Blue Moon (5 page)

I loved that bathroom. It was the only nice room in the apartment, all white tiles with a bathtub separate from the shower. Unfortunately, it doesn't have a linen closet, so I keep my towels in the bathtub. I rarely use it, anyway, and the fact I use it as a closet of sorts gives me an excuse to buy a really beautiful shower curtain for it.

It's a mark of how crappy I feel, the fact I step over the neatly stacked towels in the middle of my bathroom floor on my way to use the toilet. I stare at them for a long moment then, thinking last night had been one of my rare bath nights, I pull the curtain back to see if the tub needs cleaned before I put them back.

I find Rita there, her hands tucked under her chin, her head tipped just slightly so it rests against the shower wall. She's smiling sweetly in my direction, her long red hair brushed over her breasts.

I don't check for a pulse. I know that still, pale body is dead. It is perfectly clean-looking, and flawless, save for the two careful red tracks, like tears, leading from the empty pits of her eye sockets.

Sometimes, the dream skips all the first part, and I'm just sitting on the cold bathroom floor, unable to scream or think, staring at my sister's eyeless face.

Libby awoke with water up to her chin and the feeling of sliding. She sat up quickly; the thousandth replay of the dream of the night her sister died, coupled with the fact she had dreamt it while sleeping in a bathtub, made her feel slightly sick. It had also shattered the fragile peace she had been searching for, soaking in a bathtub surrounded by candles. Water from her struggles had splashed up onto the sides, and the last candle sputtered out, leaving her in the dark.

She pulled the drain and stood, grabbed a towel and began drying herself with merciless strokes. She wanted to ignore the shiny white tiles that made up the floor and walls of the bathroom, because they reminded her of her curse. She wondered what evil imp had made her grandparents want to do their bathroom in tile, anyway. With the light on, they were nice, well cared for, but in the dark the tiles reflected the soft electric-blue glow of her eyes.

She looked at the mirror without meaning to and saw the irises shining like neon headlamps. The light was reflected by the white around her, creating a sapphire glow she could see to dress by.

"This was the stupidest idea I've ever had,” she said as she flicked on the light. “You want to get away from your problems, so you remind yourself forcibly of them by bathing in the dark. Brilliant, Libby."

The glow was no longer noticeable, but her eyes were still an improbable shade of neon blue.

"And,” she added, “I don't care how much money my grandparents spent to put in this nice bathroom, the tile goes. Or gets painted. I don't care, as long as what's left is no longer glossy or white."

Dashiel looked up from the floor of the kitchen as Libby passed through putting a bathrobe on. He tilted his head as if listening to her; his liquid brown eyes seemed to hold sympathy. She spared him a pat, determined to forget all this, eager to get something done. She was behind on her book, but if she got back on it, she'd have it finished to turn in to her agent in November. Heck, with a little more effort, she might get it done sooner.

She turned on the computer and sat down, determined. She procrastinated a tiny bit, going over to the built-in shelves that lined the room and looking up things. She then noticed her one plant, an ivy, was dry as a bone and went to fetch water. This led her to wondering where the phrase “dry as a bone” came from, and she ended up poking through her shelves again.

Finally, she decided that her goal of three thousand words wasn't getting any nearer and sat down.

His eyes were like smoked glass
, she typed. No, she thought, backspacing, they didn't have smoked glass back then.

She thought it through a moment then saw how things were beginning to fit together. She began typing again, eager to find out the rest of the story.

Sierra took the body from the freezer and set it on the table in front of her. She grimaced and took a breath, grasping a feather as black as ink and dulled by death. She pulled, and shuddered as the flesh that held the feather resisted then let go. She held it up and stared at the end then sighed and placed it in the large silver bowl. Grasping another, she pulled and tried to think of other things.

When she got to the party the previous night, she had mingled a little out of habit. Circulating used to be an activity of key importance. Networking at parties such as those could get you new voters, could help you gain friends you would need later, and learn who was political poison.

She spoke briefly to two people. The first was Jennifer, who had chased the reporters away and guarded Sierra jealously those first few months. She hugged Jenn, who smiled back, slightly surprised. Sierra had never been one for public affection.

Sierra squeezed her hands. “Take good care of yourself, now."

"You're going?"

"I have a lot to do when I get home."

Jenn smiled warmly. “I have to come and visit you soon. I'll call."

She meant it, Sierra knew, just as she knew that driving the kids around and taking care of the husband and drawing up real estate contracts would put it far enough down the priority list to make it impossible.

On her way out the door, she stopped to speak to one last man—Mark Gilpin, who'd been her husband's advisor.

"Can I speak to you a moment?” she asked, drawing him away from the crowd.

"So?” he asked when they were out of earshot.

"I know what you did,” Sierra said. “Soon everyone will know."

"I have no idea—"

"You will.” She looked over his shoulder. “Harvey! How lucky! Gilpin just told me he was looking for you! Excuse me!"

She was out the door and in her car long before Gilpin could follow.

Squirm, you little bastard, she thought. Worry and wonder which of your lies have been found out.

In a week or so, the ethics committee, the mayor's office and all the news stations would get an envelope detailing how Gilpin had set the whole thing with her husband up, from providing the slut to hiring the detectives.

Sierra had grinned as she drove home. Gilpin wasn't the only one who could hire PIs. Her smile faded.
The sooner I get home, the sooner I can start plucking those birds, the sooner I can get out of this miserable little world.
The thought ran through her mind like a mantra.

The fact was, when she got home, she put away the birds, bathed and went to bed early, so now she had to work extra-hard and catch up. The blue moon was coming, the ultimate deadline.

Another carcass joined the first inside a large woven basket. She yanked feathers until she couldn't stand it anymore, removing each little bit of fluff, even using tweezers around the beaks and eyes. She would boil the carcasses and strip the meat. She was still trying to decide if she should eat the flesh or just use the bones.

Some texts led her to believe the flesh itself was useless, others suggested she should consider it a part of the ritual—eating the flesh to become one with the creature. She tended to take the former with more seriousness, never having been much on poultry unless it was chopped, herbed and sauced beyond all recognition.

She was saved from trying to guilt herself into starting on another carcass by the sound of a car pulling around the back. She put the evidence away and washed her hands, then grabbed her keys on her way outside in case she locked herself out.

Raul was climbing the steps to the apartment above the garage. She watched him for a long moment, admiring the way he moved—he'd changed a great deal from the scrawny teenager she'd hired to mow her lawn. As he grew older, she'd given him more and more to do until she decided it was time he stayed onsite. He saw to all the odds and ends, taking out the garbage, making sure the grounds looked good, fixing things when they needed it.

"Can I talk to you a moment?” she hailed him as he was about to unlock the door.

He turned and looked at her, slightly off-guard. She never visited him, always called him to come to her.

"Sure,” he said, and she ran up the steps. He opened the door warily, and she entered his abode for the very first time since he'd moved in.

He had grown into a handsome man, with a lanky strength that made him look like a stuntman, or like he'd be more at home under a car. The mess of books, the papers covered with impossible-looking calculations and the strange little pieces of scientific equipment said otherwise.

It also reminded her he should have started college two years ago.

He stood, looking pleasant enough, hands in his pockets. He'd been coming to her bed on a bi-weekly basis since his eighteenth birthday, but they knew each other hardly at all.

"Nice place,” she said.

"I'm sorry it's such a mess."

"Don't be silly. It's fine.” Sure, there were messy piles of paper and books, but there was also not one dirty dish or glass, not one empty beer can. In the end, that's what counted with Sierra. No garbage.

She smiled. “Want to come over tonight?"

"Yeah, I'd like that."

"You don't have to."

"I know. But I want to.” He smiled, and it was a very nice, brilliant smile. “I really like you, you know."

She smiled, too, and waited while he put his books away. She studied his shelves and took down a book by Isaac Asimov. She slipped an envelope inside the book; she knew the author was one of Raul's favorites. The contents of the envelope would insure him four years of college and a stipend for books if he wasn't profligate, which he wouldn't be. She wanted to know he'd be okay when she was gone, and with his mind he ought to be able to do so much. She almost wished she'd be there to see it.

"You can borrow that,” he said.

"Nope. Just killing time.” She put it back on the shelf.

"So,” he said, passing her to put a telescope carefully back on its tripod. “What have you been up to?"

"Killing birds."

He laughed. His hands were very careful on the telescope frame, setting things back to rights.

"Out stargazing, were you?"

He nodded. “I went out to the park. I watched the sunset on the trees and ate. Then, when it got dark enough, I tried to find some planets. There should be some interesting configurations soon."

"Wasn't it cold?"

He shook his head. He had the blackest eyes, and she imagined she could see the stars in them. The way he settled his gaze on her made her feel both motherly and very immature.

"I wish I had gone with you,” she said impulsively.

"Next time I'll take you."

"Maybe,” she said softly.

He put his arm around her. “I could show you such stars,” he said. “I could tell you their stories. I could tell you about the belt of Orion and the story of Big Bear, Little Bear. Every culture has its tales, so different, yet so strangely similar. You'd be surprised.” He made it sound magical and wondrous.

"You almost make me believe there's some magic left in this world,” Sierra said, pulling away.

"There is!” He captured her hands in his. “The stars are magic. The moon in the trees—that's magic. The millions of shades of red in one rose petal, the glitter of the sun on a swift-flowing river, all these things are magic.” He grabbed a sheaf of papers and laid them on the table before her. “And here are the spells."

Sierra looked at the symbols—modern, yet so archaic-looking, runes and marks and equations to frame the miracles of the world.

"Sweetheart, these are not spells. Those are simply the borders of our reality. There is no magic in this, just knowledge."

"I'm trying to remember who said ... there's a quote I was told once, that the future's science is the past's magic?"

He looked so disappointed she caressed his cheek. “I am old and bitter. You shouldn't listen to me."

"You're not old. Bitter, maybe, I'll give you that.” He grinned. “But you're wise. I like listening to you. I want to learn from you."

"Let's go back to the house, before you make me feel even older than I do now."

"No,” he whispered, and it was the first time he'd ever said that word to her. “Not in his bed. In mine."

He kissed her then, so deeply that she shivered. She relented and was pressed down into male-smelling blankets.

"I will show you how very young and beautiful you are,” he whispered, his hands on her clothes.

Another task done, she thought. And in two years, he'd get another draft of $22,000. A gift of gratitude, she'd told the bank manager. She could afford to be generous. Her husband's relatives would take the house, all her other assets would be gone. Raul, sweet, earnest Raul, was the only heir she had.

And hopefully, he'd remember her well. Miss her, perhaps, a little. But either way, he'd be in the clear. After all, she couldn't make it look like he had a motive to kill her.

As usual, that night Libby did not sleep well, and as usual, she woke up feeling awful, like her head had been banged against the wall forty or fifty times. She had to look at the clock to see if it was actually morning, since her bedroom and the attendant bathroom had no windows. She dressed slowly and thought longingly of a cup of tea.

She stumbled out of her bedroom and checked to see if anyone or anything had tried to break in before she opened the living room and kitchen shutters. She let Dashiel out and followed him, thinking a walk would clear her head. Dashiel was in a good mood. The night had been quiet, then.

She turned around and looked back at the fortress. When she had first moved here, it had been a cabin, and her mother's parents had both wanted her to have it.

"Your mother isn't a country girl, dear, but you are.”
Just like your father
—the last part of the sentence was never spoken. Libby could not recall ever having met her father. She'd had enough bad men in her life, and she didn't need to make the list longer by bothering him. She didn't even know what he looked like, her mother having burned every single picture and memento. She shrugged. It didn't matter.