Free Wife of Moon by Margaret Coel

Riverton in a neighborhood of squat, flat-roofed duplexes with a FOR RENT , FURNISHED sign in one window and oily blue patches on the asphalt at the curb. Father John slowed past the occasional parked vehicle, looking for the address that he’d gotten from the curator’s file in his office—engine running outside, pickup bucking like a corralled stallion. The units all looked the same, with green-painted siding and small windows flanking the front doors recessed from small, concrete stoops.
    He spotted the numbers next to the door at the end unit, where dried stalks lifted out of a red planter at the corner of the stoop. There was no sign of the woman’s Range Rover.
    Father John pulled into the curb and started up a narrow sidewalk that divided a square of brown-spotted lawn. He stopped. The front door stood open a couple of inches.
    He stepped onto the stoop and rapped on the hinged edge of the door. “Christine?” he called.
    Silence, apart from the breeze knocking at the gutter.
    He pushed at the door and stepped inside. Papers crackled under his boots. Papers everywhere—strewn across the green carpet, spilling over the sofa and chair. Foam poked out of long slashes in the cushions tossed about. A table lamp lay shattered in the center of the room, and, over in a corner, the carpet had been yanked away and dropped back on itself in a mute triangle. The atmosphere was suffused with a sense of spent desperation.
    Father John stood still a moment, listening for the sound of life. There was nothing but the sounds of his own breathing—rapid, shallow intakes of air. He headed into the kitchen, picking his way through papers and shards of glass. Whoever had done this hadn’t stopped in the living room. Cabinet doors were flung open, broken dishes and glasses littered the countertops and vinyl floor. Boxes cut open, cereal tossed about. The refrigerator door hung into the room, drawers pulled out, shelves swept clean. A rectangle of white light shone over the carton of milk that had spilled across the floor, running into a broken jar that oozed red jam.
    He swung around, his heart thudding in his ears, and crossed the living room to a short hallway. A pair of closed doors faced each other. He opened the door on the right into the same chaos: mattress pulled to the floor, dresser drawers upended with a few silky pieces of women’s underwear spilling out, closet doors ajar, a couple of blouses and pairs of slacks pulled off the hangers and trailing into the room.
    Christine Nelson was nowhere.
    He crossed the hall and reached for the knob on the other door, his hand numb with reluctance. He opened the door into the bathroom. Towel bars ripped from the walls, broken bottles scattered over the heap of towels on the black and white vinyl floor. Tiny pieces of glass winked in the pool of reddish liquid inside the door. Stooping down, he dipped a finger in the liquid and brought it to his nose. Lotion that smelled of roses.
    He’d wiped his finger on a corner of a towel and made a half-turninto the hall when he heard the noise, like the noise of rustling leaves. Then, footsteps, tentative and carefully placed across the littered floor of the living room.
    Father John moved along the plastered wall toward the noise, a single thought filling his mind, pushing out every other possibility. Whoever had ransacked the house had returned to take a harder look. What was next? Pull up the carpet, rip out the floors, take down the wallboard?
    The footsteps had stopped moving, and Father John also stopped, his shoulder pressed against the rough plaster. He kept his breathing shallow and quiet, another thought crowding into his mind now. Whoever had ransacked the house could have gotten more information and knew where to find whatever he was looking for. Father John curled his hands into fists—whoever was in the living room could have gotten the information from Christine.
    He started inching forward