better?"

  "Very professional."

  He opened the door, smiled dryly. "It's all yours. I'll get Byron to find you some dry towels."

  Weinberg looked over their faces. "Thanks."

  As soon as they stepped outside, they broke into peals of laughter—an expression of release more than joy. It was late afternoon and the heat had become even more oppressive. It took effort to breathe.

  "Shit!" Poe exclaimed. "I left my mask—"

  "I've got extras."

  He stopped walking, held her shoulders. "I've got to get this out, all right?"

  "Uh-oh—"

  "No, no, no. It's nothing about us. It's about the case. If this mess is Steve's doing, then I'm not as concerned. But if it's Alison…Ruki, I'm very worried about you."

  "Me?"

  "It seems to me that Alison is attacking women who she believes have hurt her…have taken away her men. Newel was Steve's fling. Gretchen was Steve's mistress—"

  "And now that she's finished with Steve's women," Rukmani interrupted, "she's going to move on to you, or rather your women—meaning me."

  Poe nodded. "In the past, when she has brought you up…it wasn't fondly. I'd kill myself if anything happened to you."

  "That would be a waste. Who'd avenge my honor?"

  Poe licked his lips. "You're not taking me seriously."

  She grinned. "Does this mean you care?"

  "Yes, I care very much. Are you hearing me at all?"

  She turned serious. "I hear you. I'll be careful." They started walking toward the death scene. "I've been doing a little thinking myself."

  "And?"

  "These killings…they have a ritualistic aspect to them, don't you think?"

  "What specifically?"

  "For instance, only half of the face was destroyed."

  "Could be ritualistic. And it could be for ID purposes. That Alison—or whoever did it—wanted us to know who the victim was."

  "Good point."

  "Still, I don't disagree," Poe said. "The meticulous raking. Appears as if someone was dressing the body." He stopped walking. "Gretchen was mutilated more severely. Know what that says to me? That the killer was really pissed at her. If the killer was Alison, that would make sense. Because Gretchen wasn't a casual fling. She was viewed as a real threat."

  "Or perhaps Alison has completely decompensated."

  He nodded. "That's possible, too."

  Again, they started inching toward the bloodbath.

  Rukmani said, "It's not the rakes, Rom. It's the chunks that bother me. It's the big gouges in her legs, particularly the insides of the thighs. From a shrink's perspective, I could interpret it as Steve lashing out at Gretchen sexually. Because the inside of the thigh is very sexual. You know, I always felt that Steve had a weird attitude toward women. Deep down, I think he despises them."

  "Really?"

  "You don't think so?"

  "Honestly, no. I think he just loves pussy." He stopped walking and stared at her. "Has he ever come on to you?"

  Rukmani blushed. "Once."

  Poe felt a stab of anger. "What? When?"

  "Six, seven months ago. Right after we started dating."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Why bother? At that time, things weren't serious between us."

  Abruptly, she stopped speaking—the unsaid line being: are things really serious now?

  She shrugged. "You work with the man, Rom. If I had gotten in the way, I would not only have screwed things up between you and Steve, I would have messed up our relationship. Anyway, he wasn't persistent. He suggested we go out for a drink. I told him I was swamped with work, and he took it as the rebuff it was meant to be."

  "Great," Poe muttered. "Now I'm really worried about you. Both Steve and Alison have a vendetta—"

  "You're overstating my worth."

  He brushed her lips. "I don't think so."

  "You must be worried," Rukmani said. "You're acting very sweet. Can we talk about the body? Particularly the wounds in the inner thighs."

  Poe wiped his forehead. "Go on."

  "Rom, I've seen bite victims—"

  "So have I."

  "Then you know that while they ain't pretty, they don't resemble what was on Gretchen—big, jagged holes in the flesh. I've got to say this. It looks to me like the body was being eaten—"

  "I don't want to think about this—"

  "Yet the body didn't have the typical signs of cannibalism."

  Poe paused. "It wasn't butchered or dressed as edible meat."

  "Exactly."

  "Maybe he/she/they ran out of time to do it properly."

  "So why eat the flesh raw?"

  "I don't know, Ruki."

  She bounced on the hot ground. "There's no shade in this place. How about we take a little ride?"

  Poe ran his hand through his now dry hair. "I've got to supervise the techs."

  "
Okay, I'll try to be brief. Have you ever heard of the psychological disorder called lycanthropy? You may know it better by its common name: werewolfism."