Moon Music (22 page)

"
He
wants to talk to you."

Poe walked over to her, retrieved his cellular. "Yo."

Remus bellowed, "I think I should come down."

Poe said, "As much as I'd like that, it's not necessary."

Remus was unconvinced. "You're sure you're up to this?"

"You've certainly had an attitude change in a week. One minute you're in dire straits, the next you're ready to reverse the edict. Relax. I'll call you when I need you."

Neither spoke. Finally, Remus said, "Could you call tomorrow? Just to give me a progress report?"

"Will do."

Remus said, "I think this is the most we've spoken to each other in fifteen years."

He was right about that. Poe said, "I've got to go. Take care." He hung up, slipped the phone into his pocket. Removing the carpetbag from the couch, he sat next to his mother. "Ruki's making you a delicious cheese sandwich. Isn't that nice of her?"

"Very nice."

"So you will eat it?"

Emma looked offended. "Of course I'll eat it." She took her son's hand. "So…this is nice." Abruptly, she bolted up and opened her carpetbag, dumping its contents onto the floor. "I don't have much…it's a little dirty what I do have. I haven't done the laundry for a while."

"I'll wash it for you."

"Oh, here it is!" Emma picked up a small brown case. "I was so worried I left it home." She opened the box, showed her son a set of ivory tiles.

Poe smiled. "You still play mahj? That's good."

"Do you play?"

"Not anymore."

"It's a wonderful game."

"Yes, it is."

"Oh, you are so wonderful!" To Rukmani, Emma said, "Isn't he wonderful?"

"A peach."

Poe felt his head throb. He took his mother's hand and squeezed it. "Ma, sit down."

Emma sat.

Poe started out, "Ma, I love you—"

"I know you do, sweetheart. We're going to have such fun together."

Rukmani brought in the cheese sandwich, noticed the clothes. She gave Emma her snack, gathered the vestments in her arms, and threw them back in the old woman's carpetbag. "I'll take care of this."

Poe said, "I can do it. I know you're busy."

She waved him off. "I've got my own laundry to do."

She paused. "As long as I'm doing hers, how about yourself? You've been sweating buckets these last twenty minutes."

Poe studied her. "Are you sure?"

Rukmani turned her hands into talking puppets. She spoke in kid voices.

"Are you a sucker?" asked the left.

"Yes, I am a big sucker," answered the right.

"How big?"

She spread her arms apart. "This biiig." In her own voice, she said, "I'll take your dirty underwear now."

Poe went over to his hamper, pulled out a pile, and stuffed it into her arms. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic." Rukmani winked. "I'd forgotten what it was to feel married." She smelled his clothing. "Not too bad. Nice seeing you again, Emma."

"Oh nice seeing you, too, dear."

"How about if we all go out to dinner later tonight?" Rukmani suggested. "Rom's larder is a bit bare."

Emma said, "Why, what a lovely idea! Can we go to that place far up in the sky? It makes me feel like I'm flying."

Rukmani said, "She mean the Needle?"

"I think so," Poe answered.

"Needle it is," Rukmani said. "I'll need your car, Rom."

"Keys are on the counter."

"I'll see you both in a couple of hours."

"Thanks." Poe waited until he heard the car's engine fade to nothing. Then he turned to his mother. "How are you doing?"

"Just fine."

Poe exhaled. There was a long moment of silence. Finally Emma said, "Spit it out, Romulus."

"Mom, I got you a place of your own."

Emma's eyes moistened.

Poe shook his leg as he continued to talk. "A lovely one-bedroom apartment very close to Ruki's place—"

"But far from you?"

"Ten minutes by car. You need me, I'm there in a snap."

"How about if I want to see you? I don't
drive
, Romulus."

"I've hired someone just for that purpose," he lied. "A wonderful woman who's also a nurse. So if you need anything, she's right there. And if you want to pop over to my place, she can take you—"

"I'm dying, Romulus. I have cancer."

Poe nearly choked on his saliva. His head started to pound as furiously as his heart. He
couldn't
have heard right. But he knew his ears were fine. A play for pity? He didn't put it past her. Yet the way she looked, her physical deterioration. She was telling the truth.

If he had been a woman, he might have cried.

Alison couldn't get out of bed. Her latest forays had left her exhausted and drained. She had vomited at least four times, yet the nausea refused to abate.

God was punishing her for her evil, that she knew. But it really wasn't her fault. It was the forces driving her, the voices telling her what to do. And they were so insistent. When she did her research, the voice always went away. Because they didn't like it when Alison knew too much. If she could just get out of bed, she could do her research, and then the voices would fade.

So tired and weak…

Breathing was laborious. The air felt charred and burned with each inhalation. Sweat dripped from her body. Every inch of her was feverish. (Was she in hell or was it just Las Vegas heat?) Her limbs ached, her stomach groaned as waves of acid spewed up through her esophagus. She hadn't bathed or washed in twenty-four hours, and she felt as sullied as muck.

Steve would bring the kids home soon. She'd have to look presentable. Otherwise he'd think it had something to do with her illness rather than a simple virus. The virus ruse could only last so long. It wasn't a virus. It was the voices. But she couldn't let on.

All that eating and gorging. (What exactly had she eaten?) She was retching…coughing up wisps of fur like a cat with a hairball problem. She hated herself.

Maybe that's why Mother had done what she had done. Had she felt like Alison did now…despising every inch of her wretched body?

She checked the clock. Steve would be home soon.

A week ago, time raced like a firestorm. Now it dragged as if weighted with chains.

Slowly, she inched out of bed, crawling on all fours to the bathroom. Reaching up to run the water. Hot water. Anything to remove the stench and dirt and grime and filth.

Couldn't let the kids see her like this. Steve would protect her for only so long. Then he'd get angry.

She lay prostrate on the floor as the water ran. When the tub seemed as if it should be filled, she stretched her arm, groping for the taps. She felt the familiar grip and turned them off. Hoisting herself onto the ledge, she tumbled into the basin, her body still wrapped in a terry robe, hugging her like a needed second skin.

Soaking away the pain.

Why was this happening to her? Was there some genetic program she was missing? If she could just find the time and energy to do her research.

All her papers, clippings, files, the answers were there. She was positive. Because the green book had told her so. But the work needed organization, meticulous planning and filing, not loosely meshed thoughts of an insane woman.

Last week she had been on top of the world. Now she felt as lifeless as her yellow patch of lawn. Maybe it was the weather, the sudden heat that brought out the predators. She was acutely sensitive to changes in the atmosphere.

Soaking.

Had to take off the robe. Steve would know there was something wrong if she continued to bathe in her robe. She couldn't show him how much she needed the skin. Had to keep it a secret. All her life…a series of secrets. So many secrets…so
many
secrets.

TWENTY-ONE

R
UKI WAS
clearly sitting on something, waiting for the right moment. So wrapped up in her excitement she hadn't noticed his misery. Or maybe Poe hid it well. Mom certainly hadn't let on, leaving him to wonder about the gravity of her condition. But then every so often she'd stop eating, lift vacant eyes, and stare out the picture windows.

At the apex of the city, the Needle's view was a panorama of hotels bathed in a sea of coruscating lights. Beyond the glitter was a sprawl of low-rise housing bleeding into mile-long flats of pink clay. At this hour, the desert was a black hole of nothingness; the majestic purple mountains became looming shadows that reminded Poe of his insignificance.

He tried to pay attention to the conversation, but he had little to contribute. The women did most of the yakking, talking about food—growing food, buying food, preparing food, and cooking food. They swapped dozens of ethnic recipes. Ma had stopped cooking years ago, since before he left Reno. The last time he had seen her anywhere near a stove had been the day her apartment kitchen had almost blown up from a grease fire. Mom had been sacked out on the living-room couch.

But Poe could remember a time—the Sunday dinners with Grandma. His mother's family had moved to St. George, Utah, when she was twelve, but her Paiute heritage remained a staple in her life. Grandma's menus had always been simple but delicious. Roasted birds served with cakes made from ground pine nuts and white mesquite beans. A salad of Indian spinach, bitter greens, and mixed roasted seeds. Cholla fruit and berries sweetened with sugar. Poe had adored his grandmother's traditional cooking up until he had started school. Mingling with kids whose ideas of fancy cuisine had meant mustard with their salami sandwiches.

His first day of kindergarten…pulling his lunch out of his greasy brown paper sack. Licking his fingers as tots stared contemptuously at his food. They had never seen a whole roasted pigeon complete with head.

Eeeuuuu! That looks gross!

From that day on, he and Remus had opted for peanut butter sandwiches on white bread.

A hand on his shoulder. Poe looked up. Somehow, Patricia had materialized. She was with a date—some big Polynesian guy wearing harem pants, a white linen shirt, and a purple stonestudded vest. Aladdin on steroids.

Patricia was talking to him. "…is Nate Malealani."

"Ah," Poe said, shaking a very big hand. "Our eyewitness link to our mystery man."

"Find him yet, Sergeant?"

Found him and lost him
. "Not yet," Poe said. "But we will."

Malealani felt as if everyone was staring at him. "Sorry about the dress. I just got off work at Casablanca."

Emma said, "I think you look cute!"

Poe smiled. "Detective, this is my mother, Emma Poe. Dr. Kalil, you know—"

"Rukmani, please." She smiled warmly. "Come join us. Eating is always more fun in groups."

Patricia and Nate looked at each other. He said, "We're not interrupting?"

"Not at all."

Chewing a morsel of Chinese chicken salad, Emma tried to muster enthusiasm for her food. "Buffet's great here!"

"Probably the best in the city," Malealani said. "But if you really want some
great
eating, you gotta drive a little."

Emma wiped her face. "Where?"

"These little out-of-the-way places," Patricia answered. "Nate knows them all." She turned to her date. "Being as your time is more limited than mine, I suggest you brave the lines. I'll be with you in a minute."

He scowled. "I hate to go up alone in these duds. I feel like a freak."

"I'll be there in a minute." Patricia patted his weighty shoulder. "Go on. I know you're hungry." As soon as Nate left, Patricia rolled her eyes and added, "He's
always
hungry."

"Honeymoon's over?" Poe teased.

Patricia shrugged. "Actually, Nate's a good guy." Her eyes darted between Rukmani and Emma. Poe knew a hint when it bit him in the ass. He said, "Ma, why don't you go keep Nate company. Help him out with the buffet."

Again, Emma looked up, a forkful of moo goo gai pan halfway between her plate and her mouth. "The boy looks like he knows his way around food."

"Ma—"

"All right, all right." She peered at her son. "You're trying to get rid of me."

Poe smiled, said nothing.

She stood slowly, then walked reluctantly toward the groaning tables of food. Poe thought he detected a slight limp. His imagination?

To Rukmani, he said, "So what have you to tell us?"

Rukmani said, "It's that obvious?"

Patricia said, "You ain't much of a poker player, Dr. Kalil. What's up?"

"I got the bloods back on Sarah Yarlborough. Her body had been loaded with crack, but nothing else separated out on the gas chromatography chart. Unlike Newel, she hadn't been heavily sedated with barbiturates."

"In the killer's mind, crack could have taken the place of barbs," Poe told her. "Why ply her with drugs when she did the job herself?"

"A good point," Rukmani admitted. "Still, the deaths were significantly different. Brittany was drugged, then tortured to death. She probably died of voluminous shock and profuse bleeding, as she had very little liquid left in her body. Sarah, on the other hand, died of asphyxiation, with the throat cutting done postmortem. She was very well hydrated compared to Newel."

"The throat was cut after she died?" Patricia asked.

"Most definitely."

"How can you tell?"

"By blood loss," Rukmani said. "The jugular had been severed. If that had been done premortem, her heart would have still been beating, draining the body of fluid with each pulse. When the throat is cut after death, there is some direct vesicular drainage, but nowhere near the serum loss that one gets with a pumping heart."

"So you
don't
think the deaths are related?" Patricia asked.

"I'm not saying the same person couldn't have done both," Rukmani said. "But the deaths are different forensically." She suddenly smiled. "Look at your mother, Rom. She's holding court around the Szechuan veal."

Poe regarded the buffet. Indeed, Mom seemed to be lecturing not only Nate, but a group of tall, towheaded tourists speaking some esoteric, Scandinavian-sounding language. As Mom pointed to different dishes, her mouth worked a mile a minute. Nate stood next to her, rocking on his feet, watching Emma explain the nuances of Las Vegas cuisine.