Page 41 of Blood Moon

“They called that January thirty-first eclipse a super blue moon blood moon. Super moon for short.”

He whistled as though impressed.

Then, with annoyance, “Are you getting drunk?”

“Maybe. What of it?”

She thumped her coffee mug down on the end table and placed her hands on the arms of the chair as though to pull herself up.

Instantly, he said, “Stay where you are. We’ve got to talk this out.”

“Not if you’re going to be obnoxious.”

“I apologize.”

She settled back into her chair. He walked over to the dining table and set down his glass of whiskey, which was still half full. Then he covered his face with both hands and whispered into his palms. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Why are you so upset, John?”

“Because I don’t want to hear this. Not any of it.” He took a moment to get a grip, then lowered his hands, turned back to her, and, in spite of his denial, asked, “Why was the one in July of that year special?”

Observing him closely, she spoke softly, almost warily. “The total eclipse lasted for one hundred and three minutes. It will be the longest lasting blood moon of the twenty-first century.”

“How do you know all that?”

“The internet. Anybody could know it. When you researched blood moons, you had to have seen how much information is available.”

“Then our unidentified suspect doesn’t have to be an astronomer, an astronaut, a physicist. Just some whack job who went out to howl at the super blue whatever moon on January thirty-first of 2018, grabbed a girl, and liked it, and celebrated the next blood moon in the same way. Poor sucker had to wait till ’22 for his next fix.”

“You’re being obnoxious.”

“I’m not running for Mister Congeniality.” He plopped into the chair, laid his head back, and closed his eyes.

Beth broke a drawn-out silence. “Do you think the theory of serial abductions is so far-fetched? Do you think I’m fanciful? Crazy?”

“No.”

“Then—”

He opened his eyes and held up his hand, stopping her. “My aversion to this topic has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. I won’t go through it again. As compelling as your observations are—and theyare, Beth. Everything you’ve told me rouses my interest, but I don’t want to hear any more. I can’t help you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

“Because of the Mellin case?”

“Which had the effect of an H-bomb on my life.”

“Your marriage?”

“No, the marriage had already been leveled, but my obsession over the balled-up investigation, my drunkennights after, gave Roslyn the excuse she needed to blame the failed marriage on me, instead of on the affair she’d been having.”

“For how long?”

“A year or more.”

“You knew about it?”

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