Full Moonlight: A Roman Dalton Yarn Read online

  “Do you believe in the undead Mr. Moonlight, Detective Miller?”

  Miller and I give one another a glance like, Wake us up now. We’ve had enough of this nightmare.

  “Can’t say I do,” Miller says.

  “Part of my job is to investigate the undead,” Dalton says. “Our caretaker was obsessed with the undead. He saw ghosts here in the cemetery. He contacted me about it via the Internet. When the deadly mutilations started occurring, he became convinced that the undead had been released.”

  “So you’re saying this Van Rensselaer character was an undead? But he was six feet under.”

  “Sam unearthed him a couple of weeks ago when some of his direct descendants requested his remains be interred in a mausoleum on the other side of the cemetery. Sam did as he was told, placing the skeletal remains in the workshop. But the next morning when he came in, he discovered that they had vanished. That’s when the animals started dying. And that’s when Sam began to fear for his life. He hired you Mr. Moonlight to watch the place at night.”

  “Why didn’t he just contact the police?”

  “Mr. Moonlight,” Dalton says, “would you contact the police if you believed a werewolf was plaguing your cemetery?”

  “Good point,” I say. “I saw a man who very much resembled Van Rensselaer walking along the river this morning. He must have followed me from the cemetery. He had a dog with him.” Cocking my head over my shoulder. “That dog.”

  “Like I said, that was Sam’s dog. It’s possible Van Rensselaer could have infected it as dogs are not immune to being undead either.”

  “Looks pretty dead to me,” I say.

  “Yes,” Dalton says. “That she is and let’s hope it stays that way. You however, Mr. Moonlight. You might be a different story, and I believe that’s why Van Rensselaer followed you home this morning. To see for himself if you were infected or not.”

  I laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all. I can’t help it at this point. But then I recall running along the riverbank. Not like a man limited to two legs, but more like a wolf with four powerful legs.

  “Trust me, Dalton, I’m the last person in the world who’s undead. I’ve got a bullet in my brain. I could die at any second. Right now, you’re not careful.”

  He nods.

  “I know a little about you, Moonlight. You’ve had many chances to die, but you are still here. Think about it. Dying seems to elude you.”

  The entire cemetery goes silent for a moment. All you can hear is the wind whistling through the trees and everything visible is illuminated in part from the light from the blue moon shining down upon us.

  “Listen Dalton,” Miller says. “I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the station to answer a few questions, you don’t mind. I got a dead cop, a dead caretaker and some dead guy who already bought the farm a few hundred years ago whom you claim is a fucking undead werewolf.”

  “You were there, Detective Miller,” Dalton says. “You saw what happened. Those two animals fighting it out. You saw it with your own eyes.”

  Miller shakes his head, runs his latex-gloved hand over his cropped gray-blonde hair.

  “I saw a couple of rabid dogs going at it.”

  “Wolves,” Dalton corrects.

  “Okay wolves. Probably came down from the Adirondack Mountains looking for food.”

  “And one of those wolves just happens to make the transformation back to his human state?” Dalton poses.

  Miller shakes his head again.

  “Fuck,” he exclaims. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “Believe this,” Dalton says, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. “The Dutch settled New York. They came north and established Albany in the early 1600s. They brought with them a history of both the undead and werewolves. It was one of the reasons they left Europe. They were persecuted and hunted. The continent was happy to see them go. Van Rensselaer is a direct descendant of those Dutch. He became a statesman, a landowner, and even the governor. And he was also undead. A secret he brought with him to the grave. However temporarily. You’ve read the inscription. ‘He will be born again.’”

  I turn once more and give the body a look.

  “He’s looking real dead now too.”

  “Yes, I finished him off once and for all.”

  Miller’s eyes go wide.

  “Excuse me, Dalton?” he says. “Did I just hear you say, ‘I finished him off’?”

  Dalton laughs once more like something’s funny.

  “Pardon me, Detective. Slip of the tongue. Jet lag I should say.” Glancing at his wristwatch. “Speaking of jetlag…Gentlemen, I have a plane to catch. The night plane to JFK and then a red-eye back to London.” Holding his hand out for Miller who takes it in his. “I trust I’ve told you all you need to know about the situation, Detective? I don’t think you’ll be bothered by werewolves or other creepy things that go bump or bark in the night anymore.”

  Miller pulls back his hand like all humanity depends upon it. Even in the moonlight, I can see his face turn a distinct shade of chalk white. Like the hand he was touching was not a human hand at all.

  “Yeah Dalton,” he whispers. “You’re ahhh…good to go.”

  Dalton nods at me.

  “Mr. Moonlight,” he says, “it was a real pleasure.”

  Not really, I want to say. But my dad raised me better than that.

  “Safe journey,” I say.

  He turns and walks back into the darkness towards his rent-a-car. He hasn’t pulled away from the curb for more than a few seconds when the EMTs arrive on the scene.

  “‘Bout time,” Miller says.

  “What’s the rush?” I say.

  Miller looks down at his gloved hand. The same hand Dalton shook. His eyes go wide. Once more he pulls the tweezers from his pocket, brings the tips to his hand, pulls away a couple of strands of that same long, blond/black hair. Raising up his head he shoots me a glance. But he doesn’t hold the glance for long. Instead he makes his way back to the open grave where he drops the hair into the hole. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the plastic evidence baggy that contains some of that same hair. He tosses that into the hole. He pockets the tweezers and peels the gloves off his hands, deep sixes them in a final gesture of I’m giving up on this whacked out case before I even get started.

  Turning to me, he says, “I need a fucking drink real fucking bad.”

  “What about your crime scene?” I say.

  He shakes his head.

  “I’ll instruct one of my men to put the word out for a rabid dog on the loose. Possibly a lone wolf come down from the Canadian border.”

  “Probably a good idea,” I say. “Downplay the whole thing.”

  He marches past me.

  “You’re driving,” he says.

  “Why me?” I say, making my way behind him. “Lots of cops out this time of night. And you know the trouble that can happen during a full moon.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’re the cops. We’re immune.”

  “And I’m the undead,” I say, raising my face up to the moon, letting go with a howl that’s so loud it takes me by surprise.

  Miller stops, turns.

  “Do that again,” he says, “and I’ll drive a stake right through your heart.”

  “That’s Dracula,” I say. “Get your classic horror creatures of the night straight.”

  He turns, and together we make our way towards my dad’s big black hearse. It’s a car that once upon a time, carried the dead to their eternal rest. I’ve parked on the opposite side of the cemetery gates, in the land of the living.

  BIO

  Vincent Zandri is a photojournalist, world traveller, and the author of more than thirteen books from publishers such as Delacorte Press, Dell, Thomas & Mercer, and more. An Amazon Number 1 International Bestseller, many of his novels have entered into their second and third editions. He also has new novels, novellas, and shorts coming from StoneGate Ink/ StoneHouse In
k, as well as from his own label, Bear Media. His website is here: www.vincentzandri.com/.

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