The Killing Moon: A Novel

Which was why acting disappointed was sometimes enough to motivate him into action. In that respect, Sinclair was like Maddox's damaged twin. He wanted his better half 's approval. Wanting to do well, to succeed, to shine in someone's eyes for once: that was Sinclair's greatest secret.

His greatest failure was his inability ever to do so.

More minutes passed. A car drove by, Maddox watching it from the dark corner of the lot, crossing the bridge and turning onto Main Street, pulling away. Now he was getting pissed.

Maddox brought out his pager. Nothing further. He checked the original message again. It had been sent from Sinclair's pager, there was no doubt. But the text. He reviewed it now that he had more time.

Meet at pulp mill. Urgent. ALONE.

Sinclair's messages were long and rambling, not staccato bursts. Granted, the guy was on the run. But also there were no misspellings. Sinclair was notorious for that—whether he was dyslexic or just sloppy, Maddox didn't know. "Pulp" would be "plup." "Urgent" would be "ugrent." It was constant, every second or third word.

And why wait so long to contact him? If he had in fact been carrying the pager with him all this time, why hadn't he used it? Why hadn't he responded to any of Maddox's earlier messages? Why ignore him until now?

Maddox suddenly felt exposed, standing half visible in the moonlight behind the old paper mill, looking at the trees across the river and farther south along Mill. He was beginning to think that coming here had been a terrible mistake.

52

TRACY

SHE DREAMED A MEMORY: the afternoon her parents had sat her down in the sitting room, where all the serious conversations took place, and told her thirteen-year-old self that they were breaking up for good. Her father was not deaf, so it fell to him to utter the words—through a smile, as though everything were going to be okay—while her mother sat next to him, hands angrily mute in her lap. Tracy had cried that day, more out of confusion than anything, the distress she felt from her parents. As soon as she could, she excused herself and went into her room and shut the door. The next thing she remembered was her mother shaking her shoulder, and Tracy feeling a surge of bliss, as though waking from a terrible dream. Her relief vanished as soon as she saw the look in her mother's dark-rimmed eyes. Her mother left the room silently and Tracy felt her reproach, though she did not understand why until she was older: her mother had seen her slumber as a careless act, the betrayal of a much-needed ally.

So now, bolting awake to the rumble of the opening garage door, Tracy felt that same moment of pleasant disorientation, of consolation—only to be brought down crashing by the shameful realization that she had once again fallen asleep. How was this possible? Emotional exhaustion? Or simple cowardly escape? She chastised herself for her weakness, rubbing hard at her cheeks and her eyes, her skin feeling like it had aged a year during that nap. Her face turning into her mother's face.

She had been sleeping with an undercover state trooper. She knew nothing about the man she had fallen for. It came back to her in a bolt: who Donny was, where he had gone, whom he was to meet. So when the garage door started to close, fear woke her completely. Was this him? She went and stood half hidden inside the bathroom doorway, feeling more useless than ever.

He walked in, his holster already off his belt, his keys and pager in his hands. He shuffled his boot treads on the thin mat and shook his head when he saw her. "Nothing. He never showed."

"Never showed?"

"Two hours I waited. Wandered all over that rotting place." He walked past her and dumped his stuff on the counter where the pieces of his trigger lock remained. She could smell the old building on him, sawdust and decay. "I'm sorry, you were probably worried."

Could he see that she had fallen asleep? "But why would he…?"

Donny pulled a jug of water from the refrigerator and poured himself a glass and drank all of it. "Stand me up? I don't know. Any number of reasons, I suppose."

"Okay. But."

He poured himself another full glass and closed the refrigerator door. "It was this feeling I had there. While I was standing out in back, by the riverbank. Like I was being watched."

"Watched? Why would he be watching you?"

"He wouldn't. But what if someone else had his pager? Say they wanted to find out who had been paging him? That's how you'd do it. Set up a meet and draw that person out into the open."

"But you're losing me," said Tracy. "Now you think someone else has his pager?"