Night of the Purple Moon (13 page)

Fortunately, Barry told her that he had a toothache. It was great news. The infected tooth was the cause of his fever, not space germs. In the morning, Abby rubbed whiskey on Barry’s gums to numb them and then Jordan and Derek held the trembling ten-year-old as Colby zeroed in with a pair of pliers and yanked the culprit.

KK, during the third week of her illness, developed a painful rash between her shoulder blades. Her skin, dimpled like a golf ball, was raw and red and oozed pus. KK had to lie on her side and winced if anything brushed against the rash.

She started hallucinating two days later. “Let’s go on a picnic,” she said out of the blue. More hallucinations followed: “I need to finish my homework”… “Can someone call my mom and tell her I’ll be at the playground”.

Two days later, Abby was washing dishes when Eddie raced breathlessly into the kitchen. “KK’s better,” he cried. “She wants to go outside to get some fresh air. She’s not hallucinating, Abby. I swear it. She sat up in bed. Her eyes are clear. She beat the space germs. I told her to rest, stay in bed. Come, see for yourself!”

When she and Eddie entered KK’s room, they both froze. KK was ashen and still. Cat let out a mournful cry. Eddie crumpled to his knees and sobbed. Abby did not think it was possible for her heart to break further, but Eddie proved her wrong when he pulled back the covers and climbed beside the girl he loved.

The kids held a tearful funeral service for KK the next day. When that was over, they drove her body to the harbor, where Eddie and Jordan tenderly placed it in the skiff.

They had to take KK in the sailboat. They couldn’t afford to use the last of their precious fuel.
Sea Ray
had a full tank of diesel fuel, and they were saving it for a trip to the mainland—if and when the antibiotic became available.

The boys sailed by the mansion close to shore in a final tribute. The flag flew at half-mast, and the children tossed wild flowers into the water, daisies and dandelions, which formed a thick rope of petals on the wet pebbles as the tide receded.

Abby perched atop a craggy boulder at the water’s edge, exhausted and more frightened than ever from the turmoil of the past month. The steady onshore breeze dried her fresh tears as she watched the white sail shrink smaller, ever smaller.

“Rest in peace, Katy Kowalsky,” Abby whispered into the wind.

Emily concentrated on the road. This morning she was driving the truck to the farm faster than usual because of her dream last night. In it, she had forgotten to tie up Henrietta and the lumbering cow crushed every egg but one. She’d awoken in a cold sweat.

“My great-grandfather was born here,” Tim, her partner and milking maestro, said gazing out the window from the passenger seat. “You know what type of fish he caught off the rocks? Halibut. Incredible, huh? He got married at sixteen. Hey, Emily? Are you listening to me?”

Tim, the once shy boy, never stopped talking.

“Your grandfather fished?” she said.

“My great-grandfather,” Tim corrected and continued to recount his family’s long history on Castine Island.

A fan of orange and yellow light was unfolding in the east. Soon the sun would bubble above the horizon. Ghostly sea smoke hovered over the water. Jordan had told her the layer of wispy fog formed when the air and water temperatures were the same.

Emily shivered and cranked up the heater. It was the middle of September, but winter would arrive before they knew it. She wondered how they’d keep the chickens and cows warm in January. At least chickens had feathers.

Emily had no such worries about herself and the other survivors. They had a good supply of firewood, as well as plenty of canned food and fresh water stored. The problem they faced was the delay in receiving the antibiotic. How many of them would still be alive a year from now?

“Look,” Tim said, pointing. “They did it again!” The barn door was wide open.

Emily remembered closing the door yesterday. “Toby?” she said.

“Who else,” Tim muttered. “Wait until Colby hears.”

Emily wasn’t sure that telling Colby was the best thing to do. She knew what he’d do to the boys. “First let’s see what they did,” she said. “It’s not a big deal if they took a few eggs.”

“I’ll go to the barn,” Tim said.

Emily said she’d check the field. On their last jaunt to freedom, the chickens had fled the barn and scurried into the tall grass, pecking away at a limitless bounty of crickets and grasshoppers. It had taken her and Tim hours to shoo them back to their coop inside the barn.

They parked, and Tim jumped out and raced toward the barn.

Emily approached the field. “Clarisse,” she called. “Lucy, Amelia, Meezy.” Emily had named them all. “Come on, ladies. Magpie! Cluck if you’re out here.”

The first breeze of dawn sent a shiver across the grass tips. Otherwise the field was still and peaceful. Emily thought that she and Tim might have lucked out. She pictured the chickens huddled close for warmth, sleeping soundly in their coop.

A blood-curdling scream sent adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Emily flew into the barn. It was dark and shadowy inside, and she detected a mysterious odor mixed with the typical smells of chicken feed and chicken droppings and the warm mustiness of the cows. Emily could almost taste the raw, rank odor.

She made out Tim, squatting and hugging his knees near the cow’s water trough. As she was about to ask him why he had screamed, she gasped at the sight of feathers by her feet. The thick layer rolled out like a rug. Emily quickly realized that coyotes had killed all the chickens.

She felt her legs go numb and struggled to stay on her feet. She approached Tim and noticed the hulking shape on the barn floor next to him. Her heart shattered. It was a cow and something was terribly wrong. Emily still couldn’t tell whether it was Henrietta or Matilda because of the shadows. Up close her feet sunk into something wet and spongy. It was blood.

Coyotes had killed Henrietta.

“Where’s Matilda?” Emily cried.

Breathing hard and fast, Tim rocked back and forth on his heels, still hugging his knees. “Why did they do this?” he said. “Why?”

“Matilda,” Emily called and scanned the interior of the barn. When she didn’t see the cow, she hoped for the best. She told herself that Matilda had survived the coyote attack. She survived because of her stubbornness…she showed them who was boss.

Emily didn’t want to leave Tim, but he wouldn’t budge. “I’ll be right back,” she said and ran outside the barn.

Matilda was behind the barn, cast in a veil of red light by the rising sun. She looked unharmed, and Emily choked out a sob of relief.

She ran over and threw her arm around Matilda’s neck. She shrieked when her hand skated over the gash hidden from her view. The wound was wide and deep, and Emily knew she could do nothing to save Matilda.

With tears streaming down her cheeks, Emily gently stroked Matilda’s nose until the cow collapsed.

Abby heard the squeal of tires. She hopped out of bed and looked out the window. In the driveway Emily and Tim had skidded to a halt in the truck. She thought it was strange for them to return so soon. They normally stayed at the farm until noon.

She watched in disbelief as they stumbled out of the truck and staggered toward the front door, arm in arm,
covered in blood
.

Abby raced downstairs, knocking her chair over backwards in her haste, and met them at the door. They blurted out what had happened. She was shocked by the news, but grateful that neither of them was hurt.

She guided them into the kitchen and closed the door, so as not to frighten the younger kids. Colby and Derek stopped making sandwiches and joined them at the kitchen table. With shaky voices, Tim and Emily told the story, detail by gruesome detail. The feathers sticking to Tim’s boots were a grim illustration that they were not exaggerating.

Colby stood and started pacing. “I’m going to kill them,” he muttered. “I’m going to kill them.” His eyes were as cold as slate.

Abby was certain that Toby, Chad, and Glen were to blame, and it made her boiling mad. She also worried about the boys’ safety. She had never seen Colby filled with so much hatred. He was a keg of dynamite ready to explode.

Abby had to buy time. Let Colby simmer down. “Are you sure you closed the barn door?” she asked.

Emily nodded emphatically.

“It was them alright,” Tim cried. “I saw their sneaker prints.”

“We need to do something about it,” Abby said. “Let’s talk about it at council tonight.”

Colby ripped open a cutlery drawer and grabbed a carving knife. “I’m not waiting. Abby, we won’t get any more eggs because of them. No more milk. What are Chloe and Clive supposed to drink? They did more than steal from us. They put all of our lives in danger.”

She agreed with every word, but she kept her head still. Nodding would only encourage him.

Abby held her hand out, palm up, and approached him. “Put the knife down.” Her voice surprised her. It was rock steady. Colby appeared frightened, as if he had crossed a line and didn’t know how to reel himself back in. “Please,” she added, “we’ll do something now.”

“What?” he growled.

Abby had no idea.

Colby rattled the knife in the drawer and slammed it shut. He folded his arms and gave her a hard stare, waiting for her to speak.

“We’ll go see them,” she said. “Right now. You, me, and Jordan.” Abby hoped that she and Jordan together might be able to prevent Colby from doing something they would all regret.

When Colby grunted his agreement, Abby felt herself tremble all over, a delayed reaction of nerves to the volatile situation.

Kevin reported seeing Toby’s Mustang parked a block away from the Leigh’s house, on the other side of Melrose Street. Abby wished that he hadn’t seen it. The longer it took them to find the trio of renegade boys, the more time there would have been for Colby to calm down.

They set off in the cruiser, with Jordan driving and Colby in the back seat. Abby kept her eye on him in the side mirror. He glared out the window, gripping a baseball bat. Nobody spoke.

They stopped at the house which had two cars in the driveway and Toby’s Mustang parked out front. Abby remembered who had lived in the house before the night of the purple moon: an old man who mended fishing nets. Tiny yellow wild flowers sprouted in the trash-strewn front yard.

The three of them got out of the cruiser. Colby slammed the car door shut and walked up to the Mustang and smashed a headlight with the baseball bat. He would have done more damage to the car if Abby hadn’t stopped him.

“We’re different than they are!” she said.

“Maybe you are.”

Abby flashed a look at Jordan that pleaded,
do
something, say something, help!
Her brother turned away.

They moved to the house. Colby pounded the head of the bat on the porch floor. “You’ll never steal from us again!” he shouted.

Abby knocked on the door. When no one came, she opened it a crack and peered inside. The rank odor of garbage and heaps of trash piled up reminded her of her last visit to their lair. “Toby?” she called. “Chad? Glen?”

“They’re probably still in bed,” Jordan said. After all, it was only ten-thirty in the morning.

Colby smirked. “They’re not out working, that’s for sure.”

Abby stepped into the entry hall with the other two following her. Then she entered the kitchen, immediately wishing she hadn’t. The evidence was before them: cracked shells on the countertop and a pan on the stove with the caked remains of scrambled eggs.

“Assholes,” Colby shouted.

Her heart skipped a beat in fright. She felt caught in a riptide. No matter how much she struggled, she couldn’t fight the current. The inevitable was about to happen. All of a sudden Abby heard a faint sound of weeping.

“Listen,” she whispered. “Someone’s crying.”

“They’re laughing,” Colby boomed. “They’re laughing at us.”

“It sounds like crying to me,” Jordan said.

Abby followed the sound up the stairs. She did not want to lead, but she knew that she must stay between Colby and whatever they were about to find. It would be her last chance to prevent violence.

Someone was crying. Abby reached the top of the stairs and started down the hallway. She glanced back. Colby was tip-toeing close behind, poised to smash someone with the bat.

There, in a bedroom at the end of the hall, Toby and Glen were standing beside a bed where Chad lay motionless under the covers. Glen was the one crying. Abby knew immediately that the space germs had claimed another victim, a boy her age.

Toby, his face wet, glanced their way briefly before returning his gaze to his dead friend.

Abby heard a soft clink, the sound of wood on wood. She saw by her feet that Colby had set the bat on the floor.

He jammed his hands in his pockets and rocked side to side. “I’m really sorry,” he said and lowered his eyes. There were tears in his voice.

Jordan sailed thirty degrees into the wind, close hauled, tacking every fifteen minutes, zigzagging ever further from the island. Waves pounded the skiff’s bow in endless thuds, splattering icy droplets against his rain gear.

Seas this rough, with a strong northeast wind, usually spelled trouble. October was hurricane season. A Nor’easter, also common this time of year, was no picnic, either. Abby had pleaded with him to wait for better weather, but he had a job to do.

Toby and Glen had finally delivered Chad’s body to the mansion, and Zoe, too, needed a sea burial. Her skeletal frame lay along the port gunwale. Chad was at the bow, his face as gray as the clouds.

Half a mile at sea, Jordan baited a hook with the head of a smoked mackerel, threw it overboard, and looped the fishing line around his foot. The big schools of bluefish and striped bass had migrated to warmer waters, but still he stood a slim chance of snagging a straggler.

Ignore the odds, never give up—Jordan believed that was the secret of survival.

After only a few minutes he felt a tug on the line. A strike! He rammed the tiller forward, bringing the bow into the wind. The sail luffed and the boat bucked up and down. Jordan braced his right leg against the port side and hauled in the fishing line, hand over hand. Whatever he had hooked seemed to weigh a ton.