Cold Moon (Full Moon Trilogy Book 2)

by Grant, Tess

  She nodded wordlessly, brain still rocketing ahead to all the horrible possibilities he represented. He looked her full in the face. Her gut—still in knots from the letter—wrung down even tighter and her mind stopped dead. His eyes were bright and hard—a keen-eyed hawk hypnotizing the mouse it plans on having for supper.

  He gazed pointedly at the table. “Can we sit down?”

  Kitty kick-started her brain, trying to keep it from ramping up to its previous panic. She needed to process this visit. “My mom isn’t here,” she said. “Maybe you should come back some other time.”

  “I wanted to talk to you for a few minutes. No big deal.” He detoured around her and plunked himself down. Rubbing his long fingertips over the scratched surface of the table, he asked, “Is this an antique?”

  Kitty sat down across from him. “Just used hard. Look, Detective Melville, I really think my mom should be here. She’s at the store right now, but she’ll be home later.” Underneath the table, she gripped the seat of her chair tight with both hands. Maddie padded around the table to get a look at the intruder from another angle.

  “Sure, you’re right,” he agreed. Instead of making a move to leave, he rocked his chair back on two legs and scanned the room with his raptor’s eyes. He seemed especially interested in a corner somewhere over her left shoulder. “I wanted to say thanks for coming out and helping with the search for Mr. Phinney. What a goat rope that was.”

  “Beg pardon?” Kitty asked. She tried to take in his words, tried to slow down her fear enough to listen.

  “A mess. It was such a screw up. You know, I figure the old fella falls asleep, the place starts on fire. He dies in the fire, right? So do I rush? No. I call the bone lady from the university to come pick up the remains, only she scratches around in that mess and tells me nobody was in that fire.”

  “Well, the body burned up,” Kitty said. Maybe if she could convince him there was a body—that he was missing it.

  Melville’s chair legs planted on the ground and he waved his index finger at her. “That’s what I figure. But this gal tells me there’s always something left behind—little fragments of bone, teeth—stuff like that.”

  Kitty took that in with a sinking feeling. If she’d known that, she never would have burned the place at all. The whole reason had been to hide the body—which wasn’t there anyway—but she needed to make it look like it had been. She thought her head might explode as she followed her logic in circles. If only she had scoured the woods for an old kill and tossed a deer leg into the blaze or something.

  She took a deep breath. She needed to start using her head the way Phinney had taught her.

  “And then that whole dog deal. They assured me these dogs knew what they were doing, but I think I got the flunkies. Big-city hotshots do that all the time.” Melville’s voice changed as he mimicked. “Send Oakmont the dregs. They’re too small and stupid to know the difference.”

  Maddie’s wet nose shoved at Kitty’s hand, and she cupped her fingers around the dog’s soft muzzle. “Maybe he wandered off.”

  “That’s my next thought. Maybe there’s something in the woods.” He put his elbows on the table, catching Kitty’s gaze and holding it. “But it’s bugging me. There’s something there that’s not quite right.”

  Kitty shrugged. How much could he have? Nothing in the cabin but some scared dogs and nothing from the search parties in the woods.

  “Because I can’t figure this out.” Melville held his finger up in a wait-a-minute gesture. “I was hoping you could help me with it. He’s not in the house, so he must be in the woods. But what am I missing? Why would he wander away without this?” Melville dug in his suit pocket and pulled something out. He flung it onto the table where it landed with a metallic thunk.

  Kitty stared. Sealed in a plastic bag with bright red evidence tape was Phinney’s flask.

  Melville let the silence stretch. “That old boy never went anywhere without it.”

  Ash streaked across the flask, dulling its shiny surface. Kitty tore her gaze away from it. She still remembered the feeling of the metal against her fingertips right before she sent it flying under the couch. “What?”

  “Being drunk and cantankerous were the two things that old boy was known for. Word is you knew him as well as anybody.” Melville tapped on the table. “I asked about this antique table because I hear you like to go to antique stores. With him.” He pointed at the flask. “And to the pizza place. Yard sales.” Now Melville shrugged. “I was hoping you could shed some light on this.”

  Melville slipped a hand under his suit jacket and rooted around. He withdrew his hand, a tightly folded rectangle of paper between the fore and middle fingers. “I got a promotion,” he said, and his brows drew together. “Some promotion.” He began to unfold the sheet of paper, flattening it on the table and pressing at the creases. “More like I drew the short straw.” He rotated the paper around and pushed it six inches in Kitty’s direction.

  Kitty dropped her gaze from his face to the wrinkled sheet. Melville must have folded and unfolded it a dozen times a day. Already the furrow lines were wearing thin. Two columns of names marched down the paper.

  Melville spun the paper back toward him and ran a finger down the first column. “Know what this is?”

  Kitty knew a rhetorical question when she heard one and she stayed silent.

  “This is a list of every cold case the department has on the books. Every unsolved missing person, every unsolved death. They’re all mine now.” Melville scrolled his finger down the second column. “Know how many files I’ve got stacked up on a card table next to my desk? Enough to sink a small rowboat.” Melville sighed. “I read every file, every last one of them. You know how many times Phinney’s name shows up in them in the last twenty-five years?” Melville came forward in his seat, hands clasped under his chin. “As the reporter of the missing or the finder of the dead? Guess.”

  Kitty also knew an order when she heard one. “One quarter?” Her voice whispered out.

  Melville nodded. “That’d be reasonable, right? Man was a woodsman. Old infantryman traipsing all over the countryside. Guess again.”

  Kitty cleared her throat before trying a second time. “One third?”

  “Again reasonable. Again wrong.” Melville wrapped his hand around the flask, waving it. “One-half. One-half of my cold cases were reported by Daniel Phinney. Doesn’t ring true, does it? And now he’s missing himself. Something tells me I’ve got a limited amount of time before his case gets cold, too.” He ran a finger over the soot coating the flask. “No pun intended.”

  In the silence, the clock ticked.

  Melville finally spoke. “You spent the summer with him, kid. Everybody knows it.” His voice was soft, almost coaxing.

  Kitty stood up. If she could just get him out the door, she might be safe. “I don’t think I can help you. If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

  Melville came to his feet after her. His free hand suddenly detoured. Kitty watched with horror as he picked up the folded letter that still lay on the table. The detective extended it to her.

  “Good news?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Good news?” Melville twitched the folded sheet at her.

  Kitty’s hand snaked out and grabbed the paper. She crumpled it in her hand. “More or less.”

  Melville didn’t move and neither did Kitty. His lack of movement was tactical and hers was necessity. She couldn’t. She was the mouse frozen in panic and he was the soundless hawk who, in a moment, would swoop in and end this. Phinney? She thought desperately. Help me.

  A sudden flurry of breeze rustled the big maple outside the door and Maddie let out a small bark in response. It was the break Kitty needed, and she tore her gaze away from the detective.

  The big man followed her to the door, pocketing the flask as he went. Once outside and on the porch, he turned back. Leaning in close to the screen, almost touching it with his forehead, he said
, “If you remember anything… about the cabin.” His eyes bored into her. “About the woods…call me.”

  He knows. He knows everything. Rising above the panicked scream in her own head, she willed her arm to reach for the heavy storm door. Her fingers barely had the strength to close around the knob. Pulling it toward her, she said, “I sure will.” She pushed the door shut quietly with both hands until it latched and locked. Leaning her cheek against the big door, she thought the heat of her skin might scorch the paint.

  The blood hummed so loudly in her head that she didn’t even register when Melville drove away. She couldn’t quite bring herself to move. It would have been better never to have burned the cabin at all. All she’d done was draw Melville down on her. A lot like going around with Phinney had drawn the wolves onto her in the first place.

  Crap. There wasn’t much she could do about it now. She sucked in a lungful of air and peeled her cheek off the door. When you’re in the middle of it, keep going. That’s what her dad would have said if he weren’t deployed to Iraq, paraphrasing Winston Churchill or somebody-or-other.

  Heading into the living room, she hurled herself down on the couch. The paper in her pocket doubled up uncomfortably and she pulled it out. Melville had picked up the letter. He’d asked if it was good news. Why would he have touched it at all? Why assume it was a letter and not some essay for English? Kitty scrubbed at her eyes.

  Unless he knew.

  She sat up, realization and dread dawning in her. He knew it was a letter…and the only way for him to know was for him to have written it. She walked to the window and peered through the slats in the blind. His sedan was long gone but that didn’t mean he wasn’t around, waiting for her to run out and lead him straight to whatever evidence he thought was out there.

  She had to get the duffle out. Now. Yesterday. Burying it was another thing she never should have done. But when you’re half-crazy with shock, you do stupid things. At least that’s what she told herself. It wasn’t much comfort.

  She was done being stupid. She would get the equipment, but she wasn’t going to lead Melville to it. Not even if he had asked in a letter.

  Chapter Seven

  “You’re sure you don’t want to go?” Anne asked for the third time, glancing Kitty’s way.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Kitty answered. “Just drop me at home on your way.” She pushed the lid down harder on her impatience, but it oozed out around the edges. In the rear-view mirror, she could see the sun dropping lower in the west every second.

  “It’s not really on the way, Kit. Besides, I thought you wanted to see this movie…”

  Kitty cut her off. “I do, Mom. I just don’t want to see it today.” Frankly she was in a big fat hurry. She needed to get her butt into the woods. Tonight was the night. For one thing, one whole week had already whipped by since her little visit from Melville. Second, the bank of heavy clouds riding above the setting sun was building. Third, Melville and his family had walked into Danby’s Grill in the center of town as the Irish family had walked out.

  She was running out of time. The full moon inched closer. The food was good at Danby’s but the service definitely didn’t qualify as fast. Melville would be busy for at least an hour, and by then the rain would hit. He’d never think she’d hike out into the national forest at twilight with a storm coming in, especially not after Danby’s huge mushroom Swiss burger and home fries. She would need at least ninety minutes to digest. Might as well do it at the theatre with her mom and little brother.

  Instead, she was ditching the family and hightailing it into the woods with a shovel. Weird didn’t begin to describe her life at the moment.

  From the back Sam leaned up between the two seats. “Mom, we gotta go. We’ll miss the previews. Just drop her off.”

  Thank goodness for that boy. For once his eagerness to get rid of her was going to pay off.

  Anne pulled into the driveway and came to a stop. She didn’t bother to put the car in park, but looked at Kitty thoughtfully for an extra second. “Nobody in the house while I’m away.”

  Kitty shut the door behind her and gave her mom an A-okay with her thumb and forefinger through the window. Got it, Mom. Been the same rule for the last seventeen years.

  The car curved around the turnaround and Kitty waved. Sam’s mouth was moving so he must have been talking, but Anne still eyed Kitty speculatively as the car went by. They turned south toward town and accelerated down the hill. Kitty watched, waving until they were out of sight. As they disappeared, she bolted for the house.

  Her jeans would be fine, but she was going to need more cover over her t-shirt, so she grabbed a sweatshirt from the peg near the door. She kicked off her flip-flops—she’d slice right through their foamy sole with the shovel edge—and slid her feet into her sneakers.

  Kitty ran for the workshop, cooing at Maddie as she opened the door. Grabbing Phinney’s entrenching tool from where she had tucked it next to some shelves on the day of the search, she shooed the bewildered dog out the door ahead of her. A long-handled shovel stood near the light switch, and Kitty paused to consider. It would be heavy and the handle and blade would probably catch on every twig or bramble poking into the path. She’d make better time carrying the e-tool. She yanked the door shut and jogged across the road to the woods.

  They started down the trail, Kitty half-walking, half-running. Maddie ranged out in front and to the side. The retriever kept turning her head back toward the house, listening intently.

  “C’mon.” Kitty coaxed. “We didn’t leave the stove on or anything. Let’s go. There’s nothing back there.”

  A throaty rumble of thunder came from above the canopy, and Kitty realized it was dimmer than it should be under the trees. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, but a good lightning strike would really screw up her day. Increasing her pace, she headed for the clearing with the granite outcropping.

  “C’mon, Mad, we gotta get this done.” Throwing a glance over her shoulder, Kitty saw the dog walking back the way they had come, plumy tail wagging. “Quit making friends with the rabbits,” she yelled at the dog. “Get over here.”

  The dog stared down the trail but after a few more wags of her tail turned obediently and followed Kitty.

  Kitty reached the clearing and eyed the rock face at its border. An even carpet of leaves surrounded it, and the sticks she had tossed on top had been joined by one or two others brought down by the wind. It looked the same as she had left it. It should—Melville was waiting for her to lead him to it. Dropping the tiny shovel, she ran one palm over the grainy-pitted surface of the boulder. With one hand in firm contact with the present day, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the duffle. Even in her state that night, Phinney’s blocky capitals on the chunky envelope inside it had registered on her traumatized brain. “IN CASE YOU NEED IT.”

  She needed it all right. Phinney had withered away into dust. In a funeral home in Chicago, yet another sealed casket held Austin Harris, the latest unlucky soul to go down in the Manistee National Forest. Melville was searching for the lead that would break his latest missing person case wide open and start the dominoes falling on his cold case backlog. She opened her eyes and crouched near the fall of leaves at the base of the rock. Crumpling one dry brown husk in her hand, she let the pieces scatter at her feet.

  “Guess all of those are pretty good reasons to get this thing up, huh, Mad?”

  The dog lay in the center of the bowl, front legs stretched out and crossed daintily in front of her. She cocked her head at Kit, wagging her tail once.

  “Wag once for yes and twice for no, right?” Kitty grinned and picked up the e-tool.

  Examining it, she wasn’t encouraged. What had she been thinking? How quickly she had forgotten what shape the thing was in. It was a sixty-five-year-old veteran of World War II and looked every minute of it. She hoped it would last another thirty minutes. “Darn it, Phinney. Couldn’t you spring for something half your age?”

  She swept at th
e pile of leaves with her foot, sending great arcs flying to both sides. The sweet dry smell of early autumn floated up to her. Reaching the disturbed earth underneath and seeing the green canvas poking out of the ground, she stopped and hoisted the entrenching tool. She willed it to work. C’mon baby, you can do this.

  A sense of urgency rushed through her as another rumble came from above. Closer by, a twig snapped in the undergrowth. Kitty peered into the swift-gathering gloom, then checked Maddie. If it had been Melville, she was sure the dog—having read Kitty’s vibes about the detective—would alert, but she didn’t move. Probably the wind.

  It was a hard dig. She didn’t remember burying it quite that deep, but she’d also been numb with shock. She didn’t remember much from that night. Phinney? Oh God, yes. The werewolf? Yes. Digging? Not so much. The e-tool didn’t help. It was a firm tangible link to Phinney—maybe that was the reason she’d chosen it from the workshop in the first place—but she probably could have dug just as well with one of the yellow plastic beach shovels from Sam’s toddler days. The sweat trickled into her eyes and made them sting. The dirt that filled her eye when she rubbed at them wasn’t much better. She had the top couple inches of the bag fully exposed; its canvas littered with dirt sprinkles and dark with moisture. The sides were mired in deep, and she couldn’t loosen it enough to yank it out.

  To make things even better, the thunder was increasing in rate and volume. What light there was under the trees took on the sick green-yellow tint of an old bruise. The trees tossed their heads like nervous horses. When this storm hit it was going to be a big one.

  In the pause between rumbles and shovelfuls of dirt, Kitty heard another twig snap. She checked Maddie. The golden retriever had not looked up once during the growls of the approaching rain, but she sat up now. Kitty’s watch showed she had been on the ground nearly an hour. Surely, it couldn’t be Melville already. Kitty ran through the contents of the duffle. She would have felt a lot more comfortable with Phinney’s old M1 carbine parked against her hip, but this was no full moon, and she was no Calamity Jane. Whoever or whatever was out there needed to be dealt with in a different fashion.