Circle of the Moon (Soulwood #4)

Tandy gave me a small smile. “You have no idea how important it was for Rick to fight off giving in to his cat last night. He’s come a long way.”

Our cells dinged and we had both received text photos of Rick’s car from Occam. The car had skidded off the road into the scrub and was wrapped around a small tree, the side bashed in where the tree had stopped its momentum and spin. At a glance I’d say the car was totaled. Flipping through the pictures, I noted that the interior was shredded by claws and his sliced and tattered clothes were in a heap. There was blood on the steering wheel and puddled in the seat. Occam’s caption to the photos was a simple, Be careful. He’s cat.

Both of our cells dinged again with, No tracking dogs. Rick will kill anything that hunts him.

“That would be bad,” I said in response to the text. “Do we wait here?” I asked my partner.

“JoJo wants us to open the back door in case he comes home and needs to get in. Then she wants us to wait half an hour since the crash was so close by. I have the security code to the back door. Come on.”

Inside, the kitchen was scrupulously clean, not a dirty dish anywhere. The main living space was dusty, but not terribly so. The house was modern and sleek, with a wood dining table and chairs in the dinette, an oak kitchen with stone cabinet tops, and comfortable, squishy furniture and a big-screen TV in the living area. The house was cold, the air-conditioning set at sixty-five. It was empty and had the feeling of having been empty for hours.

I couldn’t help being snoopy. There was nothing in the small pantry except a half-empty box of rice, a bag of flour in a plastic ziplock bag, four extra-large cereal boxes, three cans of crushed tomatoes, and a bread bag with moldy bread heels in it. What Rick’s house lost in the bachelor pad department, the refrigerator made up for in guy supplies. There was a carton of milk, take-out containers, and a pizza box with half a pie in it, the pizza dried out, wrinkled, and growing a spot of green fur. And beer. Four twelve-packs of local microbrewery beer. Beer had no effect on werecats unless they drank a gosh-awful lot of it. Rick had a gosh-awful lot of it.

I looked in the garbage and the recycling. There were a gosh-awful lot of empties too, and not much of anything else. Rick used to like to cook, but there was no indication that he had ever used the pots and pans. The dishes in the cupboard had a layer of pollen and dust on them.

The laundry nook had a basket that contained boxers and socks, another holding a set of sheets, and still another with outerwear clothes in it, some from the previous night. Everything stank of man and sweat except the outer clothes, which also stank of horse. I lifted the pair of jeans on top and studied the creases. Jeans creased according to the way they were worn, and dirty denim, especially very dirty denim, could tell a trained investigator how they were most commonly used. These had been worn sitting, straddling, the creases stretching from crotch to knees, and were worn on the bottom from sitting on a saddle. I was sorta surprised that horses didn’t bolt when they smelled Rick. Mouser cats lived in barns, but werecats had to smell dangerous on an instinctive level. More bloody. I dropped the jeans and spotted a pair of low-heeled Frye western boots. They smelled of horse and hay and manure. I put the boots back, frowning. I hadn’t known Rick rode, but clearly he did. I closed the laundry door, ignored Tandy’s censoring stare as I snooped.

I found the stairs up and glanced into each of the two bedrooms up there. The one on the left was empty except for a sheetless air mattress. The one on the right was just empty. The bathroom was scrupulously clean, or maybe never-used clean.

Back downstairs, I found a neat half bath hidden under the stairs and then Rick’s room in the rear of the house. This room was a disaster. The bed linens were rank and piled on the foot of the bed. There were piles of clothes everywhere, some folded in stacks, others clean but rumpled in baskets, and still others on the floor, obviously dirty. His en suite bath was filthy, mold growing on the shower tile, soap scum coating the sink. I backed out quickly, fearing I might actually catch something in there.

The only neat thing in the master suite was the bookcase on the wall across from the bed. On the shelves were dozens of books with topics ranging from music theory to the Merged Laws of the Cursed of Artemis, which was a book on were-creature law. Part of me wanted to open it and read, but there were scraps of paper sticking out like bookmarks, each with notes jotted on them, and that felt too much like prying. Which I was doing anyway. There were science books and a book called Quantum Physics for Dummies. There were books in French, and one in an African language I couldn’t read and which I didn’t know Rick could speak, or maybe just read. The other things on the shelves were small drums, some looking African or maybe New World tribal. A small collection of wood flutes nested in an oiled wood box that looked antique. There was a purple candle that had burned down into a puddle of wax on a tiny plate, and a black rock that was polished smooth on two sides, fractured and broken on the others. There was a small box with a drawing of a saxophone and the name Vandoren labeled on front. It was half-full of things that looked like small tongue depressors. Everything on the shelves, except the Vandoren box, was coated with a heavy layer of dust and pollen, suggesting that the room hadn’t been cleaned since before spring.

There was a sound system on the middle shelf; it was dust free and probably hooked up to a house Wi-Fi system. I pressed the on button and a jazzy blues song came on. I hit off.

In the corner was a silver metal stand holding a brass saxophone. The sax wasn’t dusty either, showing that, whatever was going on with Rick in terms of filth and cleanliness, and whatever that meant about his mental state, music and horses were a big part of his life. He seemed to be clinging to things that had kept him sane, things that had kept him human. The values and ideals that had made him the man he once was.

I wanted to hear him play, but I had a strange feeling that listening to him would make me sad. And I also knew that I was searching for something of the man Occam might be, in the things that made up Rick’s life.

“Nell? Your emotions are all over the place today. You need to talk?”

I turned to Tandy, who stood in the master suite doorway, watching me. “No. I think … I think I’m okay.” I looked around the clutter and organization, the filth and cleanliness. “I think I’m going to be fine.”

“But you’re sneaking around Rick’s home. Why?”

Frowning, I turned in a circle, my hands on my hips. “I feel as if I’m missing something and …” Then it began to come clear. I spoke through it slowly. “The public part of the house is fine, if not immaculate. The private part is a disaster. Like Rick’s private life. This space proclaims that Rick is a slob. It shouts the fact that, unlike other bachelors, Rick can’t have a woman over to spend the night”—I pointed to the bed—“so why have clean sheets and a clean bathroom, right? Why not let it go to ruin? And he did. Everything is messed up here except the books and the music and horses, as if only those things are keeping him sane. Someone needs to talk to Rick. You’re a counselor of sorts, right?”

“Of sorts,” Tandy said softly. He tilted his head toward the front of the house and led me back to the living area, speaking over his shoulder. “Rick may need more than I can offer.”

“You won’t know unless you try,” I said to his back. “And being afraid of Rick’s cat is not a good reason to abandon him.”

“I’m not abandoning Rick.” Tandy sat on the sofa and gestured me over. “Have you talked to him about the callings?”

I grimaced. “No fair throwing my words back on me.” I took the opposite side, my back to the arm and my knees drawn up. That showed self-protective body language, so I swiveled around and sat with my feet on the floor. I was uncomfortable and didn’t know why, except that I had a feeling Tandy was reading me and that made me feel violated. It wasn’t lost on me that he was doing to me what I had been doing to Rick when I snooped. “Okay. Fair question. Go ahead.”

“When I was first hit by lightning—”

“Three times in a row.”

“Right. I had no idea what had happened to me, no idea that trauma could turn on the genes that make sensitives into empaths. There are so few empaths that I’d never heard of them. I had no way to process what was happening. I didn’t realize that I was picking up the thoughts and feelings of the doctors and nurses and technicians who were taking care of me. I just thought I had brain damage and my own emotions were flying all over. Until my girlfriend came to see me in the hospital.”