The Killing Moon: A Novel

He was almost at his Jeep when headlights pulled in off Main. Frond made out the light rack on the roof of the patrol car, and slowed near the ice chest, cornered. He wanted to avoid another costly go-round with the Pail brothers. Bogus speeding tickets had already wiped out his "Safe Driver" steps and raised his insurance rate three hundred dollars.

The cop parked right next to his car. Frond saw that it was the new hire, the one they called Maddox. He felt a dash of relief, but kept moving just the same, pulling open his unlocked door. He trusted none of them.

Frond had moved up here seven years ago. Sick of the pace and cost of living in the real world, and in an effort to renounce consumerism, he gave away his television and most of his possessions and retreated to a stone-and-timber house. He subsisted now on Internet sales of New Age paraphernalia and as an online broker—his 56K dial-up modem demanded Zen-like patience—for a consortium of potters and weavers in the hills of Mitchum County.

But the modern world didn't like losing even one consumer. That was the only way he could explain his recent turn of bad karma. One good deed had begat a chain of punishments and tiny agonies.

He was fishing his keys out of his shorts pocket when Maddox came around, asking, "Everything all right?"

He started up the engine. Something uneasy about this one. Not an evil vibe, as from the others, but a strange one. He struck Frond as a watcher, as a seeker, and Frond was usually right about people.

Maddox said, "You looked a little spooked when I pulled up."

"Did I?" said Frond, swiping at his nose. Fear worked as well as cayenne in loosening up the nasal passages. "No, just the bright headlights."

"I thought it might be the sight of the patrol car. I heard you had some run-ins with other members of the department."

Harassment was the legal term for it. Intimidation was the purpose. Ever since he had passed Bucky Pail beating up a man in handcuffs by the side of the road. What did it matter that Dillon Sinclair, the sex offender, was the one getting smacked around? Frond did what any good citizen of the world would do: he filed a complaint with the county through the state police. Now he worried every time he left his house.

Maddox said, "If you feel that some members of the police force are overstepping their authority, you should come forward."

"I think I tried that, didn't I?" What was this? Using the new guy to get to him? "They want to punish me until I move, and they might just get their way. You're not so new that you can't know. I'm not the only one who's scared."

The swinging door slapped shut behind Maddox, Big Bobby Loom locking up for the night. He looked them over talking together, then turned and swayed toward his white Fairlane parked around the side.

Why was Frond bothering? When would he learn to keep his mouth closed around Black Falls cops? He shifted his Jeep into gear. "I'm no crusader. Not anymore. State police promised me they'd do something." He was pulling away. "I'm still waiting."

12

TRACY

TRACY COULDN'T SLEEP.

She didn't want to call, but lying there in the dark wasn't getting her anywhere, thinking hard and not sleeping, so she picked up the phone. The green-backlit number pad was the only light in her room as she dialed three numbers.

"Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?"

"Yes, well…there's this guy I've been seeing for about four months, okay?"

"Ma'am?"

"Actually, four months, six days, twenty-two hours. Give or take a few minutes."

"Go ahead."

"Well, today I stopped by his house and I caught him with this total low-rent hoochie."

"You say a hoochie?"

"Big-time hoochie."

"Ma'am, this line is intended for emergencies only."

"This is an emergency, or it was—for me, anyway. There was an altercation, but it was mostly verbal. Actually, it was mostly me."

"Anyone hurt?"

"Not really, no. I tried to inflict some emotional damage, but as usual it totally backfired. So now I'm home all alone, stressing out that I embarrassed myself beyond repair."

"I'm sure that's not the case. I bet you behaved admirably well under the circumstances."

"I just wanted you to know. I'm not mad."

"Good."

"But I'm no pushover either. I'm no doormat."

"Okay."

"But leaving you that way, us parting the way we did…that hurt the most. That felt really shitty. I don't ever want to do that again, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay. What are you doing now? I picture you sulking the night away."

"I'm reading. While I sulk."

She pushed herself up on her pillow. "That same war book?"

"Volume three. Marching toward Appomattox."

"Do you think it's weird that people have favorite wars?"

"I guess I do, yeah."