Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

“But what?” Cal asked.

As far as Cal knew, we’d only had a rash of deaths. I wasn’t going to tell him about the supernatural questions. He was a straight shooter, an eternal Marine. He’d never believe in aliens, or anything else out of the ordinary, and I didn’t have time to convince him.

“I’ll take the call,” I said.

“I’ll go with you.”

“No.” I was going to have Doc go with me. “I need you to hang around here. I—” I forced my voice to break. It wasn’t that hard. “I can’t do it.”

Sympathy washed over Cal’s face. “Of course.” He tried to pat my shoulder, fumbling the gesture and smacking me in both the chin and the neck.

I stepped out of his reach. “Where’d they find Merry?”

“Died in her bed, I hope in her sleep. Poor woman.”

It would be nice if we had a plain old death for a change, but I doubted it. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m going to stay in town. You can raise me on my cell.”

Cal lifted a hand in good-bye and took off with long, sure strides toward the huddle of firefighters on my lawn.

In the past few days, Doc had moved up on my speed dial to the number-one position. He answered on the second ring, and I gave him directions.

“I’m getting real sick of seeing your number on my caller ID.”

“Be honest, Doc: Did you ever really like it?”

* * *

Merry’s house stood on one of the many side streets in Lake Bluff. Despite the hour, the place was lit up like the Fourth of July. Merry’s husband, Ted, opened the door before I even knocked. His face was pale and tear-streaked. He tried to speak and choked, then turned and walked into the living room, leaving the door open.

I’d dealt with hysterical relatives before, but they were usually women. Ted was six-four and weighed about three hundred pounds. He was a mason, and his hands were as big as bricks. I guess size didn’t matter when it came to heartbreak. Still, Merry had been sick a long time and, according to all the gossips, there’d been no hope. I don’t know why I’d thought he’d be ready for the inevitable by now, but I had.

“Ted.” I inched into the room, not wanting to disturb him but needing to ask questions. I was going to try to finagle an autopsy out of this man—it wouldn’t hurt to actually have permission from the family member on record—but I couldn’t do it if he was incoherent.

He tried to speak, but his chest kept hitching like a child who’s sobbed too long and too hard.

“Take your time.” I perched on the edge of the couch.

He stood by the window. “She—she—she—”

“I know,” I said gently.

“She wasn’t supposed to die? She went to the doctor yesterday. She was in remission. It was a miracle.”

I wondered what Walker had put in that jar. I meant to find out.

“What, exactly, did her doctor say?”

“Just that. Remission. She had more time.”

“How much?”

“He wouldn’t say, but then—” He lifted his huge hands and let them fall back to his sides, helpless.

“Tell me what happened tonight.”

“She went to bed early; she always did. I watched the news, then I heard this horrible noise. I went up and she was—” He choked and began to sob again.

I wanted to check on her, but I didn’t want to leave him. Thankfully, Doc arrived.