Waiting for the Moon

Dr. Ian Carrick removed his small, wire-rimmed spectacles and set them down on the desk. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he let out an exhausted sigh. Sheets and sheets of expensive paper covered with inky scribblings lay sprawled in front of him and on the floor, heaped in disorderly piles. His microscope sat at his elbow, hunched over like an old man, the slides in readiness beside it.

He leaned back in his chair and sipped at his scotch, glancing down at the mess of papers before him. The title blurred before his tired eyes. Blood refusion in the treatment of carbonic oxide poisoning. "Fascinating," he said bitterly. He didn't know why he bothered. No one in New York cared what he had to say anymore. His last paper on the causes of puerperal septicemia had been largely ignored by everyone except his friend Dr. Halstead.

He grabbed his glass and got to his feet. Paper scattered beneath his feet, skidded out of the way as he moved away from the desk. At the window he paused, glanced outside at the storm gathering force along his forbidding, rocky stretch of coastline.

Wind and rain hammered the roof, shook the old windows of the house, and moaned through cracks in the siding. Misshapen shrubs and spindly pines curled

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around the perima by the bluish light He threw the why rain hit his face, blui was the shifting darki of the moon. Wind > against his cheek in a w against the rocks, soakev creep along the shoreline.

It was the kind of night that used to encourage him to jump on his horse and ride row ... or cajole a lady im . .-?*"?'''

The kind of night that used to fire his soul and fuel his energy and make him think he was a god.

He drew back, closing the window, wishing to hell he had another bottle of scotch. Anything to end the cursed

loneliness . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned heavily against the wall. Draining the cheap glass, he let it slip through his fingers, heard it hit the hardwood floor with a satisfying crash. Running a hand through his hair, he stared out at the shifting sea, watched the painted tips of the waves break against the black rock of his beach.

Once, he'd never been alone. Memories of that life were becoming hazy, dulled by the dark isolation of his existence now, but he could still recall that he'd been in constant motion, talking, laughing, drinking, making love. He remembered that life as a staccato series of images?rich clothing, Baccarat crystal, naked flesh. He'd moved from elegant party to glittering ball with the jerky, fleeting motion of a butterfly, desperately seeking something he could never name. Always in the limelight, always the center of attention. So rarely alone. He'd thought then that he was urbane, sophisticated, bored by everything save the all-consuming passion of his medicine. But he'd been wrong.

Hell, he hadn't even known what boredom was in

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those halcyon days, or what horror was, even though he'd looked at death every day for years. He hadn't understood horror or regret until the day his life ended in a spray of blood and betrayal and dishonor. If he'd known then what he knew now .. .

A knock at the door saved him from his dark thoughts.

He straightened, pushed away from the wall. "Come in."

The door opened slowly, just a crack at first. "Dr. Carrick?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, it's Mr. Hyde."

"Yes .. . right, sir." The door eased open, and his plump, gray-haired housekeeper waddled into his sanctuary, bearing a tray of steaming food. The familiar smell of baked beans and ham wafted in with her. She squinted, moved slowly forward. " 'Tis rather dark in here, Doctor."

"Yes, Edith, it is."

"Of course, you like it that way."

"Yes, Edith, I do."

She bustled into the room, her tray held like an offering. As she reached the desk, her foot caught on the edge of the Oriental carpet and she was flung forward. Without thinking, Ian reached out for her, grabbed her fleshy arm.

He knew it was a mistake instantly. His hands seemed to burst into flames at the touch. He staggered and snatched his arm back, but it was too late.

The vision hit him hard. Edith yanking a half-empty bottle of whiskey from her husband's gnarled fingers .. . her screeching shout, "Get that whore out of our bed." The bitter, wrenching sound of her sobs . . .

As if from far away, he heard her quiet gasp. The tray clattered onto his desk, sugary brown sauce dripped over the braided silver rim and bled onto a piece of paper.

And then the pictures were gone. "Damn it," Ian