He walked out onto the front porch and took deep lungfuls of fresh air, then called in the crime on his cell phone.
PART FOUR
October, 1996
Fifty-four
The day of Gus's funeral dawned foggy and cold, and as the casket was lowered into the grave, John rested his hand on Mark's shoulder. The little cemetery, which had served Moonfall since pioneer days, was filled with living friends and neighbors, and in a way, that only made him feel worse. He had let Gus and the whole town down because he and his deputies hadn't been able to turn up a thing. Not a footprint, fingerprint, or suspect- not a damned thing.
Mark nudged him, and he realized everyone was waiting for him to act. He stepped forward and scooped up a handful of dirt, then sprinkled it in the grave. "Ashes to ashes," he said and choked on the words.
The next moments were confusing as everyone came up to offer his sympathy. He shook hands and nodded and said ''thank you" more times than he could count, and even found some trace of amusement in the sheer number of grieving older women, many of them from out of town, who threw red roses into the grave. Gus had always brought his dates a red rose, and now he was smothered in them.
"John, I'm real sorry about Gus." Caspar Parker shook his hand solemnly. "You let me know if there's anything I can do."
John looked at the old man, Gus's best friend, Pete Parker's great-grandfather, the mainstay of Moonfall. There was true kindness in the eyes of this man and it surprised him since he hadn't gotten to the bottom of his great-grandson's death. "Thanks. Is the Haunt still on?"
"Pete would want it that way," Caspar said, loosening his tie. "But now, with Gus's death, the violence of it- I don't know."
"Please, go ahead with your plans. Gus wouldn't want it any other way."
Caspar nodded, then looked down at Mark. "You still want to help?"
"Can I, Dad?"
“Of course you can." Mark was part of the reason he wanted the Haunt to run as scheduled: it would give the boy something to concentrate on.
Caspar stood beside the grave a long moment, hat in hand, then walked slowly toward the cemetery gate.
"How are you two holding up?" Frank Cutter asked as he stepped forward.
John turned toward him and realized that the cemetery was nearly deserted. Only Minerva Payne lingered, twenty feet away, at the grave of Jeremiah Moonfall. "We'll survive, Frank."
“Terrible thing," Cutter said.
"Yeah."
"A few of us are going to have a little wake at Winesap's tonight, raise a few glasses in Gus's honor. It's what he would want. Care to join us?"
"Uh, no," John said, glancing at Mark.
“Dad? Corey asked if I could spend the night," Mark said. "I said I didn't think I could, but I'd like to, if you want to go out."
''Well, sure, I guess."
“It'll do you both good to get out," Cutter said.
John nodded, his eyes on Minerva Payne, who was walking purposefully toward them. ''Minerva, thank you for coming."
"You're welcome," she said, then turned to Mark. "I hope you'll come visit me sometime soon."
"I will."
"I have to do some heavy cleaning at the Gingerbread House next week. Would you be interested in working for me after school?"
"Yeah. Can I, Dad?"
He nodded, realizing Minerva's intentions- keeping the boy occupied- matched his. "Just so your homework gets done." As he spoke, the old lady shot him a subtle wink, and for the first time since Gus's death, he actually suspected that life might go on.
"Sheriff," she said, drawing an envelope from a pocket in her dark dress. "This is for you. No, no, don't open it now. But come see me next week, after you've perused it."
He nodded. "I'll do that."
Gentle rain began to fall, not much more than a mist, and Minerva pulled her shawl closer around her.
"Can I give you a lift?" Frank Cutter asked.
"Yes, that would be very kind of you." She stepped forward and kissed Mark lightly on the forehead, then rested her hand briefly on John's. "Take care," she told them. "Be careful." With that, she turned and took Cutter's arm, and they walked slowly away, leaving John and Mark alone.
"Why can't you find the killer, Dad?" the boy asked softly.
The question tore him apart. "Mark, I won't stop looking until I do find him. I promise."
Mark didn't reply. He was staring at the grave, silent tears that had been held back throughout the services, now coursing down his cheeks. John felt his own tears spill, and didn't bother to wipe them away.
"It must've been horrible finding him like you did," his son murmured at last.
"Yes. But no worse than you went through when you found Pete."
Mark looked up at him. ''Thanks, Dad."
"For what?"
"For- I don't know. For everything. For not punishing me when Pete died. For being nice to Minerva. For not dying."
The tears came harder, mingling with the rain, and John put his arm around Mark's shoulders, drew him close, suddenly wondering how he'd survive if something ever happened to the boy.
Fifty-five
"Here's to Gus." Frank Cutter said, raising his straight shot of Wild Turkey.
''To Gus," said John and Caspar Parker in unison.
They drank; then Caspar poured another round and raised his glass again. ''To Pete, a hell of a little guy."
"To Pete."
They drank again; then Caspar poured more liquor into their glasses. John hoped there would be no more toasts: he just didn't have the stomach for it. And it felt strange to be sitting in Winesap's without Gus. Be honest; it's depressing as hell.
''Anyone else corning?" he asked.
"I asked Winky Addams and Beano Franklin, but it doesn't look like they're going to show," Cutter said.
"Joe didn't want to leave Helen home alone," Caspar said. They were Pete's parents. "Johnny, I wanted to talk to you about Pete a little bit."
"I'm sorry, Caspar, but I don't have anything new yet."
"No, no, son, I know that. And you've had more on your mind. Trying to find a human killer takes precedence over an animal attack." Caspar downed his third shot and poured himself another. ''I want to tell you something about Pete's death." He cleared his throat, then looked John in the eye. "He's not the first."
John sat up in surprise. "He's not?"
"No. Way back in 1898, my uncle was killed by one of those murdering bastards. My dad saw it, but he told everybody it was a bear. We had a lot of griz around here back then."
"Why'd he say it was a bear, Caspar?" John asked.
"Simple. He knew everybody'd think he was nuts if he told 'em what he really saw. He only told me on his deathbed, and I never told anyone else until now. Not even Gus." He downed another shot. "I didn't want to be thought of as a space cadet, either, and I wouldn't have spoken up if Mark and Corey hadn't seen it, since I wasn't too sure about it." He sat forward. "I've seen a lot of strange things around here. Saw one of those white ladies in the orchard not once, but three different times over the years. Saw some other things I'm not sure I believe, either. There was a house up on the hill where the Heights is now, when I was a boy. Just a little cabin. A woman and her daughter lived there. Pretty little things, both of 'em. But one night, stones commenced to rain on the house. Everybody saw it. They appeared out of the sky- pop- like that." He snapped his fingers. ''Went on for a couple months. Big ones, little ones, river stones, lava rock. No one could ever explain it. Not even Minerva."
"She must've been just a girl then," Cutter said. He was on his fourth shot.
"Well, maybe she was and maybe she wasn't." Caspar poured a double. "She claims her ma and her ma before her and so on have always lived in the cottage, since about the time Jeremiah Moonfall came to town. But no one never saw a youngster around there. Just the old woman."
"What're you saying, Caspar?" the doctor asked. "That Minerva's been living there for a couple hundred years?"
&nbs
p; "Nah, that's too crazy, even for the likes of me. I'm just saying there's something strange about Minerva, too." With liquor-glazed eyes, he stared at John. "Your boy likes her, doesn't he? Pete said he did."
John nodded. "He likes her a lot. But Caspar, tell me what your father said-"
"It's okay, Johnny, if young Mark likes her. She's a witchy old woman, but she's not evil. She's got nothing to do with those gargoyles; that's just rumor."
"What killed your uncle?" John asked, as Caspar paused to pour another whiskey.
"Just told you, Johnny. A gargoyle got him."
"A gargoyle?" John stifled a chuckle.
"That's what I said. They roost at St. Gertrude's."
John and Cutter exchanged glances.
''I know what you're thinking," Caspar said to both of them. "But it took a lot of good whiskey for me to get up the nerve to tell you, and you're gonna listen. My daddy described something a lot like what your son and Corey talked about, only this one was a little different. It had a long tail whippin' around behind it, and it had little fuzzy ears like a bear's. What do you think's been screeching in the forest all these years? Hawks don't sound like that; neither do owls. We had a few bird nuts come through here looking to find themselves a new species, but they never did. Never will. They couldn't find eggs, nor nests, and you know why?" With a satisfied look, he glanced back and forth between the two men.
''Why?" Cutter asked.
"Because they turn to stone in the daylight."
"Yeah," John said. "I hear that's what gargoyles do."
"Oh, they don't have to," Caspar said, his volume rising with every word. ''That's just their way, most of the time. That way, nobody can catch 'em. All those stories about 'em carrying off babies are based in fact, you know. My daddy told me they got a few, back when people weren't quite so careful."
"Sheriff Lawson, allow me to extend my condolences."
John jerked his head around and found Richard Dashwood staring sympathetically down at him. What was worse was that Sara Hawthorne was with him. He stood up, glad he hadn't been drinking. ''Dr. Dashwood, Ms. Hawthorne. This is a surprise."
"I heard about your grandfather," Sara said softly. "I'm so sorry."
''Thanks."
"Who're you?" Caspar asked Dashwood. "I've seen you before."
"I don't think so. Perhaps you met my father." Dashwood extended his hand, but Caspar was too drunk to bother with such amenities. "I'm Richard Dashwood, St. Gertrude's physician.
This is Miss Hawthorne, one of our teachers."
Caspar paid no attention to Sara, but kept his eyes on Dashwood. "I know you."
"Perhaps you've seen me at your Halloween Haunt. I attended last year."
"That must be it," John said, sensing trouble brewing. He smiled at Sara. "Out for a night on the town?"
She looked uncomfortable. ''Just one drink. I've been so busy I haven't been able to get away."
"At least you've made a friend," John said.
"Something's wrong with my car, so Richard offered to drive me."
John didn't like the way she looked at the physician, but he knew he had no right to say so. You're jealous, you idiot.
"Care to join us?" Cutter asked.
"No, thank you. We have a table."
He nodded at a dark alcove less than ten feet away. Plenty close, John realized, to have eavesdropped on Caspar's loud comments about the gargoyles. "Thanks for stopping by," he said, and turned his back on the pair.
Fifty-six
I shouldn't be here. What am I doing? Sara Hawthorne waited while Richard made a show of pulling her chair out for her after they left John's table.
"Another glass of chardonnay, Sara? It's an excellent vintage. I'm frankly surprised to find something of this caliber in an establishment like this." His nose wrinkled in distaste. "Unlike the tavern," he added, topping off her glass without waiting for a reply, ''this has an excellent bouquet."
And an interesting afterbirth. Sara wondered how he'd react if she'd joked aloud. Not well, she thought, her eyes drifting to the back of John Lawson's bead. She hadn't realized he had such broad shoulders until now.
The man's in mourning. Stop lusting after him. She smiled at Richard, and thought that maybe she was losing her mind.
Kelly had been locked up for a week, and she hadn't tried to send her any more encouragement, not even a scrap of paper with a note saying "Hi." She hadn't gone back to Minerva's, either. Instead, she'd spent all her free time in Richard's company. The man was a gourmet cook, and she'd gained several pounds in the last week, judging by the way her clothes fit.
She didn't know what the physician's attraction was, but it had put her in some sort of self-indulgent haze. Every time she was with him- for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day since their first lunch- she came away not caring about anything else. Tonight, she knew, they would probably make love for the first time.
"To pleasure," Richard said, raising his glass.
She smiled mechanically and clinked glasses, then sipped the wine. Was she in love? Was that why she was behaving so out of character? She'd thought so, but now she wondered if she was just rationalizing her behavior. The moment she'd looked into John Lawson's eyes, she'd found herself, at least for a brief instant. He's the one you want to make love to, not Richard.
"Sara? What are you thinking?"
"Nothing," she said, avoiding his eyes. If she looked into them, she would be captivated. It always happened that way.
He started talking about wine, and her thoughts drifted, though she was careful to nod at the right moments. She hadn't had another bad dream- or other experience- since the episode in the woods. Instead, she'd had very pleasant dreams, almost too pleasant. They were so intensely erotic that she awakened repeatedly in the throes of orgasm, positive that a phantom lover had just left her bed. It was almost enough to make her believe in incubi.
What's wrong with me? As Richard yammered on, she watched John's back, saw the slump of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. He was sad and he wasn't drinking. The old man at his table was making up for that, still holding forth, but in tones too soft to hear anymore. Earlier, before Richard insisted they say hello, she'd been eavesdropping with fascination, even though she could tell the old fellow was completely plastered. Richard, on the other hand, had grown more and more irritated. She was sure that was why he wanted to talk to them: to shut the old man up.
At that moment, John stood up and took his coat off the back of his chair. He was leaving. She had to talk to him.
"Excuse me a moment, Richard," she said softly. "I need to visit the powder room."
''Of course."
"No, don't get up. I'll be right back."
John was just going out the door. She left the table and glanced back. Richard wasn't watching. Quickly, she made her way across the common room, and out the door into the chilly night.
''John," she called across the lot.
He turned, squinting against the tavern's lights. "Sara?"
"Wait!" She ran to him. "I need to talk to you."
''Go ahead." His tone was cool.
"Not now. I don't want Richard to get suspicious."
"Look, I don't want to be part of whatever mating dance it is you're conducting."
Her first reaction was anger, but she quelled it, remembering his stories about his wife's affair, realizing trusting women was probably difficult for him. "It's not what you think. I- I don't know how to explain."
"It's pretty clear." He hesitated. "Look, I have no right to speak to you this way. I certainly have no claim on you. I've just had a hard day. A hard week."
She touched his arm and he didn't draw away. "I know. I'm sorry. Look, I don't know what's going on. That's what I need to talk to you about."
"Sara," he said, pulling back, "I'm in no shape to hear about your love life."
"I have no love life."
"Are you really that naive? Dashwood's laid claim on you. If you don't have a love life n
ow, I guarantee you will before the night is over."
''No," she said, thinking more clearly than she had in a week. "When I get back to the abbey, I'm going to have the headache of the century."
"Don't- "
"If I have a love life, you'll be part of it. Believe me, I have no interest in that man. He's an egomaniac."
"Then why are you with him?"
"I- I don't know. Like I said, it's part of the reason I need to talk to you. And it has nothing to do with sex. It has to do with things that are going on at the abbey. Things I don't understand. Please, believe me."
He studied her a long moment, then slowly put his hands on her shoulders. ''God help me, I believe you." With that, he pulled her against him and tilted her chin up gently with his fingers.
They brushed lips tentatively, once, twice, and the fire in her belly stirred to white hot flames. She could smell his skin, a mixture of clean aftershave and his own scent, whatever it was that made him a unique person. It was intoxicating. Their lips brushed again and she drew his lower lip between her own lips, lightly touched it with her tongue, tasting him.
She heard herself moan as his tongue met hers and they began to explore one another, his hands in her hair, hers feeling the ridges of hard muscle in his back. She pressed herself against him, feeling her heat, and his.
Finally, the kiss ended, both of them panting. His eyes were bright. "Sara ... "
She smiled up at him. "I'll come see you tomorrow afternoon."
He nodded; then she turned and walked quickly back to the tavern while she could still pull herself away.
Fifty-seven
Letting Sara go was one of the hardest things John had ever done. As he watched her walk away, he wanted to stop her, to take her home with him, not only to make love to her, but to keep her safe. She was in danger, he knew that as well as he knew his own name.
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