Look For Me By Moonlight (19 page)

Sergeant Jackson had many questions, but her voice was soft and pleasant and she seemed genuinely sympathetic. She listened to the same story we'd told Dad and Susan. Her assistant wrote down every word carefully, stopping every now and then to verify things. He seemed puzzled by how little any of us knew about Vincent.

When she'd gotten all the information she wanted from us, we took her upstairs to Vincent's room, while the assistant phoned the station to check out the car's license plate number. All Sergeant Jackson found were two neatly folded black sweaters, spare socks and underwear, a tweed jacket, two shirts, and a pair of slacks. On Vincent's writing table were stacks of second-hand books and sheets of paper covered with illegible scribbling. If he'd had money or credit cards, a driver's license or a Social Security card, he'd carried them in the pockets of the clothes he wore to the shack.

The policewoman led the way downstairs. Even though I knew Vincent was gone, I feared the darkness at my back. Suppose I looked over my shoulder and saw his pale face watching us from the shadows?

To no one's surprise, the Porsche had been stolen several weeks ago in New York. “That explains why Mr. Morthanos never left the inn,” Sergeant Jackson said.

At the bottom of the steps, I moved closer to Dad. He was trying to answer one last question from Sergeant Jackson. She still didn't understand how Vincent had managed to kidnap Todd and me.

“It's hard to explain,” Dad admitted. “It seems Susan and I dozed off. We couldn't have been asleep for more than a few minutes but when we opened our eyes the living room was empty. Todd and Vincent were gone.”

Dad's voice broke and Susan went on for him. “We'd put Cynda to bed earlier, she'd been upset. When we went to her room, our children were gone and the window was wide open.”

“We saw tracks in the snow,” Dad added, “signs of a struggle.”

“It was as if a spell had lifted,” Susan said. “We looked at each other and we knew, we
knew
Vincent had taken our son and daughter.”

“Our children . . . our son and daughter.” Susan's and Dad's words rang in my ears. Not our stepdaughter, but
our daughter, our children.
I leaned against Dad's shoulder and he put his arm around me reassuringly.

Although she still seemed puzzled, Sergeant Jackson thanked us for our cooperation. Before she and her assistant left, she said, “We have two officers at the fire. Perhaps they'll discover something useful when the ashes cool.”

Todd edged closer and took my hand. I felt him tremble. “You won't find anything,” he whispered.

It was the first time he'd spoken since the police arrived, so he had everyone's attention. “Vincent's just ashes now, nothing's left of him,” he said. “That's what happens when vampires die.”

Will and I looked at each other uneasily, but Dad pulled Todd onto his knee. “Vincent was a wicked man, Todd. He hurt you and Cynda, but he wasn't a vampire, son. Vampires are imaginary. They aren't real.”

Sergeant Jackson nodded. “In a case like this,” she said softly, “counseling is a good idea. I'd be happy to recommend someone.”

Susan began to cry again and Dad held Todd tighter. Sergeant Jackson wrote down a name and left it by the phone. She and her assistant said their goodbyes and left. Will followed them into the snowy night, pausing in the doorway to promise he'd see us soon.

After Susan took Todd to bed, Dad clasped my hands. “I don't know why I didn't see, didn't guess. You and Todd are so precious to me, I love you so much, yet I let Vincent—”

He released my hand and struck the table with his fist. “How could I have trusted that man?”

I was tempted to tell my father the truth, but perhaps it was better to let him go on believing Vincent was depraved, a pervert of some land, a child abuser. If Dad believed he'd invited a creature from myth and legend to cross his threshold, he'd have to rethink his entire concept of reality. I wasn't sure he was ready for that.

Putting my arms around him, I whispered, “I believed Vincent too, Daddy. He was very clever. He knew just what we wanted to hear.”

 

One afternoon several weeks later, I sat on the couch, reading a letter from Mom. Dad had told her about Vincent and she wanted to be sure I was all right. “Please come to Italy,” she begged. “Steve and I would love to have you—even if it's just for a visit.”

I refolded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. I missed Mom, but I was just beginning to feel comfortable with Dad. If I left now, I might not have another chance to get to know him. Soon I'd be in college. After that I'd be on my own. Things wouldn't be the same then.

Maybe next winter when it was cold and gray in Maine I'd go to Italy, but for now I wanted to stay here. With Vincent gone, Underhill was quiet and peaceful. A fire crackled on the hearth. Ebony dozed beside me, purring contentedly. Susan's sewing machine whirred. Dad's printer
rat-tat-tatted
in his den. Mrs. Bigelow's vacuum cleaner rumbled back and forth across the floor overhead.

At my feet, Todd played with his castle, calling out knightly challenges in a fierce voice. Catching my eye, he scrambled onto the sofa. “Will you read me a story, Cynda?”

I took a book from a pile of old favorites, and Todd leaned against me, sighing contentedly. After a few minutes, he startled me by reaching up to touch the small scar on my neck. For a second, it tingled the way it used to. Against my will, I remembered dark, mocking eyes, strong hands, sharp teeth sinking into my throat.

“Are you sure it's over?” Todd whispered. “Are you absolutely positive Vincent won't come back?”

Something in my brother's voice worried me. I stared into his eyes, as blue as ever but not quite as innocent. Deep in their depths, a shadow lurked, a memory. A memory I shared.

“He promised we'd live forever,” Todd said dreamily. “We'd do what we pleased. No rules. He'd always love us best.”

“We'd never be lonely. We'd never be sad,” I added softly. “We'd be his children, he'd never leave us.”

We stared at each other, scared to realize we were still tempted by the things Vincent had promised. Across the room, his empty chair faced us silently. I told myself he'd never sit there again. Someday we'd forget which chair had been his, we'd forget which room had been his. I'd stop expecting to hear his footsteps overhead. I'd forget his eyes, his kisses, his promises. He was gone forever. I had to believe that.

“Everything Vincent promised was a lie,” I reminded Todd, my brother, myself. “He was bad, evil.”

Todd nodded, his face solemn. “He wanted us to be like him. But we aren't.”

Fighting my own uncertainty, I said fiercely, “That's right, Toddy. We aren't like Vincent and we never will be.”

He seemed satisfied. Picking another book, he said, “Read this one now. Make sure the wolf falls down the chimney and lands in the boiling water. Make sure the pig eats him up. Every single bit. I don't want anything left—not even one hair.”

I opened the book and began. “Once upon a time there were three little pigs.”

Just as I read, “Little Pig, Little Pig, let me come in,” I heard a knock on the back door. A shiver raced across my skin, and Todd clutched my arm, his eyes wide. We both held our breath till Susan welcomed Will inside.

Todd looked at me and laughed. “Keep reading, Cynda. Will likes this story, too.”

I guess my brother was right because Will sat down beside me and snuggled as close as Todd to hear what happened next.

 

Visit
www.hmhco.com
to find more books by Mary Downing Hahn.

M
ARY
D
OWNING
H
AHN
, a former children's librarian, is the award-winning author of many popular ghost stories, including
Deep and Dark and Dangerous
and
The Old Willis Place.
An avid reader, traveler, and all-around arts lover, Ms. Hahn lives in Columbia, Maryland, with her two cats, Oscar and Rufus.