What the Moon Saw

by D. L. Koontz

  “Ah.” The sheriff looked satisfied with Nathan’s answer. He removed his jacket and hat, hung them on the wooden wall pegs behind his desk, and folded his form into his squeaky chair.

  Jean parked her files on a side table and moved closer. Her long gray hair was always rolled into a tight bun on the back of her head. From the corner of his eye, Nathan watched the mass of hair tilt left and right as she assessed the painting. “Looks just like Gretchen Hudd,” she said.

  “That’s the family,” the sheriff said.

  Jean folded her arms. “She was in my daughter’s school. Dropped out in fourth grade. Always sporting a cut or a bruise. Word is, her daddy is a mean ol’ son of a gun.”

  “Yep.” The sheriff nodded. “I’m told the painting is more than a hundred-fifty years old, so the couple in it are long dead. And, that her,” he pointed at the woman in the painting, “great, great, great something-or-other granddaughter—Gretchen, did you say?—bears a striking resemblance to her. They live out near Mann’s Choice.”

  Nathan recognized the small borough as a few miles outside of Bedford, across Buffalo Mountain. A rural area full of hills and valleys where most folks tried to eke out a pitiful living farming unproductive land.

  The sheriff continued. “That painting is the center of another squabble at the Hudds. You remember us talking about ’em? Hudd’s a drunk. Can’t hold a job. Takes it out on the family.”

  “Why do you have it?” Nathan asked.

  “Seems Hudd hawked it without telling the missus. Instead of buying food or lumber to fix up that mess they call a home, he bought hootch. He’s even too lazy to bootleg his own. Mrs. Hudd helped herself to money she found hidden in the barn and bought it back. When Hudd found out she took the money, he beat her to a pulp. He’s spending the night in jail, next county over.” The sheriff exhaled, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s still in Doc Henshaw’s office right now. But, he’ll be giving her a ride home later. She refuses to stay longer or press charges.”

  Questions swirled in Nathan’s mind, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the painting. “If they need food, why would she spend money to get the painting back?”

  The sheriff huffed a short syllable of disgust. “She’s pretty banged up, so she didn’t make much sense. I gathered from what she said she thinks it’s worth a lot more than what Hudd got for it. Said she wanted it back so she can sell it at a better price. To buy food, and coal for the winter.”

  Nathan swallowed against a rising nausea. The emotion he heard in the sheriff’s voice, the crack that had appeared in his usually cast-iron demeanor, suggested the situation was both tragic and destined for a catastrophic ending.

  Nathan’s hands fisted and his pulse raced at old man Hudd’s brutality and selfishness to his family, to Anabelle’s descendant.

  The sheriff continued. “Guess I’ll have to return it later today. If she won’t press charges, there isn’t much I can do.”

  Nathan spoke in a low voice. “Why don’t she and Gretchen leave?”

  Jean smirked. “And go where? Things are tough for women, ya know. We may have gotten the right to vote a few years ago, but you’d never know it in this little hick town. It’s still a man’s world.” Jean had worked for the department two years now, having started at age forty-five when her husband died and she learned about gender inequality when it came to property and getting things done.

  The sheriff shot her a look. “It certainly seems to have given women the right to speak freely.”

  She huffed a sound, signaling that she got the message but didn’t agree. With a frown she returned to her paperwork, mumbling, “Just having my say.”

  “I’ll take it back,” Nathan said in a rush, tearing his gaze from Jean’s departing form, to the painting, to his boss.

  The sheriff looked surprised at Nathan’s offer. Or was it from the panic in his voice? Nathan couldn’t tell which, but he watched the sheriff’s gaze move from his face to his fisted hands and back again.

  The sheriff continued staring at him for a long moment, then brushed a hand down his cheek and across his lips. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, son.” He paused as though choosing his words carefully. “Are you involved with that family in some way?”

  “What? No.” Not anymore. Nathan repeated his denial in a calmer voice, planting his hands in his pockets and standing firm. “I want to help. That’s all.”

  In a slow, careful delivery the sheriff said, “You know, in these situations, it’s worse for the women when we get involved. Mrs. Hudd could leave but she doesn’t. We’ve told her in private that when she wants to leave, we’ll help. She has a way out, she just chooses not to use it.”

  From her desk, Jean issued a derisive chuckle and muttered, “There’s only one way out for women in that situation. From what I hear about Gretchen, she’d leave with any man that offered to take her away from this life.”

  “Jean.” The sheriff said her name in the same way he might say, Behave.

  Jean stood. “I’ll just take these files to the back.”

  As she left the room, the sheriff looked at his watch. “N.C. is out sick, and I have to be at the courthouse this afternoon.” He scratched his chin. “Alright, you take the painting back, but that’s all you do.”

  Nathan nodded.

  “Nothing else. But, while you’re there, look around. It might come in handy one day to know the lay of the land out there. Jasper Hudd is a mean, sorry excuse of a man. His wife Sarah is wife number two. The first one, Gretchen’s momma, left, or just disappeared. No one knows for sure.” He turned to look at Nathan and tilted his head as though for emphasis. “Now, don’t it seem odd that a woman would leave and not take her child?”

  “Are you saying...she never left? That he ...”

  “I’m saying it makes me wonder, is all.” The sheriff scratched the back of his neck as he continued. “The first time we intervened on Nora’s behalf, he cracked her shoulder bone after I left, and my dog was found dead. The next time we stepped in, I learned he hit her in the face with a skillet that night, and we found the windscreen on the police motorcar shattered.”

  Nathan squelched a shudder. The thought of Anabelle’s descendant living in that situation repulsed him. “We have to do something. Convince them to leave.”

  “Son, I’m telling you, you’ll make it worse for the wife and the daughter.” An unmistakable hint of warning crept into his voice. “There’s nothing you can do if she doesn’t want to press charges, and they never do. Her best bet is to high-tail it outta there. As for my dog and the windshield, I can’t prove anything. But I’m sure he did it. Both times. If it makes you feel any better, I’m chomping at the bit to catch Hudd in the act.”

  A few hours later, Nathan steered the police motorcar down dirt backroads, his eyes darting from the road to the painting perched to his right on the bench seat. Riding horses was more direct, but he would have had a hard time carrying the picture on the horse. Besides, driving these metal contraptions was quite fun, and usually a thrill electrified him when he pressed the pedal on the floor and watched the world soar by. Today, however, his thoughts were obsessed with the task ahead. He determined to deliver the painting to Mrs. Hudd and Gretchen, then leave. Their lives had to happen without his intrusion. He couldn’t interfere with history, regardless of who was involved.

  As he bounced along, he watched fists of clouds move swiftly, as though scurrying away from the warm front that moved in overnight. Too bad Mrs. Hudd and Gretchen couldn’t get away from Hudd’s fists as easily.

  He wasn’t sure how many miles he’d traveled before calming his anxiety and securing a sensible train of thought. But, it wasn’t long before he reached the outskirts of Mann’s Choice. He shifted gears and eased back on the gas, and slowed the car to a crawl. The motorcar rolled along smoothly until Nathan spotted the ramshackle farm Jean had described. He pulled off the road and stopped altogether, just opposite a creek that ran un
der a weathered wooden bridge, and perpendicular to the Hudd’s gravel lane. Halfway down the lane two handmade signs hammered to trees read, “Keep Out,” and “Go Away.”

  Nathan stared at some lazy cows munching grass, astonished at how shabby, and yet peaceful, the property appeared to be. One of the cows lifted its head and continued chewing its cud as it stared at Nathan until he pressed gas into the engine and inched across the old bridge.

  He stopped the car and set the handbrake. The engine fell silent. He waited several minutes, hoping someone would come out of the house or barn. When no one did, he grabbed the painting and headed to the door. The house was worse than Ista’s version of a shanty—cracked windows, gaping holes in the roof, garbage strewn about the porch, upholstery stuffing in the weedy side yard.

  After knocking and waiting...and knocking again...the door opened and Nathan looked at a ghost. A barefoot young woman wrapped in a ratty dress and shawl stood in the doorframe. Her face suggested she was about seventeen or eighteen, and her disheveled hair fell below her shoulders.

  The sheriff was right. Other than this girl’s dirty, rumpled appearance, the resemblance to Anabelle was remarkable. Memories stirred, brief and fluttering. Anabelle’s hand reaching over to touch his arm as he steered the carriage home from a church social one lazy Sunday afternoon, the smell of honeysuckle by the creek where they once shared a picnic, Anabelle’s laughter when they tried to catch a butterfly.

  Gretchen shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him. She was so thin she looked like a stiff breeze would blow her away to a place where no one would ever find her.

  Her gaze moved from the badge on his chest to his face. “My pa ain’t here.”

  That voice! Recollection stirred again. Nathan swallowed. “I, ah...for your mom. I’m just returning this.” He placed the painting against the doorframe. “For your mom,” he said, as if that fact bore repeating.

  She glanced at the painting a moment, before looking back at him. She shifted her shoulders. Tilted her head. “You gotta wife, handsome?” Her voice had turned sultry, suggestive. She grinned and dropped her head to stare at him from the edges of her eyes. She reached out to place her palm on his chest.

  Nathan’s mouth fell open. Her voice, her features, so much like Anabelle. He was mesmerized by her looks, but puzzled by her instant change in behavior, her forwardness and flirtatiousness. She had...what was the word people used now? Moxie. She had moxie.

  He should leave. Quickly. But her touch...

  “I need to get back to town,” Nathan mumbled and he turned to head back to his car.

  “Please!”

  Her inflection changed again, this time to a desperate whisper. Startled, Nathan whirled back to look at her.

  Her eyes were misted, her voice frayed and scored with weariness. She darted her gaze to look around and behind him. “Please take me with ya.” Her voice harbored a desperation, a fragility.

  Stunned by this erratic duality in her manner, Nathan blinked. “I...I can’t do that.”

  Gretchen pouted and shut the door in his face.

  Once at his motorcar, he felt a chill travel down his spine. He hadn’t touched her back, but he had wanted to.

  For the next several weeks, Nathan watched for Gretchen in town. Twice he spotted her and engaged her in conversation. He always made sure she was alone, but her gaze often darted from his face to scan the streets, the buildings, the sidewalk in all directions.

  Why was he obsessed with this girl? He hadn’t loved Anabelle. Not really. Not like he’d loved her, the woman he’d lost. He wished he could remember what she looked like. Why would that part of his memory not cooperate?

  He shrugged off the frustration. It didn’t matter. He had once been prepared to pledge his life to Anabelle. Did he feel bad that her life had ended at such a young age? Guilt that he hadn’t cared enough to fight for her to take her away from Richard Wallace? Or, was this just his way of grasping onto the life he once had?

  Always he concluded that, despite everything, he felt responsible to ensure this young woman Gretchen survived her wretch of a father. No, he shouldn’t interfere with the way history would have naturally unfolded in Gretchen’s life, but then again, he’d left the past, and perhaps if he’d stayed, Anabelle’s life might have been different as well.

  After a month went by in which he hadn’t seen her in town, he grew concerned. But to keep it official, and to ward off any impression that his behavior bordered on stalking, he told the sheriff he planned to “drive by” the Hudd property, just to “see that all was well.”

  The sheriff studied him. “Alright.” He swiped his cheek again. “Maybe that is a good idea. To look. But, that’s all. And come right back because we have that town meeting tonight.”

  Nathan agreed because he planned to do just that—look.

  But, plans change.

  As with his first trip, he pulled the motorcar to the side of the road and studied the farm, wishing—and hating himself for it—that Gretchen would make an appearance. But, like his first trip there, the place was quiet. Serene.

  He pushed open his door, climbed out, and scrambled down the side of the creek bank to kneel at the edge of the stream. With cupped hands, he drank from the gurgling water, never taking his eyes off the farm. Confound it, why was he doing this? He removed his cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He was being ridiculous. Time to stop this mania, this need he had to see her. He didn’t want to be involved in her life. He just wanted to ensure she had a life. He slapped his cap against his pants, sending road dust into the air, and returned to the motorcar.

  He was about to pull away when the peacefulness shattered. A woman darted out of the house, followed by a large, beefy man who grabbed her arm. She slapped him across the face, and he shoved her to the ground. The strong arc of the man’s shoulders reminded him of a grizzly pouncing at its prey. Gretchen followed behind them, trying to pull the man off the woman. The man turned and punched her in the face. The older woman half stood and skirted around the man to get to Gretchen, pulling her into an embrace. Together they staggered back into the house. The man followed.

  Nathan scrambled from the motorcar, but stopped, remembering the sheriff’s orders. He closed his eyes as his hands fisted and his pulse raced, energy coursing through him. To interfere would make it worse for the women. He resolved what to do: honk the motorcar’s horn to interrupt them, then be available if Mrs. Hudd needed transport to Doc Henshaw’s.

  As he deliberated, a gunshot rang out.

  Fear ripped through him. It had come from the barn. They must have gone there when his eyes were closed! The sheriff’s warning concerned him, but his past tethered and pulled him. He raced down the lane. When he neared the buildings, he noticed a door hanging open to the barn. As if his feet surmised the situation before his brain, he steered toward it, then stopped, looking at the entry, and bracing for what he might find inside.

  A twinge of alarm settled on him as he entered the unlit structure. Once inside, he hesitated to let his eyes acclimate to the dim lighting, its only source the sun streaking through the slats of wood. He stepped past a small equipment room, rounded a calf pen, and peered into the stable area. The place was empty of livestock, but he smelled the odor of dried manure.

  And fresh death.

  He hadn’t realized it possible to smell the past, and he broke into a sweat as thoughts of his previous life streaked through his mind. All those murdered settlers he’d found after they were dead.

  He moved slowly and stealthily, listening, looking, and sensing before each step.

  Another step. Slow and cautious.

  And another.

  Then he saw it, a streak of blood puddling on the wooden floor, on the other side of a stack of hay. He swallowed hard and stepped around the bales. Mrs. Hudd lay there, unmoving, eyes open. Blood trickled from a bullet hole in her chest. Dead. He continued around the pile of hay, past the woman and, about three yards from h
er, saw a pistol on the ground.

  He heard Hudd sobbing before he saw him. Sitting on the manure-laden floor, Hudd’s body shook in fits as he wrung his hands together, mumbling, “Pushed me too far. Just pushed me too far.” His words, his tone, his delivery, his slurred speech, all blended together such that Nathan had a hard time understanding him.

  Nathan inched toward the gun, never once taking his eyes off the man on the ground. Hudd looked up and spotted him, then dropped his gaze to the pistol, before darting it back to Nathan. Hudd sported a gash over his left eye, and bloody scratches on his neck. He reeked of body odor and alcohol.

  “Go ahead. Do it,” Hudd snarled, a commanding tone in his voice. “You all hate me anyway. Just do it.”

  Nathan stood for a moment, observing Hudd. His earlier anxiety had slackened, and he wondered if he would, if he ever could take a life outside of war or self-defense. His curiosity warred with his inexplicable certainty that this man should be removed from the earth, that he without a doubt would forever hurt and terrorize his daughter. Anabelle’s descendant was still young, still at this man’s mercy. And now there was no Mrs. Hudd to protect her. A jury might believe that she had provoked her husband, or that he had shot in self-defense. Nathan should shoot this man and end Gretchen’s misery of what would surely be a life of fist-poked walls, battered doors, bruised skin, and broken bones.

  Hudd saw Nathan’s hesitation. He sneered and ran a shaking, blood-stained hand over his face. “You haven’t got the guts to shoot me.”

  “Maybe.” He matched Hood’s hard tone. “Or maybe I haven’t got the guts to let you live.”

  Hudd didn’t say a word.

  Nathan swallowed, reached down and picked up the pistol. When he felt its cold smoothness, memories surfaced of the settlers’ fears against the Indians and the British. Thoughts swirled in the recesses of his mind of Gretchen living in terror. He imagined her desperately clinging to hope, struggling to find safety in her own home, but living on edge hour by hour, moment by moment, waiting for the next blow to fall, the next fist to mar her skin.