The Killing Moon: A Novel

Clothesline. From when his mother used to hang out wet sheets in the backyard, a hundred years ago. He would play hide-and-seek in them with her.

He grabbed it, and a knob-handled, needle-bladed scratch awl—the sharpest, nearest thing he could find—and ran back out into the rain. He raced to the hole in the yard, sliding the last several feet over the soaked grass like a runner going for third, yelling down to her.

She was just a floating face now. The effluent up to her ears, her arms reaching for him.

"He's up there!" she screamed. "Look out!"

Maddox scanned the front yard, the adjacent wetlands, the house. She was delirious. They were alone.

He knotted a loop and lowered the rope into the riser. Tracy pulled one wrist through, gripping the line, and he braced his feet against the mud around the rim. He hauled her up, hand over hand, the clothesline burning his palms and bloody fingers.

She emerged from the narrow hole, head and shoulders, clawing at the grass with her sludge-streaked hands like a corpse from a grave. She kicked her dripping legs free and then, saved, collapsed onto him, slimy and foul-smelling, squeezing him tight.

She twisted around, amazed to see his house in the dark rain, the hole in the yard. She was bewildered as to how she had gotten there. Maddox helped her to her feet and was pulling the rope off her arm when Tracy screamed.

Ripsbaugh, wig hair flying, came running at them across the yard with his spade in his hands.

Maddox shoved Tracy aside. He rushed Ripsbaugh just as the shovel came around, Maddox avoiding the blade, the wooden handle cracking against his raised left arm and sending him sprawling over the open tank cap.

"Run!" he yelled to Tracy. But she was already doing that.

Ripsbaugh appeared over him, shovel raised. Maddox rolled away just as the blade buried itself sideways in the wet turf where his head had been. He scrambled to his feet as Ripsbaugh pulled the spade from the sucking ground. Ripsbaugh lunged and swung, and Maddox, off balance, thought he was far enough away.

The dirty blade sliced through the meat of his upper left thigh, a gouge of pain that spun Maddox sideways, dropping him to one knee.

Ripsbaugh reset himself, eyes determined as he wound up for a beheading shot.

The clothesline lay on the grass around Ripsbaugh's feet. Maddox grabbed the loose ends and yanked back.

Ripsbaugh's legs came up, crashing him to the ground, his head smacking back.

Maddox, grunting in pain, pulled the awl from his back pocket and buried it deep in Ripsbaugh's left thigh, to the bone.

Ripsbaugh's howl was monstrous. His leg kicked so violently that Maddox lost his grip on the knob. Maddox looked up just in time to see the blunt top end of the shovel handle coming at his face.

It struck him full in the cheek, snapping back his head. He brought his hand up to cover the point of impact and felt the left side of his face droop, the bones cracked and loose inside.

Ripsbaugh was writhing and trying to get up, the knob of the awl jutting from his thigh. He still had the shovel. Maddox had nothing but a broken face and a bad leg.

Tracy.

Maddox got to his feet and took off, each step a burst of flame, hobbling hard to the other side of the house, opposite the direction in which Tracy had run. He looked back with his hand covering his face and saw Ripsbaugh with the awl blade out of his thigh, limping after him, shovel in hand.

Tracy was free. That was all that mattered. Whatever happened now, no one else would die needlessly because of him.

65

TRACY

TRACY RAN BLINDLY INTO the driveway, right past Donny's patrol car before stopping. She turned back and saw Sinclair in the front lawn, limping badly after Donny around the far end of the house.

The driver's door was unlocked. She jumped inside, slamming it shut after her, locking it with her slimy fingers, reaching across for the passenger door and locking that one too.

No keys. She saw the radio under the dash and picked up the handset and ran her disgusting hands over the knobs.

Nothing. Then she saw the on/off switch.

The dial lit up white, reassuring lights blinking red and green.

She held the handset with both hands so it wouldn't slip away like a bar of soap and she pressed down the talk button and yelled for help.

"Who is this?" came the radio voice, angry.

She met fire with fire, blasting her name back at him.

"The missing Tracy Mithers?" said the voice.

She told them where she was. She told them Sinclair was there and he was chasing Don Maddox. Don Maddox, the state police trooper.

"Stay right where you are," said the voice.

She eased up on the handset and it slipped to the floor. She checked all the door locks again, and the windows, making sure she was sealed in. She looked back at the radio and noticed a panel of switches above it. With her mucky fingers, she flicked every one of them.

Blue lights blazed across the house and the driveway. The siren screamed.