Moon Music

by Faye Kellerman

  "You don't have to do that."

  "I'm not giving it to you, sir. I'm giving it to your wife."

  FORTY-TWO

  TWO DAYS since the kill for fresh meat.

  The craving was getting stronger. Moist, tender meat, rich in blood and protein. A necessary part of a balanced diet. All the requisites for healthy eyes, strong teeth, and a gleaming coat.

  Resting in the cave with the head nestled in the crook of the forelegs. Cool and dark. The bright sun was streaming past the entrance. Bright sun hurt the eyes.

  So did the tears.

  Once she had been normal. Once she had lived and laughed and loved. Once the craving was satisfied with a cup of coffee or a pint of cottage cheese. Eating meat meant barbecuing a steak on the Fourth of July.

  How had she gotten into this state? How, how, how?

  She knew how. It was all there in her research. Once she had been interested in the research. Now even that didn't matter. Only meat.

  Raw meat.

  Her fur drying out from the intense desert rays, brittle from dehydration. So parched her haunches looked as bare as regular thighs. Her hocks resembled her former calves. Her chest was sunken and bony. She felt junkyard-mean. A wild, mangy animal with red eyes and sharp teeth.

  But it hadn't always been like this. Once she had eaten to live. Now she lived to eat. Needing to gorge herself on recent kill. A requirement of her new body. Steve didn't understand, though she had tried to explain it. He couldn't see past his blind eyes, never examining what was underneath until it was too late.

  And it was too late.

  So she'd done what she'd had to do.

  Anyway, she really didn't want him to raise the children, turning the boys into dolts like him. Better she should raise them and turn them into what she was. Legitimate beasts driven by instincts—blameless in all they did and how they acted.

  Better still was to let the old man do the job. He would teach them about the beauty and wisdom of God. Because that was the only difference between what she had been in her former life and what she was now. Because once she had stopped her instincts because God said.

  God said it was wrong to steal.

  God said it was wrong to commit adultery.

  God said it was wrong to kill.

  God said it was wrong to eat live animals.

  But all these "God saids" applied to humans, not to animals. And now that she was one of them, all the "God saids" didn't matter. Animals could steal and mate with whoever and kill and eat and didn't have to feel guilty about anything. That's what animals were. That's what animals did. Everyone accepted them and their needs because all they were was animals. And it was well known that carnivores needed fresh kill to survive.

  The only question that remained in her mind: how had she actually become one? She knew it was all there in the green book. The official government pamphlet on the initial bomb drops. In all those boxes and papers. Her research.

  If she had just looked a little harder…

  She shifted position and closed her tired eyes.

  It was good to be an animal…completely unaccountable for your behavior…instinct-driven instead of conscience-driven.

  If only the tears would go away.

  The tears were the last vestiges of her old world. That horrible transitional phase of her living in two worlds—one as a human with morals and ethics, the other bestial, dictated by drives, acting with acuity and wiles.

  There were times she felt like returning to what she had been. If she could figure out how to do it…to go back and forth between the two worlds, making the transition with ease and finesse.

  She knew it could be done. Something to do with atomic and anatomical structures. Manipulating the particles, conserving the mass but rearranging the molecular alignment. And then there was entropy and enthalpy and the physical concepts. If she just knew, then maybe she could transform.

  It was all there in the research…the way to go back and forth. But right now the research seemed very far away.

  More important was her need for fresh meat.

  The smell in the hospital was making Poe sick—that dizzying combo of antiseptic sprays and death. His heartbeat sped as he walked down the endless hallway, his armpits drenched and his forehead wet and clammy. Abruptly, dots of light danced in front of his eyes. He stopped and leaned against the wall, covering his face with his palm.

  Weinberg halted in his tracks. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm—"

  "Hold on." The lieutenant looked around for a chair. Finding a spare one in an empty, open hospital room, he dragged it out and placed it on the floor. "Have a seat."

  "I'm okay—"

  "Sit!"

  Poe didn't argue as a black screen slowly closed off his line of vision. He sank into the chair and dropped his head between his knees.

  "You need a doctor, Rom?" Weinberg asked.

  He mumbled through his hand, "More like a psychiatrist."

  Weinberg found another chair and sat beside him. "Nah, you're fine. Just take a couple of deep breaths."

  Poe said nothing, ashamed by his physical weakness. Weinberg seemed to sense his embarrassment.

  "It's nothing, Rom. You've just been to too many hospitals, that's all. I remember when my mother was dying of cancer. Right before I came out here…to Vegas. I was still in Chicago, working CAPS. Whenever I had a spare moment—which wasn't too often—I rushed over to visit her. See, my mother and I were real close. My old man died in World War Two, so she raised me and my sister by herself. She and the rabbis. They wanted me to be a rabbi. Can you imagine me as a rabbi?"

  Gingerly, Poe lifted his head. The room undulated, but he managed not to pass out. "I could imagine more absurd things."

  Weinberg laughed. "Right in the middle of that whole ordeal, I thought I had a heart attack. I was hospitalized and the docs couldn't find anything wrong. When they sent in the shrink, I knew I had to pull myself together. Even so, for years, I couldn't look at a doctor's stethoscope without breaking into a cold sweat. You're looking better already. Can you stand up?"

  Poe got to his feet, wiped his face. "Yeah." He rotated his shoulder and bounced on his feet. "I'm fine now. Let's go."

  The two men walked in silence until they found Jensen's room. Weinberg tiptoed in first, Poe followed on his heels. At his bedside, they observed Steve's sleeping form. He wore hospital pajamas open in the front. His head was thrown back, blond hair strewn all over his face. He was emitting deep snores. An IV had invaded his arm, and his head was replete with electrodes. A monitor continuously read out his brain waves from an EEG machine.

  Weinberg whispered, "Get us some coffee and the newspaper. Who knows how long he'll be sleeping?"

  Poe studied Jensen's sickly pink complexion—a miracle he had survived. "Be back in a minute."

  An hour later, after they both had polished off two Nevada dailies and a couple of car magazines, Jensen stirred. His eyes fluttered and the EEG's needles started spiking as if his cerebral cortex were having an earthquake. Weinberg and Poe stared at each other, wondering if he needed medical attention. But Jensen opened his eyes and the needles settled down.

  "Hey there, Detective," Weinberg said softly. "Recognize me?"

  Jensen slowly rotated his head in the direction of the sound. He blinked a couple of times, staring at Weinberg for several seconds. Then he nodded.

  "Do you need anything, Stevie?"

  A large hand crawled out from under the hospital cover. It inched its way to a cup on the nightstand and grasped the paper receptacle. Jensen brought it to his mouth, and water dribbled down his chin.

  Weinberg wiped him, but Jensen moved his head away. The big man said, "Ice."

  Poe stood, then returned with a cube wrapped in a napkin. He put it in Steve's hand. The big man sucked until the napkin was soaked with cold water, then placed the wet paper on his head.

  "Do you want a cold compress, Steve?" Poe asked.

  Jensen shook his he
ad no.

  "More ice?"

  "Yeah."

  Poe wrapped another cube in a napkin. A moment later, Jensen spoke. "I've got…" He sighed. "I've got one motherfucking headache. Can't take anything." Another sigh. "Until my brain's normal. Guess I'm gonna wait a long time."

  Poe smiled. "You're doing great."

  "Think so?" Jensen croaked out.

  "Yes, I do."

  Weinberg said, "Between yesterday and today—a world of difference."

  "You look any better," Poe added, "you're going to distract the nurses."

  "So trade places with me, cocksucker." Jensen bit his lip. "More ice."

  Weinberg pressed the nurse button. "Can we have some more ice here, please?"

  "Right away," a disembodied voice answered.

  "That means thirty minutes," Jensen growled out.

  Weinberg stood. "I'll get it."

  As soon as he was gone, Jensen asked Poe, "Have you found Alison?"

  Poe shook his head. "We're looking—"

  "She's crazy." Jensen swallowed dryly. "Violent." He let out a dry cough. "You've got to find her…before the police. Otherwise, she'll get herself…killed. Or kill herself."

  He paused. "Where do you think she is?"

  "In the desert."

  "California? Nevada?"

  "Nevada. Southern Nevada."

  "Near NTS?"

  Jensen looked away, his brain waves on overdrive. "Probably. She's…over the edge. Completely insane."

  Poe told himself not to snap. "Steve, I think Alison believes that NTS is at fault for her insanity."

  "The radiation…she keeps talking about the radiation." Jensen's breaths were shallow. "Her thyroid is fine. It's her brain that's…" There was a very long pause. "Somehow, she's become strong, Rom. Real strong. She's gotta be taking something…steroids. She can…do damage."

  "Like kill Gretchen Wiler. We found her body."

  Jensen closed his eyes. "It was…was too late by the time I came back."

  Weinberg returned with the ice. Poe said, "We were talking about Gretchen Wiler's murder. Steve says the killing was over by the time he came back." He paused. "Came back from where?"

  "Came to," he corrected. "I must have passed out in the night. I'd been drinking…tequila shooters. Polished off about a bottle. Still, I usually don't…don't pass out."

  "She could have slipped you something," Poe said.

  "Probably. It was all Alison's idea, you know."

  Weinberg wrapped ice and gave it to Steve. "What idea?"

  Jensen sucked on the ice cube. "Bringing in Gretchen." A beat passed. "For a threesome." He looked away. "I knew something was…wrong. But I didn't want…I just…I was trying…I should have—"

  Weinberg interrupted, "Steve, we can always talk about it later."

  "No!" Jensen became agitated. "Later means another corpse. You've got to find Alison now!"

  "We will. I promise, Steve, I promise." Poe waited a beat. "Who called Gretchen down to the motel?"

  "I called her…on the phone," Jensen said. "I even offered her money for it. She accepted, of course. I drove back down to Vegas and picked her up." He let out a weak breath. "Drove her to the motel." Another hesitation. "We partied. I knew it was weird. But Alison seemed to like it."

  He closed his eyes. Tears leaked from the shut lids.

  "Sometime…during all the partying, I passed out. When I came to…blood was all over. She…Alison…" He composed himself for the confession. "Alison was eating Gretchen's corpse."

  Poe tried to keep his face flat. "She thinks she's an animal, doesn't she? A wolf or a coyote."

  Jensen looked wide-eyed. "She told you?"

  Weinberg looked at Poe quizzically, saying: How'd you know that?

  Poe said, "She didn't exactly tell me. But I'm right, aren't I?"

  The big man nodded. "When I woke up, she had on this wolf costume…covered with fur from head to toe. And she was acting like a wild animal…growling…snarling…her face…" He started panting. "Oh God, her wolf face was covered in blood!"

  The needles began going haywire. No one spoke, Weinberg and Poe looking at their laps as Jensen cried. After the big man had calmed down, Poe tried to save Jensen's dignity with another question. "Had you ever seen the costume before that night in the motel?"

  Jensen dabbed his eyes and shook his head no.

  Weinberg said, "What happened after you woke up and saw all the blood?"

  "I was still groggy…too shocked to speak. Suddenly…she attacked me. Just jumped me, and bit me on the neck." Jensen turned and showed them the puncture marks on the side of his throat. He eyed Poe. "Sound familiar?"

  "The attacking part, yes. Except she scratched me." Involuntarily, his hand moved to his marred cheek. "Did you fight her off?"

  "I couldn't…hit her. No matter what she had done. I was…I just let it…"

  He looked down.

  "While she was biting me, she must have stuck me with dope or something. Because then I don't remember anything else. Not a thing. Not until I woke up this morning. I do remember going in and out in this hazy blur. But not really seeing or hearing anything."

  Jensen took the ice and placed it over his forehead. "I called you, Rom, because I think she's out to get you. I think she's out for revenge on anyone who she thinks has…wronged her."

  "Thanks for the warning."

  Jensen sucked more ice. "Somehow I made it. Maybe God knew that someone had to take care of the boys. But you…you may not be so lucky." He stared at Poe with concern. "She's violent. Be careful…not just you, but Rukmani. I don't want more death…on my conscience. Please!"

  He was wrought with anxiety. Poe patted his shoulder. "I'll take extra special care of both of us."

  He sighed. "I'm very tired."

  "Go to sleep," Weinberg said. "We'll come tomorrow. Ask more questions if you're up to it."

  Jensen said, "First go find my wife. Please, Rom. Find her before she finds you."

  FORTY-THREE

  "THIS DELUSION…that Alison thinks she's a wolf," Weinberg said. "Sounds to me like Steve's making an excuse for his wife's killing spree." Poe answered, "Sir, I think she's truly psychotic." "Not all psychos are cannibals." The lieutenant sipped from his water bottle. "Parading around in a wolf's costume, eating a corpse. If Steve's memory is to be believed."

  "Actually, Rukmani told me that delusions of being an animal are as old as time. Look at all the werewolf legends."

  "So now Alison's not only a wolf, but a werewolf? She comes out when the moon is full and murders hookers—one who just happened to be her husband's mistress." Weinberg looked disgusted. "She lured Gretchen by having Steve bring her down to the motel. Don't tell me that isn't premeditated murder."

  Nervously, Poe tapped the wheel of his car. "Actually, sir…" He cleared his throat. "Both Gretchen Wiler and Brittany Newel had had sexual affairs with Steve."

  "What?" Weinberg coughed. "Where'd you hear that? Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  "When did you find this out?"

  Confession time. Poe said, "I knew it from the start…Don't say it—"

  Weinberg snarled, "Poe—"

  "Steve told me it had only been a one-night stand with Brittany. And since he had fucked half of the city's hookers, I didn't see the relevance."

  "You didn't see the relevance—"

  "I know I should have—"

  "Yes, you definitely should have!" Weinberg said. "You deliberately withheld vital information from me, Poe. And for what reason? For what reason?"

  "I didn't want to embarrass Steve."

  Weinberg slapped his forehead. "You're out of control. I should pull you off the case. You're way too over-involved!"

  "Sir, I—"

  "Just shut up! I don't want to talk to you!"

  They drove without talking for ten minutes. Then Weinberg said, "What were you talking to Steve's doctor about?"

  "Just his condition."

  "Stop bullshitti
ng me and answer the fucking question."

  Poe licked his lips. "I wanted to know if he took a picture of the bite on Steve's neck."