Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery

by Fanning, Diane

  Inconvenience? Affront? Jeez! I thought about leaving Seidell’s hand hanging in mid-air, but years of Miss Manners’ indoctrination pushed my hand forward to grasp his.

  Seidell shot Wolfe a hard glance.

  “Oh, yeah,” Wolfe said as he thrust out his hand. “We’re really sorry.”

  I shook his hand, too, although I was certain the only real source of his remorse was that he had to apologize at all.

  Once again, I was alone. I felt hollow in my empty house. Now that I was up and about, I figured I might as well get started on the cleanup. First priority: the broken window glass on the kitchen floor. I went to the bedroom for my slippers. I sure didn’t need cut-up feet to add pain to my already tortured body.

  I slipped them on where they sat right inside the door. I heard a small noise and froze in place, listening, my body rigid with the strain. I heard nothing more. Probably nothing in the first place. I was such a paranoid freak.

  Creaking and moaning with every bend of my body, I swept the biggest pieces of glass into a dustpan, then went to the hall closet for the vacuum. I paused again, thinking I heard the sound of breathing. If my imagination didn’t calm down soon, I’d have to see a therapist. How stupid.

  I lifted the vacuum. It felt much heavier than normal as I carried it the short distance down the hall. I had to lean on it to recover for a moment before I turned it on. I ran it over the whole area and stood back to examine the kitchen for any telltale glints that betrayed the threatening presence of a missed sliver.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  He crouched beneath her open bedroom window and listened to her breathing. The rhythm was steady and slow. He knew she was deep in sleep.

  He thought about easing the screen off, leaning in the window and shooting her where she lay. Even if she heard him removing the screen, she would be dead before she was really awake. It would be so easy. Too easy.

  He yearned to have his hands on her as she gasped for her last breath. To fight her as she struggled in vain. To smell her fear. To see the wet stain spread on her pants as her bladder released. To hear the rustle of vulture wings. To feel her life fade away.

  I am a dead man, he thought. I can wait.

  By the time she roused in response to the ringing doorbell, his knees were stiff and throbbed with pain. He moved with quick precision and grace just the same. He removed the screen as soon as she left the room. He pulled his body over the windowsill and slithered inside. He stepped into her closet, pulling the door almost shut behind him. He buried himself behind her hanging clothes.

  He inhaled her scent and the familiar throbbing beat resurrected in his pants. He rubbed its source, urging patience as he listened to the murmur of voices from the other room. Soon the visitors would be gone. Soon he and she would be alone. When she returned to the bedroom, he’d make his move.

  He was a walking dead man, but before his song ended, he would watch her die.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The phone rang. I picked it up and regretted it the second I heard the sound of his voice.

  “Mullet. This is Hawkins.”

  “I have nothing to say to you, Hawkins. Leave me alone. Forever. And drop dead.” I slammed the phone down. I smiled.

  The phone rang again. I snatched it off the cradle. “Hawkins, I’ll get a restraining order.”

  “Shut up, Mullet. There’s a squad car on the way to your house.”

  “I can’t believe you are doing this again, Hawkins, you stupid jerk. I am calling my attorney right now. Goodbye.”

  “No. Don’t hang up, Mullet. Listen. Please.”

  The desperation in his voice gave me pause.

  “Another prisoner jumped Crockett. They took him to McKenna. At the hospital, the deputy was reattaching his cuffs. Somehow, he got her gun. The deputy is dead. One nurse may be dying. And we don’t know where Crockett is.”

  The tingle of rushing adrenaline teased my cheeks and raced down my arms and legs. “Please, Hawkins. Please tell me this is your idea of a sick and stupid joke.”

  “Mullet, unless all your doors and windows are shut and locked, you better get out of the house right now.”

  Crap. Crap. Crap. I couldn’t think.

  “Mullet. Mullet. Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” I hissed as the image of the breeze blowing through my bedroom window stirred in my mind. “My window is open.”

  “Get out of there.”

  I froze. My eyes searched every corner of my room as they filled with the tears of panic. My gun, where is my gun?

  “Mullet? Do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I exhaled.

  “Go! Get out of there! Go now!”

  I set down the phone. I had to have my gun. What if he was just outside of the door? Hiding on my porch? Beside my porch? Behind the tree? I had to have my gun.

  I raced to the nightstand beside my bed and jerked open the drawer. It wasn’t there. Where was it? Then, the memory swept through me. I saw the gun’s sparkling arc as it bounced on the sofa and skittered across the floor. Was it still there? Under the chair? No. The police must have confiscated it when they processed the scene. Damn. I inhaled a deep breath and took just one step. My closet door flew open and slammed like thunder against the wall.

  There stood Crockett in his orange prison garb. The brightness of his clothing drained the last sign of life from his face. Dark rings outlined sunken eyes. Cheekbones threatened to erupt through the skin of his face. A cuff dangled from his left wrist. His right hand gripped a gun.

  “Stay right there, girl,” he said.

  He stepped between me and the bedroom doorway. “I don’t know why you found me more expendable than your idiot friend, Ms. Mullet. It was a bad choice.”

  He took a step toward me. I glanced with longing at the open window on the other side of the bed. I entertained a brief fantasy of scrambling across the mattress and lunging out the window. But I knew I’d be dead before I reached the other side.

  There was another window on this side of the room. But it was closed. Locked. Curtains drawn. I backed up to it just the same. Crockett moved another step closer.

  “Stand still, Molly Mullet. I really don’t want to have to shoot you.”

  “There’s a squad car on the way, Stan.”

  He shrugged. “I can kill you long before it gets here.”

  “If you kill me it will just be that much worse on you,” I said. I couldn’t believe I said that. Here I was, about to die, stealing dialogue from a cheap thirties gangster movie.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” he said. “I killed a deputy earlier today. Don’t really think anyone will care about you one way or the other. But, as I said, I don’t want to shoot you.”

  I exhaled a ragged breath of relief. “You don’t?”

  “No, Ma’am. I want to hold you while you die.”

  Cold sweat popped up on the nape of my neck and in the palms of my hands.

  He patted his orange pants. “Darn. No pockets. Guess I’m fresh out of guitar strings,” he said with a grin.

  He took one more step in my direction. I backed my rump up against the windowpane. Charlie, I thought, please make my stupid plan work or let me die fast and quick.

  “This time, I’ll have to use my hands. I wouldn’t have to squeeze too hard to pop open that fresh cut on your neck. It’ll make it all a little messy but I won’t mind too much. Will you?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” I said. I braced my legs and pushed my body off the floor and into the windowpane with all my strength. My body flew backwards. My rump slammed into the glass. For an eternal moment, it resisted my attack. Then it cracked. Yielded. And I tumbled through.

  I heard a gunshot. I hit the porch on my back. Jarring pain bounced through my head. I didn’t know if I was hit or if my agony was all from impact. I didn’t take the time to figure it out. On all fours, I scurried across the porch, down the steps and into the flowerbed beside the house. Another shot fired. I smelled the cordite burning in
the air. I heard the pounding of his feet inside the house.

  Keeping low, I darted from the flowerbed to the far side of my car. As I ducked down, another shot rang out. It missed me. It hit my car. A sound like cracking ice echoed in my ears as a spider web of fissures traveled across my windshield. Oh, my poor car.

  After that, there were so many sounds I could not always tell where one began and the other ended. Sirens, shouts, gunfire, running feet. I had no idea what was happening, and I dared not expose myself to find out.

  “Mullet. Molly Mullet.”

  It was Hawkins. I never thought I’d be glad to hear his voice. But there you go—how sweet a sound.

  I rose to my feet and he rushed to my side.

  “You’re bleeding, Mullet.”

  I put a hand to the bandage on my neck and felt stickiness oozing through the gauze.

  “Let’s get you into one of the ambulances,” he said, throwing an arm around my shoulders.

  I squealed. It was like little tiny knifes digging into the flesh of my back.

  “Oh shit, Mullet. I’m sorry. You threw yourself through that window, hunh?”

  I nodded and tried to smile through clenched teeth. Hawkins escorted me to the ambulance and instructed the EMTs to put me face down on the stretcher. They slid me in and I shouted, “Hawkins.”

  He stuck his head through the back doors. “Yeah, Mullet?”

  “Did you kill the bastard?”

  “Naw. He took one in the shoulder, one in the hand, and another in the knee, but he’ll survive. So, don’t worry, you’ll still be the star witness for the prosecution, girl.”

  “Thanks, Hawkins. Thanks a lot. You might need to visit the firing range a little more often.”

  He just laughed and walked away. I could still hear him laughing as the doors were shut and we drove off.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  At the hospital, they cleaned and rebandaged my neck. There was a little pulling on the stitches but no real damage. I suffered through the indignity of an exposed backside as nurses plucked slivers of glass out of my body from the top of my shoulders down to the top of my thighs. A gaggle of doctors strolled by making jokes at my expense. The nurses tried not to laugh at me, but their strangled snorts gave them away.

  A deputy came to my rescue again and gave me a ride home in the brightness of a fresh morning. This time, I tilted my body to the side in the seat. It wasn’t very dignified, but it was far less painful. I’d be sleeping on my stomach for days.

  I stepped onto the porch and saw that someone had enhanced my décor with another ratty piece of plywood—this one hammered over my busted bedroom window. I sighed and let myself in.

  I hurried through the living room, not wanting to look at the damage still there. In the kitchen, I fixed a tuna sandwich and ate it standing over the sink. A sink-feeder having a tuna sandwich for breakfast. Pathetic.

  Do I go to bed? Or do I clean up the disaster zone of blood, broken pottery and tumbled furniture. I walked into the living room and surveyed the war zone. My answering machine light blinked a samba beat distracting me from the task at hand. I pressed the button and listened. A call from Gina Galaviz at KSAT-12. Another from Brad Messer’s producer at KTSA. One from David Ferguson at KGNB. I shut the machine off. To hell with the rest of the messages. I was going to bed.

  I almost made it. But the doorbell rang. I toyed with the idea of ignoring it, then trudged to the door. Eddie Beacham stood on my porch. In his arms was a wiggling ball of fur. I fought the urge to smile—no sense encouraging Eddie. I folded my arms across my chest. “Cute puppy,” I said.

  “He’s a real sweetheart. I think you’ll like him. And he’s AKC registered, one-hundred-percent Shetland Sheepdog.”

  “Funny. I didn’t think I’d see you with a Sheltie. You look more like the pet rat type to me.”

  “Still holding a grudge, Molly?” He tsked at me. “Things turned out well just the same. Seems like, under those circumstances, you could let it all go.”

  My hand flew to my cut throat. “No thanks to you, Eddie.”

  “That’s cold, Molly. And I sure am sorry I caused you problems, even if they helped lead you to the solution. Mind if I set this little guy down? He’s squirming so much, I’m afraid I might drop him on his head.”

  “Suit yourself. What’s his name?”

  The puppy gamboled toward me and I squatted down to greet him. He wriggled his rump, wagged his tail and licked my fingers. Again, I forced down the smile I did not want Eddie to see.

  “The name’s up to you, Molly,” Eddie said.

  “You want me to name your dog?”

  “It’s your dog. Call him a peace offering.”

  “That would be a stupid name.” I grimaced, knowing I was being difficult and obnoxious.

  Eddie sighed. “Whatever, Molly. It’s up to you.”

  “Eddie, I can’t accept this.”

  The puppy lifted himself up on his hind legs and licked my nose. I was melting. I had to act fast. I scooped him in my arms, stood up and held him out to Eddie.

  “He’s yours, Molly. You love dogs. It’s time you had one again.”

  “It’s more complicated than that, Eddie.”

  “I know. It’s all wrapped around your grief for Charlie. It’s been five years, Molly. It’s time to move on.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. And this little guy can help you do it.”

  I looked into the puppy’s eyes and warm tingling surged to my fingers and toes. No. No way. “Eddie, here. He’s your dog.” I sat him back down on the floor and made shooing motions in Eddie’s direction. Instead of moving toward Eddie, the puppy plopped down on his rump and stared at me with adoring, begging eyes.

  “You know how irresponsible I am,” Eddie said. “How could you sleep at night not knowing if I remembered to give this poor, defenseless puppy his dinner?”

  I bit my lower lip. “You are irresponsible.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Undependable.”

  “You know it.”

  “The poor thing could starve to death.”

  “That’s a fact.” Eddie grabbed the doorknob and added, “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” He pulled the door shut and we were alone.

  “I could name you Chase.” A sharp pain stabbed my heart as memories of the dog who’d died far too young struck me hard again. I looked down at my new dog and said, “Bad idea. You don’t need to walk in a past pet’s shadow, do you?”

  He yipped and his rump bounced on the floor.

  “I know. How about I call you Jesse?”

  He threw back his head and let out a half-howl that sounded a lot like Jesse when he sang.

  I smiled, wrapped my arms around him and inhaled deep gulps of his sweet puppy smell. “Welcome home, Jesse.”

  About the Author

  Edgar Award finalist Diane Fanning is best known for her true crime classics about serial killers, wife murderers, fake doctors and desperate women. She uses that real-life knowledge to bring the pages of her fiction to life. Author of Through the Window, Into the Water, Written in Blood, Gone Forever, Baby Be Mine, Under the Knife and The Preacher’s Wife, Diane lives in the Texas Hill Country where she is now at work on Light My Fire, the next Molly Mullet murder mystery.