The Killing Moon: A Novel

"He's going to get you. That's what he said." It was stupid to betray Dill's confidence like this, but Frankie couldn't help it. He had nothing else to throw back at this cop except his own empty hurt, wanting to scare somebody else for a change. "He knows a way, he said. All the cops. He's going to turn this shit-fucking town upside down."

He waited for the shove, the slap, the knee. Instead he got a hard stare, and strange words of caution. "That's something you should maybe keep to yourself, don't you think?"

Frankie stared. This cop didn't believe him? Or was this something else entirely? "Am I getting the key back?"

"All you're getting is a pass out of here, right now, and that means never come back. I want that understood. I want you crystal clear on that."

"Fuck you."

The cop shook his head. "No, man. No way. You want me to step on you. That's what you're used to. All you know is getting bounced around. And that's why I'm not going to do you that way. Why I'm not throwing you down these stairs right now. You think you're young enough to mess around with your life like this, like you're putting one over on the rest of the world? The world doesn't care, Frankie. The world welcomes statistics. But I'm not going to waste a speech on you. All you want is the back of someone's hand so you can go deeper into your sulk. You're leaving here now. And never coming back."

"I have to get my stuff—"

He started toward the living room, where his stash was, but the cop pushed him back against the wall, staring hard into his eyes like he knew.

Out on the street, walking away fast, tears pressured Frankie's eyes but would not fall.

Dill. Don't leave me alone in this town.

He looked back at the corner building. He saw a man standing on the darkened balcony, and his mind stuttered a moment, telling him it was Dill.

It wasn't. Just the cop. Watching Frankie go—but standing with his head turned. Utterly still and aware. As though listening to something.

Frankie heard the sounds then, distant, way up in the hills.

Sirens.

21

EDDIE

IT WAS A STRANGE-LOOKING house that got stranger the longer Eddie Pail worked around it. The front was constructed out of thick timber while the high wall on one side and the low wall on the other were built with river stones like ostrich eggs set in mortar.

Eddie had the long pole and was trying to break one of the top windows from the side lawn, but couldn't get enough force behind it. So he found some fist-sized rocks and started throwing. The third one cracked right through. He resumed with the pole, smashing out the rest of the glass, his hole venting black billows of smoke and wavy heat.

The pumper truck was parked up on the lawn, its hose splashing the exterior, the heated stones hissing as water became steam. The house smoked and dripped like something cooking and melting at the same time.

They yelled back and forth across the lawn, Mort and Stokes wrangling the water-plumped hose and aiming its stream into the high window. Smoke alarms squealed inside and occasionally there was a heat-crack of supporting timber, as fierce as a thunderclap of warning.

With the hot night and the angry blaze and them suffering inside their bunkers and helmets, Eddie was earning his pay on this call, every cent. At one point the pumper ran dry and Mort and Ullard had to drive over to the fire pond on Sundown to reload. The nearest neighbors appeared with drinking water for them, looking up at the smoke in awe.

The pumper returned but the vent did its job, just as training said it would. The smoke out of the upstairs window was starting to fade, the blaze dying out, and Bucky and Mort strapped on masks and tanks and went in through the front door with a hatchet and a pike pole. Eddie and Stokes kept the roof wet and cool, the smoke alarms crying even louder now that the air around the house had stopped whipping.

They came out minutes later, jackets damp and pitchy. Bucky shrugged off his tank and pulled back his helmet, mask, and neck guard, squinting from the heat. He sat on the grass and shed his heavy yellow gloves and dug in the pockets underneath his bunkers, coming out with a cigarette and lighting it up with fish white hands. He smoked deeply, the oxygen mask outline drawn on his face in black sweat.

"Ding-dong," said Bucky.

"What's that?" said Eddie.

"The witch is dead."

Eddie looked at the stinking house. "This is Frond's place?"

Ponytailed Frond with his socks and sandals. The photographer's vest he always wore, those empty little film loops.

Bucky said, "There's some other weird shit in there."

"Like what?"

"Weird witch shit."

Maddox appeared, standing beneath a crooked branch of the only tree in the yard. Bucky was right. Always watching them.

"Was he in bed?" Eddie asked.

"On the floor downstairs. Burned to a crisp."

"On the floor?" Eddie pictured the guy curled up and burning. He shuddered. Frond was in his forties, an able guy. "Why hadn't he gotten out—"