Swallow the Moon (4 page)

"Lay still," she warned him. "I shouldn't have moved you."

"S-okay." He looked up at her, his teeth flashed in the dimness. "That's one hell of a dog you got there."

"She's my girl," June smiled, patting Tasha. She heard sirens. "Looks like the law is here." She saw the sheriff's car and the ambulance coming in and waved them down.

Seconds later, the EMT's leaped from the ambulance, carrying kits, running to where the biker was laying in the ditch.

"He was run off the road by an SUV." June stepped back, holding Tasha by the collar.

"Were you the passenger?" the EMT asked June.

"No, I live here." June pointed to where she had seen the woman. "She's over there."

"There's no one here." His flashlight flickered in an outward arc as he searched around the motorcycle.

"S-s-she was right th-there." A sudden chill made her stutter. June followed the beam of light with her eyes, but the woman was gone.

"Are you sure you saw someone?"

June hesitated; a numbing cold settled on her feet and started its way up her legs. It was so intense her teeth chattered.

"Could she have gotten up?"

The woman had been dead – June could have sworn to it. Except the grass showed no blood, no body, no sign there had been one. She swallowed, feeling faint and horribly cold.

What had she seen?

"Ma`am, are you all right?"

"I must have been mistaken about the woman."

"Were you on the motorcycle?" He shined his light on her.

"I'm the one who reported the accident. I was in the house when it happened."

He shined his light into June's face, blinding her. She shielded her eyes, thinking fast. It was time to say something intelligent and reassuring, before he decided she was a nutcase. It was time to stop talking about the woman.

"Have you been drinking?"

"I don't drink."

Rags growled. June scooped up the little dog before he started trouble.

"No, Rags," June scolded her dog.

"I smell alcohol," the EMT said.

"The guys in the truck were drinking."

The EMT shone the light back on the ground. He found a beer can in a cozy. June got a good look at the design on the red and white plastic. It came from one of their plastics suppliers. Everyone in the office had one. Had someone from her plant been in the SUV? The men sounded familiar, talking with a thick country drawl. Half the men who worked at the plant talked the same way.

"Hey, Earl," he said. "Over here."

The Sheriff walked over to take a look.

"It's still cold," the EMT looked at the Sheriff. "Bag it?"

"Can't hurt," the Sheriff shrugged. "Might be able to charge them with littering." The two men laughed.

June felt like protesting, but this wasn't a murder. The Sheriff wasn't going to go all CSI for a minor accident. She was willing to bet they wouldn't even check for fingerprints. The beer can cozy proved the guys in the SUV were drinking.

Rags picked up on her frustration and growled. June went to find the biker, keeping a tight hold on Rags.

"Hi, I live in the house, I called 911," she introduced herself to the EMT. "Which hospital are you taking him to?"

"Ashtabula General is closest." The tall EMT nodded to her. "Did you see what happened?"

"Part of it, I heard the crash from the house." She frowned. "The guys in the SUV cheered when he crashed. I had already called 911 when they came back. I – I hid him in the ditch. I thought – they sounded like they were going to – to hurt him." It was hard to say the words 'murder him.' This was Ashtabula; people didn't go around
killing
each other.

"The Sheriff is going to want to talk to you."

"Okay."

The EMT called to the Sheriff, explaining the situation in a few short sentences.

"I'm busy at the moment." The Sheriff looked around at the scene. "How about I come up to the house to take your statement?"

"Sure, when you're ready." June looked over at the motorcycle. Her nosy neighbors, the Tackett boys, were on either side of it, looking it over. "What are you going to do with the bike?"

"Call a tow truck."

June winced; that would cost the poor guy a fortune.

"You can park it in my garage," she offered. "He can come back for it when he's able."

"That will save him some money," the sheriff said. "Leave your phone number with him." He handed June a slip of paper.

"Okay." June wrote her number down. "I'll give it to him." She wanted to see for herself how he was doing. The EMTs had the biker strapped on a backboard. There was a collar around his neck and a mask on his face.

"Hey." June leaned over him. "How are you doing?"

"Pain is nature's way of telling me I'm still alive," he bared his teeth. "They won't let me get up. Stupid, isn't it?"

"They need to be sure you're all right."

"Whatever."

"Look, they are going to leave the bike here." She put the scrap of paper into his hand and gave his hand a squeeze. "I'll make sure they don't impound it."

"Thanks." He closed his eyes for a moment. "I owe you twice."

"No problem." She clucked to Tasha, carrying Rags back to her house. How much should she tell the Sheriff? Should she tell him that Tasha had bitten the man? Wasn't there a law that if dogs like Pit Bulls, Rottweilers and Dobermans bit someone, they had to be put down?

She had barely gotten her chocolate re-heated before the Deputy Sheriff knocked on her door. She made up her mind – she wasn't going to tell anyone about the bite. The biker was alive; there wasn't any reason to mention it. The dogs barked a warning.

"Nobody sneaks up on you," the Deputy said wryly. "Do you mind making a statement for me? I'd like to hear it from your perspective."

"Okay." June motioned him to follow her to the kitchen where she laid out what she had seen and heard. She told him about the shouts of 'got him' as the truck roared by the first time. How the truck had come back. How they had hidden in the ditch while the men searched for the downed biker. When it came to the reason the men retreated, she lied by omission, saying that Tasha had chased the man. She wasn't going to tell anyone that Tasha had bitten someone. Tasha was her security blanket.

"What about the other person on the bike?" the Sheriff asked. "What happened to her?"

"I thought I saw someone, but it was just a shadow." What could she say?
Sorry, Sheriff, but every now and again I see ghosts?
That was nuts. "I guess the light played tricks on my eyes."

"What about the SUV?" The Sheriff didn't seem too concerned about the missing woman. He made a few notes. "Did you see that?"

"It was big; it looked new. It was dark blue or black with tinted windows and chrome." June sighed. "The interior was white, I noticed that when they got out."

"There are hundreds of those in the county." The Sheriff frowned. "Could you identify those men?"

"All I saw was ball caps and flannel shirts. They made bets that he was dead." June shuddered. "I was terrified that they were going to kill us both."

"Did you see any weapons?"

June thought hard, but was forced to shake her head.

"No. They ran when my dogs started barking," June lied.

"Is there anything else?" The Sheriff raised an eyebrow at her.

"Did you pick up a beer can?" June had to know. "I thought I saw you with one."

"It appeared to be fresh."

"Everyone at work got one of those red cozies from our plastics supplier. Those men might work at my plant." June expected him to jump on the clue.

"There are six plastics plants in the area." The Deputy shrugged. "That doesn't narrow it down or prove intent to kill."

She realized he wasn't at all concerned about the accident.

"We're going to take a blood test to see if this guy was drunk. If he was, then he'll be cited for the accident."

"You don't believe those guys wanted to kill him?"

"I think this guy has seen too many months of combat." The Deputy shrugged. "I appreciate your cooperation."

"You can put the bike in my garage. I'll get my keys." June got up from the table.

"Okay." The Sheriff checked all of his notes before he stood up. "Sounds good to me."

"I'll meet you outside." June wound her way through the dogs. Tasha followed her to the garage, butting the back of her leg for attention. June stroked her head, found the bruise where she'd been kicked.

"Poor dog," June murmured. Tasha whined and pawed the door, wanting to follow. The garage was June's work area. The floor was covered with rubber puzzle mats that hid the circle where June did her spell work. The ceiling was hung with bunches of herbs, green gourds and drying corn. She tossed a sheet over the worktable, to hide her ruined soap project before she threw the garage door open.

The Tackett boys pushed the bike up the driveway. The three brothers were nearly identical: long and lanky, sandy hair and dark eyes. They looked at June like hungry coyotes would eye sheep penned just out of reach.

"Evening, Miss June," the oldest said. 

"Check out this paint job!"

June recoiled as she looked at the bike. It was painted to look like a snake! The two front turn signals were the eyes, the fairing the head and the headlight was in the snake's mouth as if it was being swallowed. There was an overall pattern of scales, white, yellow, brown, that was remarkably real looking. Every surface was patterned and textured like snakeskin, so real that June's fingers itched to touch it, just to make sure it was really paint.

In spite of the beautiful paint job, the motorcycle repelled her. The cold, hard shine of the top coat seemed to leech the heat from the very air. The bike sucked in heat, light and energy like a psychic black hole.

June encouraged them to park it in the center of the garage, directly over the hidden circle.

"Thanks, guys," June said as they stepped away from the motorcycle. She wanted them out of the garage before they saw anything out of the ordinary. The boys smiled and filed out. Fortunately, there were more interesting things going on out front.

June pulled the garage door closed then turned to face the motorcycle. The machine radiated cold menace; the mud splattering the paint reminded her of bloodstains. The bike
was
like a snake: cold, poisonous and deadly. Grabbing a corner of the sheet, she flipped the cover over the bike. Being so close to it made the hair on her arms rise up.

June locked the garage door and sat on the porch watching the ambulance and the sheriff's car leave. Why had those men run the biker off the road? Had he done something to them? Or was this a stupid prank gone bad? It had seemed real enough when she was hiding in the ditch.

After her insides stopped quaking, June went inside to lie down. Her mind wasn't done with her; she kept seeing that woman sprawled in the weeds.

June had always seen or felt things that no one else did. As a small child she'd been terrorized by the ghost of Aunt Lizzie's dead husband. Her Uncle Ralph had committed suicide in the house before June was born, but he walked the stairs and hallway at night, sometimes knocking things over. As a teen, she'd looked for ways to get rid of him. Her very first ritual had been to banish the angry ghost. She felt that keeping the house clean of negative influences was as important as keeping it free of mice.

June bit her thumbnail. What to do about that – thing – in her garage? The biker was going to want it back. Ashtabula General Hospital was notoriously slow; he would be there until morning. She could catch a few hours of sleep, then drive over to the hospital. There was a good chance she could get there before he was discharged.

She wanted that damn motorcycle off her property ASAP. Her last thoughts before she went to sleep were of the mysterious dead woman so as a result her mind was open to dreams.

The old gas station had once been white. Over the years, it had been painted and repainted so many times the old paint flaked off in rainbow layers until the white showed through in places. The scene, spray painted graffiti style, was of two motorcycles racing neck and neck. One white, one red: the white one was out front by a nose, a mere outline, while the red one was being ridden by a red-skinned demon, complete with horns.

Cora shut off the engine of her white Hayabusa motorcycle. The smell of paint hit her like a wet blanket and stuck in her nose. She walked inside the open bay, slightly sick from the chemical smell. A balding, heavily tattooed man was taping a car with deft movements. It was almost as if the tape was alive in his hands, he did it so effortlessly.

Boyfriend was a freak.

He was painfully thin and his skin was loose as if he had lost a great deal of weight. The tattoos that wound around his arms were sinister red and black entwined figures that seemed to move. His ears were weighed down with a half dozen rings and a plug the size of a quarter through his earlobes. Screeching guitar music played in the background. It sounded like the speakers had been blown out.