Cold Moon (Full Moon Trilogy Book 2)

by Grant, Tess

  Kitty shoved at Sam but he clung like the morning glory vine on her mother’s trellis. She rolled her head toward her mom. There was a dull fist-sized throb in the back of her head as it rotated over the tile. That must have been where she hit when she fainted.

  “Is he—” Kitty started, but Anne shook her head.

  “Not here. We’ll talk about it in the office. C’mon, let’s get you up. Sammy boy, you need to give your sister some room.” Mom pulled at Sam and he let go of her fingers with obvious reluctance.

  Kitty regretted it the instant she sat up. Her head pounded, and she felt the room swirl.

  “Go slow,” advised Mom. “You took a pretty good hit.”

  Ms. Olivera held out a hand. Kitty grabbed it and pulled herself up. Sam scooted closer and Kitty put her arm around his shoulders. She didn’t know if he did it for comfort or because he was afraid she was going to fall on her head again.

  Anne ran her fingers over the back of Kitty’s head. “We’re going to need some ice.” Thorne lifted his cell from his belt and beeped somebody in the office.

  Kitty had never been in the office other than dropping off paperwork to the secretaries. As her mother steered her past the counter and into Thorne’s open office door, she felt queasy again. Thorne’s office was similar to the lawyer’s. Desk, bookshelves, conference table. The principal’s chair was three feet from the desk, sideways against the bookshelves, as if he had vacated it in a hurry, propelling it backwards and bouncing it off the wall. There must have been quite a scene in the office before they came to get her.

  Anne pulled out a chair at the conference table and Kitty slumped into it. Her mother put a bag of ice against the back of the chair and settled Kitty’s head against it.

  “Now,” Anne said, sending the abashed principal one of her patented glares before turning her attention to Kitty and continuing, “let me tell you what I know.” She sat down, her hand still resting on Kitty’s forehead. Thorne gingerly placed a box of tissues next to Anne’s elbow and left the office.

  Sam dropped heavily into the seat on the other side, inching the chair closer to Kitty’s until he bumped into it. Kitty rolled her head across the lumpy ice to smile at him.

  “Kit,” Anne said.

  Kitty was afraid to hear it but she rotated her head back to face her mom.

  “Dad’s troop was on patrol a couple days ago, and a suicide bomber approached them.” Sam laid his head down on the table. Kitty reached out and put her hand on his arm. “They took care of the suicide bomber but today there was retaliation, and the patrol got ambushed in the vehicle, in their APV.” Anne’s eyes grew shiny, and she bit her lip. Taking a deep breath, she blew it out before continuing. “I don’t know much more than that. They’ve airlifted the worst of the wounded—your dad and a couple others—out of Iraq to the base in Germany.” Anne sucked in another breath and tears slid down her cheeks. She snatched one of Thorne’s tissues and wiped at the tracks on her skin.

  The ice shifted behind Kitty’s aching head as she nodded.

  “Right now they’re saying Dad is critical but stable.” Anne rubbed a hand on Kitty’s shoulder. “And that’s okay, that’s decent. I’ll be leaving for Germany in a couple days. We’ll get him back to the States as fast as we can.”

  Sam got up and went around to stand at his mother’s side. Anne wrapped an arm around his waist. “I wish I could take both of you with me, but I can’t. They’ll only allow one family member at the hospital. I’m going to call Aunt Lila to stay with you.”

  Sam whined, “Oh no, not Aunt Lila.”

  Kitty agreed with him. Aunt Lila was her mom’s aunt, so she was actually Kitty’s great-aunt. She was seventy-two with a prosthetic hip. When Aunt Lila came to visit, she spent most of her time on the couch giving orders.

  Kitty reached behind her head and moved the ice so that she could sit up straight. “Mom, I’m going to be eighteen in a couple months. I’ve been taking care of Sam and the house the entire summer long. I can handle this.”

  “You shouldn’t have to, Kitty. You’re in high school.” Anne sniffed and grabbed another tissue. “I hate this.”

  “We’ve got this, Mom. Sam and me. We can handle it.” She looked at her little brother for confirmation who nodded.

  Anne’s cell phone buzzed, and she checked the caller display. “Hold on.” She walked over near Thorne’s desk to take the call.

  Kitty replaced the plastic bag behind her head. Her mom’s voice receded into the background. The ice was so cold. Maybe that was why her brain felt numb.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The M1 kicked like a mule. A small mule actually, maybe more like a burro. Kitty lowered the carbine and rubbed her shoulder. The temperature was the real problem. No weatherman would have called the snow drifting down a flurry, but it was enough to remind her it was the middle of December. She looked with longing at her down coat and gloves lying in a heap on the dead gray-brown grass of Phinney’s meadow. She needed the mobility of her flannel shirt and turtleneck alone, but whacking her ice-cold shoulder repeatedly with the butt end of the gun didn’t feel good.

  I’m sixty-eight years younger than Phinney. I can do this.

  Raising the gun, she took another shot. Spikes of icy pain shot into her with the recoil. Trying not to wince she lowered it. Geez, it hurt, but she needed to keep her game face on for Joe.

  Joe pulled his head further into his coat collar. She could barely see his face surrounded by that furry-eared hat he liked to wear. What did he call it? His mad bomber hat? His dad was bald; he had a reason to wear one. But Joe had hair, nice hair too. The boy was no slave to fashion.

  “Come on, Kit, I’m freezing. Let’s go. Your mom left this morning; you need to be home.” His breath puffed out in clouds.

  Kitty glared at him. They had been at each other’s throats all day. She didn’t know if it was the cold or another government test she had nearly failed. The only reason she was standing here in twenty-degree weather was to put him through his paces.

  “I’m serious. My dad has the direct number for your Aunt Lila, and if he sees one thing out of line, he’s calling her. You don’t get a second chance.”

  Holding out the gun, Kitty stubbornly shook her head. “One more time. If you can hit the target with a decent three-shot burst, we’ll go.”

  “I don’t think this is about me.” He jerked the gun out of her cold fingers. “Maybe if you hammer yourself to bits, you won’t have to think about your dad.”

  He snapped the gun up to his shoulder and punched three holes in the target. “I’m going now. Call me when you get home, and I’ll make sure Sam gets there.”

  The gravel near the burned-out cabin crunched. They both looked up to see Melville’s late-model four-door bouncing in. Of course, he’d come today. She’d thought he’d lost interest, but it seemed he’d only been waiting for the worst possible time.

  Pulling the carbine toward her, she spoke through the side of her mouth, trying for a minimum of movement. “Joe, I’ll take this with me. It’s the .45 that will cause trouble so keep it out of sight. Once I’m up there, cut through the woods. Leave it all in the wood shop and head for home.”

  “Mmm.”

  To an outsider it might have sounded like Joe was humming, but Kitty knew he understood. Leaving him standing there, she slung the little rifle over her shoulder, scooped up her outerwear, and hiked up the hill toward the detective. She smiled brightly as she approached his car.

  “Hey, Detective Melville.” She pulled the fleece neck gaiter she had made over her head and shrugged her way into the fluff of her coat, moving the leather sling of the carbine from one side to the other.

  The big man looked larger than life, bundled into a dark wool overcoat with a Navy watch cap on his head. “Kind of chilly for target practice, isn’t it? I don’t put in any outside range time after November.”

  Kitty pulled on her fat-fingered gloves, stalling. “Thought we’d run a few rounds through.
”

  Melville leaned back against the door. The sedan thrummed, still running. “Want to sit inside the car? It’s a whole lot warmer.”

  Melville wore thin leather gloves, and he had no scarf. Kitty was better outfitted for this round than he was. Pointing over her shoulder at the cabin ruins, she suggested, “How about the porch steps? They’re still sturdy enough. They can get soot on you though, so watch out.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she walked toward the risers unloading the carbine as she went. Propping the gun next to her, she sat down and hunched into her coat. She didn’t look at Melville, but she could hear him shutting off the car. Instead she looked at the woods past the slope of the meadow. The oaks refused to give up their leaves like sensible trees, and the curled brown fingers beckoned to her.

  “Come and hide,” they said.

  Kitty considered their offer. The skeletal gray trunks would wrap their concealing camouflage around her, and it would be so quiet. No Melville, no arguments, no broken father lying in a hospital far from here. But the comfort of the trees would last for less than two weeks. Then they would harbor other fugitives, ones that were a whole lot more dangerous than she was.

  She was sick of it all.

  Melville’s dark bulk obscured her view and she glanced up. A stray snowflake floated into her eyelashes and she blinked it away. She patted the step next to her. Plenty of room for two. The detective settled his bulk on the riser and the singed wood creaked ominously.

  She waited for him to start and after a few minutes of watching the snow, he did.

  “How’s your dad? We were all upset to hear about it.”

  She nodded. “He’s stable, but pretty beat up. At the base hospital in Germany. They can’t move him to Walter Reed here in the States until he’s doing better, so Mom left today to be with him.”

  He’s going to be okay. She needed to keep telling herself that.

  Melville pointed down at the plywood target. “That an assault rifle you and Zubowicz were using?”

  Ah, so the niceties were already over.

  Melville continued. “One of those little ones that can take a 20-round magazine?”

  Kitty almost laughed. The diminutive gun was an antique. The fact that it started with an ‘a’ was as close as it got to assault. “No, it’s a World War II carbine.” As she heard the words, she knew her mistake.

  “Your dad collect those? ’Cause the only veteran that age around here was this old boy.” He cocked his head back toward the pile of rubble behind them.

  Kitty didn’t answer but eyed the woods. It still beckoned.

  Melville shifted, and the step groaned under their weight. “I heard he left you some money. That must be nice. Those National Guard deals like your dad has rarely work out financially.”

  Kitty didn’t answer. Snow began to fall faster.

  Melville stamped his feet. “Seemed weird though. Like he knew it was coming. I mean he gives you a bunch of money and then goes missing. Kind of…coincidental.”

  She would not hide. She was tired of being afraid. If she told at least part of the truth, the ball would be back in his court.

  “What astrological event happened the night the cabin burned, Detective?”

  Melville beat his hands together to keep the blood flowing. “What kind of a question is that? It got dark and his cabin burned. I got no body and nobody’s seen him since.”

  Kitty wiped a snowflake off her cheek. “No, I mean what happened in the night sky that particular night? What was special about that day of the month?”

  Melville was cold and cranky. He blew into his cupped hands then shoved them deep into his pockets. “Look, Irish, why don’t you tell me the answer you want? Then we’ll pretend I said it, okay? ’Cause I don’t like playing word games.”

  Kitty smiled into her neck gaiter. Her toasty down coat worked its magic, thawing her chilled limbs. She had plenty of time but knew instinctively she shouldn’t push the big man. Not yet anyway. She would feed him this one clue. The next one he had to figure out on his own. Otherwise, this whole conversation was for nothing.

  “You can check a lunar calendar, but I’m pretty sure that was the night of the full moon.”

  Melville stiffened. His reaction was so slight Kitty almost thought she imagined it.

  Putting his hand out, he snapped his fingers. Gloved, the sound whispered in the fast-graying light. “I’ve got it. It was a full moon the night he died.”

  “Good call. Now, as a kid did your mom tell you any rumors about full moon nights?”

  She had him that time. His gaze had skipped sideways before looking back at the meadow. When he didn’t answer, Kitty did it for him. “My own mom…” she shook her head. “Won’t let me out in the woods on full moon nights. Says that’s when the crazies come out. My friend Jenna’s grandma gets all worked up. I wondered about your mom.”

  “My mother, Irish, was a preeminent pie-baker, an average piano player and a very superstitious woman.”

  Kitty relaxed into the wood behind her. The riser behind her caught her in the back and supported her. She didn’t care about the dark streak across the neon green of her coat. Laundry had become her forte.

  “I had a section on folklore in my sophomore English class. Mr. Jarvey said that some myths begin with a true happening.”

  “Yeah, well I know Jarvey. The man speeds.”

  If speeders were not to be trusted, then ninety percent of Oakmont High was unreliable.

  Melville stomped his feet one by one on the ground. Giving up, he stood and paced, tucking his hands into his armpits. Kitty waited.

  Finally, he stopped and faced her. “So you’re telling me—” he began.

  Kitty raised her eyes to his. He had to say the word. If he said it, he might believe.

  He tried again. “You want me—” He gave up in disgust. “I’m not standing out here, freezing my butt off for a load of garbage.”

  He strode to the car. The engine roared into sudden violent life, and he spun out onto the lane. Kitty watched the red taillights disappear down the hill.

  Who speeds, Detective?

  She picked up the carbine and slung it against her back. Trudging down the hill, she walked the path into the oaks. They opened their arms and welcomed her in.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A crash from downstairs woke her. She lay still, looking up at the ceiling. Maybe it was her imagination. She counted to five. When it didn’t come again, she rolled over, curled up in a little ball and closed her eyes. What came next was worse. The incessant shriek of the smoke alarm pierced into her foggy brain. Throwing the comforter off, Kitty jumped up and took the stairs two at a time. Rounding the corner into the kitchen, she stopped dead.

  Sam stood on tiptoe on a dining room chair madly waving a cookie sheet at the offending smoke alarm. A frying pan smoked on the stovetop. He looked over his shoulder and saw her.

  “What are you doing?” It was close to a yell.

  “I’m working on breakfast.”

  “We agreed no cooking unless I’m awake, remember?” She took two quick strides to the stove and shut off the burner. Then she reached past Sam and yanked the alarm off its base. The noise stopped immediately.

  “Well, when were you going to get up? I figured Mom’s Saturday pancakes would get you going.”

  So that was what the little blackened circles in the pan were. Only the relief in contour gave their camouflage away. Grabbing a potholder, she wrapped it around the handle.

  “Look out, buddy. Coming through.” She strode through the kitchen and opened the storm door. More snow had fallen during the night. Stepping out onto the porch in her bare feet, she tossed the frying pan into the small drift that always slumped to the side of the steps. There was a hiss and the pan sank out of sight. She jumped back inside, yanking the door shut behind her. She pounded her feet on the rug to warm them and headed back to the kitchen.

  “Don’t let me forget that’s out there. Mom
will kill me if she finds a rusty frying pan sitting there in the spring.”

  Sam pointed at the smoke alarm. “That thing is really annoying. It’s so loud.”

  “Loud enough to wake me,” Kitty agreed. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the pitcher of sun tea. She held it up to the light coming through the window above the sink. Pretty sad. Tea made with the weak December sunlight didn’t cut it.

  Sam jumped off the chair and tossed the cookie sheet into the sink. The clatter made Kitty wince. “Mom says teenagers sleep like the dead.”

  Every month brought a fresh round of opportunity for her to be just that…dead… or worse. She pushed that thought back into the vault it had crawled out of and poured a glass of tea. “Did she also tell you that a lot of noise early in the morning makes us crabby?”

  Shoving the pitcher back onto the shelf next to the milk, she noted that the gallon carried a date a few days gone by.

  Sam headed for the pantry. “What do you think of oatmeal? Or eggs once the frying pan’s out of the snow bank?”

  “How about toast? Or dry cereal?” Secretly she thought Sam and the stove were a team best split up. “I don’t think the milk is good anymore. I need to go to the store and get some groceries.”

  “Great. We can go before we get the Christmas tree.”

  How did I forget the Christmas tree? Kitty drew in a deep breath and checked the calendar. Sure enough, Sam had drawn a pine tree on today’s date. Even better, the full moon fell on the twenty-third. First homecoming, now Christmas. This job got better and better.

  ****

  Bells on the horses’ harnesses jingled merrily. The wagon rolled along the two-track between the pines and Kitty swayed sideways, bumping into the woman next to her on the hay bale.

  The woman turned, smiling. “The wagon’s always a rough ride but it’s so much more fun than getting the pre-cut trees. My family loves it.”