"Gus, if I stay for one more story, my brain's going to short circuit. You can tell me tomorrow, when you're sober. Come by the station at noon. I'll order us a pizza. No beer."
Gus barely nodded, and no smile was forthcoming. ''It's important. Mark might be in danger."
"What?" His first thought was that because Mark was at the Addamses' house, he must be making plans to spy on the girls at St. Gruesome's and Gus knew about it.
"Every twenty-four years- " Gus began.
''Gus, please- tell me tomorrow." He sighed with relief. "Frank, do you know what he's talking about?"
"Haven't a clue."
"I'll bring the family tree," his grandfather told him. "And you'll see. You'll see."
"Sure. Good night, Gus, Frank."
After looking around the tavern once more and seeing no sign of Dashwood, he walked out into the dark. Shrugging on his jacket, he breathed in the night air. It was getting cold and he could smell autumn on the wind. The apples were coming in. and the leaves were turning to red and gold. Tourist season bad already begun.
Wood smoke rode by on a breeze. making him think of grinning jack-o’-lanterns. the smell of burnt pumpkin. His skin turned to gooseflesh and his whole body shook with a chill not related to the weather. Quickly be walked across the parking lot to his car and drove home.
Twenty-nine
''Will you boys turn that television down a little?" Winky Addams asked as he entered the family room where Mark. Corey. and Pete were sprawled out on their sleeping bags. Winky held a plate containing the last piece of mincemeat pie- donated by Mark- and he had a forkful of the disgusting glop suspended halfway between plate and mouth.
"Just five more minutes, Dad!" Corey pleaded. It's The X-Files, and it's almost over!"
"Okay." Addams said. "Five minutes."
The show ended. and Mark glanced at the doorway. saw that Corey's dad was still standing there watching and finishing his pie. Mark caught his eye and grinned. "Good show, huh, Mr. Addams?”
Winky returned the smile. "Not too shabby. What's your dad think of it, being a lawman and all?'
"He doesn't like to watch spooky stuff."
Winky Addams got a faraway look on his face. "Time was, you couldn't keep him away from that sort of thing. He never missed the Haunt."
''Really?" Mark asked. surprised. ''He never even goes with Gus and me." He paused. "But that's because he always works during the Haunt so that his deputies can go."
Winky Addams nodded. ''That's nice of him. Say hi for me, will you, Mark? It's been a long time."
"Sure. He says hi to you. too."
"Now, turn down the volume and don’t have too much fun, guys." Saying good night to them, he left the room, and a moment later they heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs.
"Let's get back to work on the Haunt," Pete Parker said. He sat up and snagged the notebook they’d been using before The X-Files had begun.
The other two boys sat up on their sleeping bags. "Mark." said Corey.
''Huh?"
"I know why your dad won't go to the Haunt."
"I already said why."
Corey shook his blond head. ''That's not the real reason. My dad told me, but he said not to tell."
"Then why are you?" Pete asked, tapping his pen impatiently against the spiral-bound notebook. ''Let's get to work."
"Wait a minute," Mark said. "What'dya mean, Corey?"
Corey Addams leaned in conspiratorially. "Did you know my dad and your dad were best friends?"
"Nah, you're kidding." Mark paused. "Really?"
"Yeah. That's how come my dad knows why he's scared of Halloween."
Mark bristled. "My dad's not afraid of anything. Shit, he's the sheriff, and that makes him the bravest man in Moonfall."
"He's afraid of Halloween." Corey repeated earnestly.
"Take it back," Mark said softly. He’d known Corey since kindergarten, and the boy wasn't the type who teased. He was quiet and he didn't like fighting. "Or tell me what you mean," he added stiffly.
''My dad said that he and your dad and some other guys all went to the Haunt together. and after that, they came here for a sleepover. Right here in this room," he added in a meaningful whisper.
"So?" Mark asked. trying to bide his interest.
"They were sneaking out to go camping by Witch Falls and your dad’s little brother showed up."
“Greg. I know all about him. He drowned." Mark hesitated as understanding dawned. ''You mean that's the night he drowned? Halloween?"
''Yeah."
"I wonder why he didn't tell me that." Mark rubbed his chin. ''I mean, he told me how bad he still feels about it and all, but he never said when it happened. I just figured it was summer, 'cause why would you want to camp at the Falls any other time?"
''Yeah, it's too cold," said Pete, his pen no longer drumming.
"I heard something else, too," Corey whispered.
"What?"
''Swear not to tell?"
"Swear," Mark and Pete repeated.
"I overheard my dad telling my mom about a nightmare he had," Corey told them. ''It really shook him up. I mean, I heard this yell that woke me up. It was my dad, and I went to see if anything was wrong, and their door was almost closed, and the light was on, and my mom was telling him everything was all right, so I just waited a minute, and my dad said he'd had this dream, you know? A nightmare. Then I was afraid they'd hear me if I moved, so I just stood there and listened."
Mark almost said his dad had nightmares a lot, but stopped himself. "So, what'd he say?"
''He said he was dreaming about the night Greg died, and that they- my dad, your dad, and those other guys weren't going camping. They went to St. Gruesome's instead, and they got caught. He said all those gargoyles were flying around just like in the stories."
Pete snorted. "Your dad's afraid of gargoyles?"
"Shit, no. It was just in the dream, and he didn't even say he was afraid."
"Finish the story," Mark hissed.
"Anyway, he said all this weird shit happened, some sexy stuff, but he didn't say what- "
"Your dad's afraid of sex?"
''Shut up, Pete," Mark said without taking his eyes off Corey.
"He said he dreamed that those nuns killed them."
"Killed who? Greg?"
''No. Killed my dad and your dad and the other guys, but they all came back to life except Greg. He stayed dead. The gargoyles ate him."
"Cripes," Mark said, disappointed. He didn't know what he'd expected to hear, but that wasn't it.
"What about the sex stuff?" Pete asked. "What'd he say about that?"
"Nothing much, just something about the nuns dancing around naked."
"Gross! Naked nuns!" Pete cried in a stage whisper.
"No naked schoolgirls?" Mark asked, his mood lightening rapidly.
''Not that he mentioned," Corey replied solemnly.
"Like he'd tell your mom about that!" Pete snickered.
Corey smiled at last. "Yeah, I guess. But I don't think he woulda yelled like that if there'd been girls in it."
"Old naked nuns'd be enough to make me scream," Mark said, trying not to giggle.
"How 'bout young naked nuns?" Pete asked, then clamped his hand over his mouth as a laughing fit took him.
"You guys know anybody who's ever been there?" Pete asked finally.
"My dad," Mark said proudly. "Because of that dead teacher in the pond."
"Did she really commit suicide?" Corey asked.
"And was she really naked?" Pete chimed in.
"Yeah, I guess she did. And no, Parker, she wasn't naked."
"Would'jer dad have told you if she was?" Pete prodded.
Mark shrugged and let a stupid grin slide across his face. "You so hard up for sex that dead women turn you on?"
"Yeah," Pete said sarcastically. "I like 'em all bloated and rotten, same as Corey!"
It was hard to get Corey laughing, but once you did, he was like the
Energizer Bunny- he just kept going and going and going. Now, he wrapped his arms around himself, falling on his side, shaking with barely contained giggles. ''Cut it out," be managed, "or my dad'll hear."
"Worms," Mark said. " I like my women wormy."
''With lots of maggots and centipedes," Pete tossed in.
Laughter erupted and the descriptions of the perfect woman descended below Beavis and Butthead levels until Corey's dad's voice echoed down the stairwell. "Lights out, boys."
''I told you guys to shut up," Corey sputtered. wiping tears from his eyes. He got up and flicked off the overhead light switch, then turned off the TV, leaving them in the dim yellow glow of a lamp on the end table. "They can't see this from upstairs," he whispered. "but we gotta keep quiet or they'll come down."
They sat quietly and worked on the Haunted Barn plans for a while. They were doing a mad doctor's lab and they came up with some great stuff involving severed heads that talked and jars full of fingers and ears and eyeballs. Just past midnight, they put the notebook down, doused the light, and crawled into their sleeping bags.
"So, you wanna tell ghost stories?" Pete whispered.
"Not the headless monk one," Corey said. "That's boring."
"And the gargoyle stuff is stupid," Mark added.
"What about the other ghosts at St. Gruesome's?" Pete asked.
"You mean that 'lady in white' crap?" Corey said. "That's bogus."
"Huh-uh. Caspar says she's real."
''How's he know?"
"He said that about a million years ago he was hiking around and he saw her. He thought she was real, and she ran away when he called after her. Later, he talked to your girlfriend, Lawson, and she said it was one of the ghosts from the school."
"I don't have a girlfriend," Mark said, somewhat regretfully.
"Yeah you do," Pete said in a goading voice. "You're doing the old witch, aren't ya?"
"Hell, no. She's like, older than God. but she knows all this great stuff. If you guys weren't such a pair of wusses, you could hear Minerva's stories, too."
"Min-nerr-va," Pete taunted. "He calls the old witch Minerva!"
"Yeah, well, she knows all about those nuns."
''What'd she say?" Corey asked.
"That they're evil."
"What else?"
Mark hadn't actually asked her much about the nuns or the abbey. He was mostly interested in the things she knew about herbs and roots. Mark, who loved his chemistry set above all else, thought of the old woman as a kind of chemist, but if he told Pete and Corey that, he'd never hear the end of it. He could just hear them: Mark picked flowers with the old witch!
That's all I need! "Why don't you come with me to see her and ask her about the nuns yourselves?"
"Yeah, like I wanna go hang around an old lady," Pete sneered.
"She gives me all kinds of great stuff. Tarts and pastries and stuff," Mark said. "For free."
"Yeah?" Pete asked, his voice slurring a little with oncoming sleep.
Mark knew he had redeemed himself. If he was visiting Minerva because she was a soft touch, that made it okay. He decided to stick with that.
''We gotta get up early to see Caspar," Pete murmured. ''I'm going to sleep now."
Mark lay in the dark a long time after he heard Pete and Corey's soft, regular breathing. Outside, a night bird screeched. The sound was chilling and he couldn't help but think of the old gargoyle stories. Steadfastly he turned his thoughts to his father, wondering if he was sound asleep or if he was having more nightmares.
Another screech resonated to the north, and Mark suddenly wished he were at home in his own bed, there in case his father needed him.
Thirty
John had stayed home only briefly after leaving Winesap's Tavern, just long enough to undress, shower, and go to bed. Then he lay there wide awake, thinking about Gus's revelation about his father's death. After an hour, he'd dressed and gone down to the sheriff's office.
When he walked in, the night dispatcher, Bobby Hasse, looked up in surprise. "What are you doing here this time of night, John?" he asked, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and wiping them with a Kleenex.
"Just wanted to look something up. Where's Thurman?"
"On rounds. He'll be back soon." Bobby put his glasses back on. Although he was over thirty, he had a baby-faced look that attracted women like cats to catnip. "Do you want me to call him for you?" His hand moved toward the radio.
''No. Just wondering." He knew his night man spent time in his office when he wasn't patrolling- be was an aspiring writer, and the quiet Moonfall nights gave him plenty of time to work at John's antique IBM Selectric typewriter. Thurman was his best cop, and he had John's blessing; in fact, if he was in there writing, that would have given John an excuse to go home instead of read about his father's death. He was slightly disappointed because be dreaded looking at the file. ''Quiet night?"
"One DUI. He's in the cell for the night. CHP will pick him up in the morning."
"It wasn't my grandfather, was it?"
Bobby smiled. ''No. Some son of a bitch redneck from San Bernardino. Good thing Jeff spotted him, too. He had a rifle and hunting gear and a dead doe in his trunk."
John shook his head. There was no hunting allowed in tiny Moonfall County, but the drunk could easily have taken the deer in the San Bernardino Mountains, a hop, skip, and jump to the north. There would be no way to tell.
"He didn't have a hunting license," Hasse added, as he turned a page of the computer magazine he was reading.
"Good. Did Jeff write him up on that, too?"
Bobby Hasse smiled. "Sure as hell did."
"Good." He glanced at the computer by Bobby. Winged toasters flew lazily against a black background. The night dispatcher was the only reason they even had one- he loved and understood them and had nagged about being behind the times until the department bought one. John noticed a stack of files beside it. "What year are you up to?''
"Just input 1947," Hasse said. "I'll do '48 after lunch." He nodded at a paper sack on the other side of the desk.
"Have fun. I'll be in my office."
In his office, John saw a sheet of paper in the typewriter and a half-inch stack beside it. A little guiltily, he glanced at the top page, saw something about an alien invasion. Knowing Jeff, the aliens were extraterrestrial, not illegal, and it made him smile and wonder if he might lose Thurman to fame someday.
He went to the files and searched through 1973 until be found and extracted the report on Henry Lawson's death. At his desk, he read through it and found Gus had told him the entire story. There wasn't much, and there certainly was no tie to St. Gertrude's. The circumstantial evidence- that Henry had visited the abbey- wasn't even mentioned. He put the file back and looked through the '72 file on Greg's death, found nothing, then looked through everything between, hoping to find something on St. Gertrude's. It was in vain: if his father had been investigating the girls' home, he had left no notes about it.
John put his feet up on the desk, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Rely on your past experience. That's what Gus had said. Both he and Frank Cutter had seemed to be encouraging John's suspicions about St. Gertrude's. Gus, in particular, liked entertainment and wasn't above exaggerating to get a rise out of people, but John doubted that the old man would embroider on his own son's death. He, like Sara Hawthorne, might have convinced himself that his suspicions were correct- but what if both he and the young teacher were right?
John sighed, wondering why Gus had mentioned the family tree. It's probably nothing. Though his grandfather wasn't showing any signs of senility, he'd always been given to vagaries and this was probably one of them. Still, John thought, as he felt sleep coming on, the old man's words had held a disturbing ring of truth.
Thirty-one
Midnight, and Minerva Payne sat by the warm wood stove in her kitchen, drinking a cup of tea. Nothing mysterious and herbal, just good old English Breakfast.
She'd gone to bed just after
ten o'clock, slept soundly for two hours, then awakened with a start at the screeching of a nightflyer. Most people thought they were owls or hawks, but she knew better, and the raucous cries froze her blood as the thing flew in circles above her house for long minutes before flying off toward town.
A portent. Minerva had tied her warm robe around her waist and pulled on her slippers before going to the kitchen and stoking up the fire. Time is running out.
But I'm tired, so tired. In the old days, she'd had more enthusiasm and even her repeated failures to stop many of the deaths hadn't dampened her spirits. You can't give up now; lives depend on it. For the first time in many years she had two possible adepts: the orphan Kelly Reed, and Mark Lawson. All the Lawsons were, of course, capable of learning her arts, but until Mark, they'd lacked the desire. At one time, she thought Gus Lawson might come to her, but he was ultimately too involved in his own religion to be open to her beliefs and practices.
Kelly Reed was especially powerful; she routinely saw the ghosts and she had a great intuitive gift, but she was also very weak and unsure of herself. She was a rebel, too, and her constant rule-breaking at St. Gertrude's had kept her in trouble. When Minerva tried to talk to her about it, she hadn't gotten very far. Emotionally, Kelly was a typical adolescent- she thought she knew everything, and she wouldn't let Minerva or anyone else prevent her from doing what she wanted, whether it was making faces at the nuns behind their backs or sacrificing herself for some imagined cause. To make matters worse, she had an aura of darkness surrounding her that did not bode well for her continued well-being.
Mark, at least, hadn't entered the rebellious phase yet, but he was brave to the point of foolishness. All children believe they're immortal. She had seen in his eyes that he was driven by curiosity- like a cat, he was fearless if he wanted to find out about something. His fascination with the rumors about Minerva had first brought him into her shop, and she had quickly realized that a way to hook the boy was to dangle information under his nose. Mark was interested in formulas, from the one she used to make toffee, to the ingredients that went into making a poultice for a toothache. It didn't matter much to Mark what it was, though he had a predilection for the medicinals; he just had to know. It was his driving force.
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