Rising Moon

Chapter Ten



Rodolfo never showed up that night, and the resulting crowd was thin. By midnight, King told me to get lost.



“Don’t know where the boss man has gotten himself to,” he muttered.



“I—uh—saw him out back when I came in,” I said.



King, busy filling a pilsner glass from the tap, glanced up with a frown. “You talk to him?”



“He took off before…” I let my voice drift into silence. He’d taken off before I could ascertain it was actually him—although who else would have been standing outside the bar wearing sunglasses beneath the moon?



“Strange.” King slid the beer to the customer, then slid the money into his huge hand. “He don’t usually disappear so early.”



“Maybe he had another headache.”



The big man’s lips thinned. “There’s nothin’ you can do for him when he’s like that. ‘Cept leave ‘im alone.”



“I know.”



“Girlie, that boy’s got troubles galore.”



“I know that too.” I handed him my tray and notepad. “You said no one else lived here but me.”



“No one does.”



“Who has a key?”



His head tilted as he considered the question. “Me, you, Johnny. A weekly cleaning crew. The accountant.”



“What about former employees?”



“I always get the keys back.”



That didn’t mean someone hadn’t made a copy.



King frowned. “Why?”



I still didn’t want to share the disappearing altar with anyone, but—



“You know anything about voodoo?”



His expression chilled, making his oddly light eyes appear even lighter. “You think because I’m black I know voodoo?”



“That’s not what I meant. I was just curious.”



“Be curious someplace else. I’m a Baptist, born and bred. I don’t hold with that hoodoo shit.”



“Sorry,” I muttered. “Forget I asked.”



I headed to my room, stepping gingerly on the staircase lest the black cat show up again. I should have asked King what its name was.



My cell phone beeped. I checked the message, figuring it would be from one or the other of my parents, calling to make sure my clothes had arrived safely. I was right and wrong. The first was from my mother asking just that. The second was from Sullivan.



“Just wanted to make sure you got back okay.” A long silence followed before he murmured, “Call me.”



I dialed his cell, left my own message. “I’m fine. Thanks for the sandwich and the—” I wasn’t sure what to call it. “Conversation,” I decided. “I’ll be in touch.”



The scent of smoke clung to my hair and clothes so I took a shower, let the hot water beat on my sore shoulders and slightly achy feet. Waitressing wasn’t for sissies.



Strangely enough, I kind of liked it. I got to talk to people, show Katie’s picture. I felt like I was doing something, when for months I’d been doing nothing. I wasn’t having any luck, but at least I was trying.



Who knew? The phrase “like finding a needle in a haystack” actually contained the word “finding.” It could happen.



I glanced around my rented room and was surprised by the wave of loneliness that washed over me.



Sure, I was far from home, but I’d often felt the same in Philly where I lived only ten minutes from my parents. I was alone in a way only a twenty-three-year-old single woman can be. I ached for someone, but there was no one.



I forced myself to turn off the lights, get into bed. The music ended downstairs, but I could still hear the thrum of voices, the occasional high-pitched laughter. Not enough to keep me awake if I’d been at all tired.



I stared at the ceiling. While I should have been thinking of Katie, or even the case, coming up with some sort of plan, instead I found myself thinking of John Rodolfo, wondering where he went when he walked the night, what he did, who he was.



I drifted in that place where time can both fly and crawl, when we’re not quite asleep, but we aren’t awake either. I saw him wandering in the fog, as alone as I was, wanting someone with whom to share the darkness.



I j erked upright. Rising Moon had gone completely silent below me. I glanced at my watch. Three hours had passed.



The moon shone through my window, creating a silver path between it and my bed. The distant howl of a train, the wind, or something with fur, split the night.



I listened as it died away and an odd tap-tap took its place. Curious, I slipped out of bed and followed the silver trail to the window.



The street lay deserted except for a solitary figure moving slowly in my direction, weaving a bit as if drunk, tapping a white cane tipped with red along the pavement in front of him.



I don’t know why I was surprised to see Rodolfo with a cane. Without a dog or a companion, how else would he traverse the city? Still, the apparatus made him seem more vulnerable than he ever had before.



As if in answer to my thoughts, he stumbled, nearly going to his knees before righting himself. Was he drunk?



Before I could think better of it, I left my room, flying down the back stairs and out the door. It wasn’t until the warm wind brushed my bare arms and legs that I remembered I wore nothing but a pair of boxers and a thin tank top.



I hesitated for only a moment, then left the shadow of the building and hurried across the street. No one was out here but the two of us, and he wouldn’t be able to see anything.



“What are you—” I began, then stopped when I saw the blood on his shirt.



Cursing, I ran the remaining steps to his side, grasping his elbow, gentling my hold when he winced.



“What happened?”



“Mugged,” he said softly.



His j aw sported a darkening bruise, as did his cheek. I wondered momentarily how he’d managed to keep his glasses from getting busted, then became distracted by the way he held his body, protectively, as if he’d cracked a rib. The fingers curled around the cane had lacerations on the knuckles.



“Where? Why?” I demanded, and he smiled, just a tiny uptilt of his lips, but I was done for. He was so damn beautiful he made me dizzy.



“I believe the why of it was money, chica. Isn’t it always?”



“How could anyone mug a—”



“Blind man?” he finished. “You can say it. I know that I’m blind.”



My mouth twitched. The better I got to know him, the better I liked him. Which wasn’t good. If I was going to be attracted to a man for the first time in forever, why couldn’t I be attracted to someone like Sullivan?



Because that would be too easy.



“All right,” I said shortly. “How could anyone mug a blind man?”



“Much more easily than they can mug a sighted man. Some people are desperate.” He tried to take a breath, but thought better of it when pain made him grimace. “I understand desperate. I can’t fault them too much.”



“I can,” I muttered, wishing the culprits had tangled with me instead. “We need to get you to the hospital.”



“No.” He stiffened. “No doctors. I’ve had enough of them.”



“But—”



“I just want to go upstairs.” He indicated Rising Moon with a j erk of his head.



I wondered momentarily why he’d come here instead of going to his apartment, but maybe he’d been closer. Or maybe he’d just needed help, and he’d known I was here.



The thought caused a flutter in my belly. I don’t know why I enj oyed being needed. Maybe since I was unable to help Katie, I helped everyone else that I could. Or perhaps it was just because I was good at it.



As Rodolfo stepped off the curb, he caught his cane in a crack and wobbled. I snatched his free hand, and he j erked back. I tightened my fingers around his. “Let me help.”



After a few seconds, he did.



Minutes later we reached the third-floor room. He sat on the bed as I hurried into the bathroom. He had very little in the way of first-aid supplies. He had very little in the way of anything—some soap, toothpaste, a few washcloths and towels.



I came out with the cloths. “I’m going to get some ice and some whiskey.” He tilted his head quizzically.



“Alcohol for those knuckles. Can’t hurt. Actually, it probably will hurt, but less than an infection. Did you catch those on someone’s teeth?”



“Could be,” he said, and I realized he probably didn’t know what he’d hit. That he’d hit anything was pretty damn amazing.



Hurrying into the tavern, I found a few empty plastic bags and filled them with ice, then grabbed a cheap bottle of whiskey—the alcohol content was the same regardless of the price—and ran back up.



I stopped dead just inside the door. Rodolfo had removed his shirt and was dabbing at his chest with one of the washcloths. His back to me, I was momentarily captivated by the play of muscles beneath smooth, bronzed skin. I wanted to run my tongue all over him.



He reached for his shirt, and I caught a glimpse of his chest before he covered it. Several raw slices marred the once perfect flesh.



“They had a knife?” I demanded.



He buttoned a few of the lower buttons, shrouding his abdomen from view before I stopped him with a hand on his. “I should clean those.”



“They’re just scratches. I’ll be all right.”



“You could get an infection.”



He snorted.



“Let me—” I took a step forward; he took a step back.



“No.” He held out the stained washcloth. “I can do it.”



I stared at him for several seconds, but my evil eye had no effect. Finally I doused the cloth with whiskey and handed it to him. He turned away, dabbing at the injury.



He seemed almost shy, as if he didn’t want me to see him, was afraid to let me touch him, and that did not fit with the man I knew. Although how well did I really know him?



“Why do you go out alone?” I asked.



John glanced over his shoulder; the reflection from the light bulb bounced off his sunglasses, making me blink. “This is my city. Always has been.” He tossed the red-tinged washcloth aside and spread his beautiful hands. “I love her. I can’t stay away.”



“Even if she kills you?”



“Even then,” he said. “But I doubt it’ll come to that.”



“Why?”



“Because”—he finished buttoning his shirt—”I am very hard to kill.”



“Oh, really.” I moved closer, careful to make enough noise so he knew I was coming. “Why’s that?”



“I don’t want to die.”



I had just reached for his hand, preparatory to wiping his skinned knuckles with alcohol, but paused at his words and rotated his wrist upright.



“No?” I asked, and traced the thin white line that shone starkly in the light from the bare bulb hanging above us.



His skin twitched beneath my touch, and he tried to pull away. I held on.



“That was a long time ago,” he murmured. “Things are different now. I’m different.”



I wished I could see his eyes, maybe then I could tell if he was lying. But it seemed too forward to tug his I sunglasses from his face as I held his scarred wrist in I my hand.



“You don’t believe me?” he asked.



I frowned, surreptitiously casting a glance at his other wrist. No scar. I wasn’t sure what that meant.



“This is really none of my business,” I said. “Unless you’d like to talk about it.”



“No,” he said, biting the word off sharply, giving the intonation a foreign twist. There were times when he spoke like a European gentleman from years gone by, others when he spoke like any other guy. John Rodolfo was a mystery in more ways than one.



I turned his hand back over, holding on tightly when he tried to pull away. “I need to clean these knuckles now.”



He stopped struggling. The alcohol on the scraped, bleeding mess had to have stung, but he stood stoically and let me do my worst—or maybe it was my best.



Now that I got a good look at them, they weren’t as bad as they’d first seemed. The dimmer light of the moon must have made the scrapes appear deeper. “You don’t even need a bandage,” I murmured, and he pulled slowly away.



“I’m okay.”



“You should put ice on your cheek, those ribs.”



“I’ll be fine. I’ve always been a fast healer.” He took a slug of the whiskey, making a face as he swallowed. I wasn’t sure if it was from the taste or the quality. Maybe both.



“You might have a broken rib. Let me check.”



I placed my palm against his side and he froze, his body going as still as his face. Beneath my hand, his chest barely rose and fell, the movement as shallow as the cuts on his knuckles.



“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked, his voice a bit hoarse from the alcohol.



“Hell, no,” I said, and he laughed, the sound so foreign, so startlingly sweet, I lifted my head, captivated.



Then I was caught, staring into his glasses, mesmerized, as my fingers pressed one rib, then another. I didn’t think either one of us was breathing anymore.



“Does this hurt?” I managed.



“Not as much as it’s going to,” he muttered, and kissed me.