Six moons before mating, p.1
Six Moons Before Mating, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
SIX MOONS BEFORE MATING
a NOVEL by H. C. Turk
• • • • • • •
©2018 H. C. Turk
HCTurk.com
Chapter 1
Unaccountable Energy
He picked himself up. He was sore everywhere. Standing, he wobbled a little, feeling stiff. Worse, he wasn’t breathing very well. Consciously taking a deep breath, he had to cough, but only once. He literally said, “Oof,” the sound stretched and weak. Then he blinked and blinked, trying to focus.
Though Stan couldn’t concentrate enough to look around carefully, nothing about the environment seemed strange. Outdoors. Plant life. His nursery. Then he tried to figure, tried to recall. How had he fallen? Since he stood on flat, smooth ground, there was nothing to trip over, but he felt like he had fallen from a roof. But how would he know how that felt? He had never toppled from a roof while fixing the chimney. As a kid, he had never fallen from a huge oak because the floor of his tree house was more wishful thinking than workmanship.
Take stock. Blinking, he saw that he stood in front of his main greenhouse. No one else was around, as usual. He couldn’t remember what had just happened, how he had fallen or what had knocked him down. Take stock. Could he even remember himself? Finally able to focus on the glass wall before him, he saw some guy standing there, slumping but upright, mouth open, eyes wide. After a moment, he recognized himself in that reflection. Around forty, average height and weight, never played football in school, but could have been second-string, good job, saving money, one precious daughter captured by his horrifyingly evil ex-wife.
That’s why he was on his way to kidnap her.
He was starting to remember.
All right, a clumsy, harmless fall was no big deal. Abigail was the big deal. Taking a breath, he noticed a movement, right in front, above. Looking up, he first noticed the huge oak behind the greenhouse. Come on, he owned a nursery but didn’t have enough sense to trim back a tree that, upon falling over due to a gust of wind, would destroy his greenhouse and years and years of research?
A big wind. Maybe that’s what had knocked him over.
Thinking straight again, Stan looked to the building’s glass roof, and saw it moving. From inside. Of course. The Ghengis zeider was pushing up, seeking fresh air or more room. A rangy shrub with nodes like knots on a hangman’s noose, the zeider grew faster than bamboo. Before his experiments, it wouldn’t grow at all in this climate. He hoped he could trim it. The last time he tried to pull it down and secure it to a stake so it would grow away from his roof, he felt the plant writhing in his hands, like an animal, a dog you’re trying to pull away from a dead rat in the corner.
Most dogs are pets, but even some of those will turn on you, like some wives.
Forget the zeider for now. He’d rearrange it when his dad was around to help. Dad was good at helping, at least with plants.
Stan just wanted to go get his girl—he wanted to rescue her. He had a plan, sort of, more of a plot, a story that would evolve as it went along.
Time for him to get along, get moving. First, clean up a little, come on. Don’t visit your little darling all dusty from having fallen on your face for no known reason. Go to the house and change your clothes.
Proving he was still dazed from the fall, Stan felt a minor panic. Where did he live? Geez, he was woozy if he couldn’t remember that. His house was right there, wasn’t it? Turning, he faced his old log cabin, built before he was born. When he and the wife lived together, it wasn’t in that old place. After they divorced, she got the house. He got the shack.
It wasn’t a shack—it was a beautiful home built with true concern by craftsmen from another era. It would last forever, unlike your average marriage.
It would really be a home if he lived there with his baby.
Once inside, he got a drink of tepid water, then proceeded to strip and wash himself. He didn’t bother to shower. After all, he hadn’t been working beneath the summer sun, just stumbling around a little. Feeling better, he wasn’t much considering that mysterious fall. He just washed his face and hands, seeing no bruises or cuts in the mirror. But he was concerned to see such a confused visage. If he had seen that face attached to someone in public, he’d wonder what the hell was wrong with that guy.
What the hell was wrong with that guy?
After semi-washing, Stan donned clean jeans and a nice Hawaiian shirt, silk. Abigail loved them. The wife thought they were silly. Vanessa would look good wearing one—wrapped around her neck.
On his way out, he passed a book Abigail had left behind. When had she last visited here? Had Vanessa ever allowed it? Stan was tired of meeting Abby in a neutral place. Of course, his goal this day was to end that crap. The next time he took her from Vanessa, he was not bringing her back. But he wasn’t “taking” her: he was retrieving her. Rescuing her.
On with the battle. Entering his truck, he began driving down the dirt road. He loved a good dirt road. This one was straight and well-maintained. He couldn’t see the end; it continued deep into the next county. Not much traffic; the other farms and ranches weren’t big businesses with countless trucks full of cattle or corn passing by each day. Heading for that man in the road, Stan had to stretch to see even one building, a barn on the Stevens spread that was empty, as far as he knew.
He knew that man: round head and shoulders, narrow neck, amiable appearance, eyes on the verge of a sly twinkle. An average guy pushing a wheelbarrow containing one bow rake and some empty two-gallon clay pots.
Stan stopped beside him.
“Dad, we need to trim that oak over the big greenhouse.”
“They call them ‘glasshouses’ in England,” Stan’s father pointed out. “Ours is made of glass. You look like warmed-over shit.”
Stan looked away.
“I tripped on something, fell flat on my face. Lost my breath for a moment.”
“What’d you trip on?”
“My feet.”
“Try a rake next time. It makes more sense.”
“I’ll remember that. Uh, no, I won’t.”
Glenn set down his wheelbarrow, adjusting the precarious rake tottering on a pot.
“We’ll trim the big oak when you get back. Where are you going?”
“I’m going to see your granddaughter.”
“Will her mother let you? That witch?”
Stan felt anxious already. Geez, even talking to his dad. How would he face the witch?
“It doesn’t matter,” he told his father.
Then another sentence came from Stan. He didn’t want to say it, and knew he shouldn’t, deep down, but the idea was all he could think of:
“I might bring her back.”
Glenn looked at Stan like a father. Stan had to look away. In the greater situation, Stan was the father with clout.
“What does the law say?” his dad wondered.
“It depends on whom you ask.”
“I’ll go with you if you want, Son.”
Now Stan looked closely to his dad.
“You’re a better father than I am.”
“I wouldn’t do what you’re about to do.”
“I don’t know what I’m about to do.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Stan noticed his father was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. If only because he was working in the dirt, it looked silly on him.
“I better get going.”
That’s all they said. Not even a nod in parting. Stan drove away, starting slowly to avoid kicking dust all over his dad’s nice shirt.
He didn’t even glance in the rear-view mirror. No more looking behind. Everything important lay ahead.
Fifteen minutes to the first paved road, ten more to the first traffic light, downhill from there on the way to his baby.
Going through the small town, Stan had to slow upon arriving at Mid-City Tailors, where Vanessa worked. Her seamstress job wasn’t great: letting clothes out for fatties, or tucking them in for cancer victims. Vanessa was off today, though she didn’t know she had an appointment at home, with family. Ex-family.
In the moment he pulled into her driveway, parking behind her practical little wagon, Stan had a flash of fear, of danger, that drove away the moderate state he had accepted while driving. Danger, fear, wrongdoing, heroics—which behavior would apply?
As soon as he closed the truck door, a decisive sound came from inside the house:
“That’s my daddy!”
How could his heart melt and expand infinitely at the same time? Looking through the front windows, of course he didn’t see Abigail running toward him—the girl was so ex cited she hadn’t even grabbed her crutches. Instead, she just started crawling across the floor like a toddler. No, not like a toddler. Toddlers crawl on their hands and knees. Abigail had to pull herself along, elbows on the carpet, clawing with her hands, dragging her legs behind, smiling. Smiling in excitement to see her daddy.
Once at the door, Stan reached for the doorbell, but the handle turned from inside; and there was his angel, holding herself up, both hands on the door’s edge, her face an excited smile.
Stan dropped to his knees and Vanessa began griping simultaneously.
“What in the hell are you doing here?”
Before she could finish her initial complaint, Stan began embracing his daughter. As Vanessa fumed, Stan felt the girl’s arms tighten around his neck, heard her giggle, and hugged her harder in return. Vanessa walked a few paces without approaching.
“Close the door—behind you on your way out,” she demanded.
Vanessa wore a tee shirt with a pocket, green, the color of Genghis zeider leaves. She was gaunt, and had the mien of a supervisor, if not a superior. Her hair was short; in the old days, Stan called it a puppy cut. He could never be so cute with her again. Abby’s hair was long, and by god it better stay that way.
Hearing Abigail’s happy breaths, feeling her little arms squeezing him, Stan in that moment wanted no more from life. That ended with a curse from the witch.
“Do you have to touch her when you’re filthy?” Vanessa seethed. “You couldn’t even wash your hands?”
For some reason, that accusation startled him, a lie thrown in his face he couldn’t bear. Lifting one hand from Abby’s back, he looked at his dirty fingernails. Vanessa was right, but how could she see tiny daubs of peat moss from twenty feet away?
After turning to see her daddy’s hands, the girl gave him a funny look. In that moment, she almost resembled her mother.
“Baby, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he told her quietly.
“Dammit, Stan, this isn’t your day for visiting,” Vanessa growled, still standing across the room.
“That’s what you said the last time.”
“Just say hi and leave.”
Finally, Stan understood why Vanessa stood way over there, beside that Oriental cabinet. That’s where she kept her pistol.
Stan lifted his daughter just as Vanessa lifted her gun.
“Come on, baby.”
Again Abigail wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on tightly as Stan rose. Turning to the door, he just got a glimpse of Vanessa holding a semi-auto, a lightweight 9mm.
“You’re not hurting her again!” screeched the witch. “Abby!”
“I’m going with Daddy!” his brave girl hollered.
No more talking, not on the part of the kidnaper. Walking firmly through the doorway, Stan proceeded to his truck. Certainly he wouldn’t turn and expose Abigail to the armed witch behind. No longer far behind.
A breeze blew some strands of Abby’s hair against his face, causing him to blink. Just as he reached to brush the hair from his eyes, a sound came from behind: not speech, not exciting breaths from Vanessa, but her grunting, her crash.
Stan turned to see her falling, having tripped on the welcome mat in her foolish rush to chase two loving people. Her reckless overprotection caused her to crash into a porch column and fall to her face, the blow causing the gun to discharge, only once, only one hollow-point striking her daughter in the back of the skull.
The girl made an “oof” sound that was surprisingly adult, jerked instantaneously, then went limp in her father’s arms, dying as her daddy held her.
Astonished Stan set her down on the grass, looking for signs of life. He found none. The way she looked to the sky with open, inactive, lifeless eyes made him feel nauseated, but moreover he was astounded, horrified. And furious.
He would do anything to bring his baby back, beginning with the murder of her killer.
In an ugly rush, he leapt from the girl, charging to her still-prostrate mother, Stan so unhinged that he tripped over his daughter’s corpse, falling flat to his face with unaccountable energy.
He picked himself up. Seeing his dazed reflection in the greenhouse, he wondered what had caused his fall.
Chapter 2
A Different Sound
He hadn’t been lying there for any length of time. He had just tripped, then started rising right away. But why had he fallen? It had just happened, and he couldn’t remember? Must have been a blow to the head.
Or the heart.
In that first moment of rising, he felt like crap: not physically, but emotionally, as though he had experienced an event so powerful it caused him to recoil and stumble to the ground. But he had not experienced any powerful event. Realistically, he had been distracted by whatever and tripped over his own loose shoes.
For some reason, the “realistic” part did not seem right.
Maybe he should have his shoes taken in, like baggy pants.
He couldn’t stand straight. Though not really sore, he felt beat, as in beat up. The soreness wasn’t emergency-room level, but caused him to grunt with an “oof” as he tried to straighten. Breathing through his mouth, he tried to focus on that man, that image. The greenhouse was made of good plastic to offer such a clear reflection.
He knew where he was. You don’t feel a breeze like that in your bedroom. You don’t smell pine needles even in a log cabin made of pine. You have to be outdoors to see a huge maple threatening to drop vast limbs on your greenhouse roof.
He had seen enough of himself in that reflection. The dismay in that face made him uncomfortable. That was him, right? Oof. A guy with his face. A man the right age to have a young daughter, his precious angel imprisoned by his pathetically evil ex-wife.
That’s why he was on his way to kill her.
That thought energized him. No more delay. Let’s do this thing. No, no, of course he wasn’t going to kill Vanessa, but he was going to bring his daughter back.
Just as he was turning from the greenhouse, something inside caught his eye. The Topolian grape. He’d have to trim it, but the thorns always tried to turn on him. Just like his wife.
He’d trim the maple when his dad was around to help. His dad was good at helping. Too good sometimes. Convincing the Topolian grape to grow modestly, well, only Stan had the touch for that type of manipulation. The plant life would come later, after getting his girl. She could watch from a safe distance, which would be miles from her infernal mother, but very close to her dad.
Time to get moving, not in the sense of getting an awful event over and done with, but time to arrange a better start. First, clean up. Having been face down in the dirt recently, he wasn’t exactly sanitary. Geez, look at those fingernails, caked with peat moss.
Turning, he was startled not to see his house. No brick, no tall windows, just an old timber cabin. But this cabin was his house. Old, but beautiful; small, but immaculate after a hundred years. In some ways, it was a nicer house than Vanessa’s. But it wasn’t a nicer home. It wasn’t a home without Abigail.
Once inside, he drank the remains of a tepid cup of tea. Feeling a certain reluctance to leave only to confront his wife in a non-legal battle for their child, Stan lingered in the shower. After towel-drying his short hair, he donned jeans and Hawaiian shirt, cotton-poly. A gift from Vanessa, the shirt wasn’t his favorite, but Abby liked it. She was easy to please. Her mother was impossible, in many respects.
On his way out, he passed a picture book of Abby’s. She liked to view pictures, and make them. Abigail was amazingly inventive, just like her dad. But she didn’t visit here often enough. Usually, father and daughter met at the mother’s house, or in a public setting, such as a library. Not the playground. Abby wasn’t good in playgrounds.
On with the rescue. Entering his truck, Stan began driving along the dirt road. Dirt roads were only good when damp. Too dry and they were dusty, causing filthy clouds; too wet and the mud made even a truck slide along while trying to proceed in a straight line.
He knew there was a life lesson there, but couldn’t grasp it.
Seeing a line of citrus trucks ahead, Stan drove slowly, giving them time to get out of his way. Noticing a glare, he saw the new metal utility building at the Stephens spread, bright white, out of place in this wooden locale.
