The Girl in the Moon

by Terry Goodkind

  “Beige Toyota Camry. Probably six or seven years old.”

  The policewoman arched an eyebrow. “You have a good memory.”

  “I tend to remember people who try to kill me.”

  “Can you tell me what happened? Anything you remember would be helpful.”

  Angela met the officer’s gaze. “I have a courier service. I had a package for Hartland Irrigation. When I made the delivery the four of them overpowered me. They pulled off my clothes, raped me, beat me, and after each of them finished having a few turns at me,” Angela said in a bitter tone, having to look away and pause to control her rage, “then they put a rope around my neck, hanged me from a beam, and left me to choke to death hanging there a few feet above the floor while they drove off. They wanted me to suffer as I was dying. They fully expected me to choke to death.”

  Officer Denton wrote down what Angela had said on a report on a clipboard. Finally, she spoke again.

  “Where did this happen?”

  “In the old industrial area.” Angela gave her the address.

  “Can you describe these four men? What did they look like? Height, weight, that kind of thing.”

  “They were all Hispanic. Darkish skin, dark hair, average build. Under six feet. All of them probably between five-eight and five-ten at the most. Each had a little facial hair, but not what you would call beards. They were in their mid- to late twenties, maybe early thirties. They were wearing work overalls. Medium bluish gray. Miguel seemed be the one in charge. He has a zillion moles all over his face.”

  “Okay, that’s good,” Officer Denton said as she wrote.

  She finally looked up. She stared a moment at the tattoo—DARK ANGEL—across Angela’s throat.

  “By the look of those bruises and the abrasions from the rope around your neck, you’re one lucky girl to be alive.”

  Angela didn’t answer.

  The woman’s penetrating gaze moved to Angela’s eyes. “How’d you get the rope off your neck?”

  Angela saw her boots standing on the bottom shelf of the hospital cabinet at the side of the room. She could just see the tip of the black handle at the rim of the boot. The knife, in the sheath, was down between the lining and the leather. Angela always put the sheath of her knife in her boots that way. It kept it from chafing against her bare skin.

  The police were sure to go to the address Angela had given them to collect evidence. She knew that if she said that the rope was old and rotted and it simply broke from her weight, she would be caught in the lie when they saw that the rope had been cut.

  Angela had two rules about police. First rule, don’t talk to the police. Second rule, if she had to talk to the police, don’t lie. The police remembered being lied to. She didn’t want to give the police any reason to remember her.

  “I was able to cut the rope with a knife,” Angela said.

  A frown twitched across Officer Denton’s face as she looked up from her report. “A knife.” She glanced down at her notes on the clipboard. “You said they pulled off your clothes. You said you were hanging several feet off the floor. How did you get a knife?”

  “They hadn’t pulled off my boots. I had a knife in my right boot. After they left I was finally able to get to it and cut the rope.”

  Officer Denton looked over her shoulder to Angela’s boots. She finally turned and went to the little cabinet. Squatting down, she used a finger and thumb to pull out the knife. She held it like it might bite her. Angela could see that there was blood all over it. At least it was only her blood and not Owen’s. She was glad she had followed her rule about disposing of anything she used on a killer.

  The policewoman returned to Angela’s side. She held up the knife by a finger and thumb.

  “This is illegal.”

  Angela frown. “My knife is illegal?”

  “Yes. It’s clearly over the legal length.”

  Angela ran her tongue over the stitches in her cheek. “I have kitchen knives that are longer than that.”

  “Maybe so, but this is a knife made to carry. It’s clearly a weapon, not a kitchen knife. For that reason, it’s illegal. Worse, you had it hidden in your boot. That makes it a concealed weapon. It’s illegal to carry a concealed weapon.”

  Angela briefly wondered if she was imagining such lunacy.

  “I sometimes make deliveries to high-crime areas,” she said. “I only have the knife to protect myself.”

  “Looks like it didn’t do you any good this time, did it?”

  “They grabbed my arms and legs so fast I couldn’t get to it until they left me there hanging by my neck.”

  “Concealed weapons usually only make matters worse and get people killed. If you would have pulled it on those men, they likely would have taken it away from you and stabbed you to death.”

  Angela wanted to say that it had saved her life, but her instincts told her to keep quiet and not argue.

  Officer Denton pulled a manila envelope from inside her thin aluminum clipboard and slipped the sheathed knife into it. “The people of New York State have made it clear that they don’t want anyone carrying a concealed weapon. A knife this long is a weapon, so it’s a crime for you to carry it, and it’s a much more serious crime to conceal it.”

  “But it’s not a gun. I thought only a gun was a concealed weapon.”

  “This is classified as a concealed weapon, the same as a gun.”

  The same as a gun. Angela could feel her face going red with rage. She had been raped, beaten, and nearly murdered, and here this woman was, not relieved that the victim had managed to cut herself down and give information that could lead to the apprehension of the criminals, but instead was growing hostile because Angela had a knife to protect herself. Officer Denton hadn’t shown that much anger toward the four men.

  Angela would have loved to say all of that, but the last thing she wanted to do was to get on the wrong side of the police. They sometimes came into the bar asking about patrons. Whenever Angela spoke with them she always tried not to make herself noteworthy or memorable. At least other than the way she dressed. She wanted to stay under their radar. If they never investigated her, they couldn’t find any evidence of anything.

  “I’m sorry,” Angela said, trying to sound contrite. “I didn’t know.”

  Officer Denton’s expression softened a little. “I can’t give this back to you.”

  Angela had dozens just like it. She had no reason to try to hold on to this one. They were meant to serve a purpose and then be discarded down the hell hole. This knife had served its purpose. It had saved her life.

  Angela nodded. “I understand.”

  Officer Denton stared at her for a long moment. Her expression was unreadable.

  “Constantine. You live in the trailer park. Your mother is Sally Constantine. She uses meth.”

  “I used to live there,” Angela corrected. “I moved out a long time ago.”

  “There’s been a lot of drug activity there for years. The police have been to your trailer a number of times. Made a number of arrests there.”

  It was an accusation of some sort. Angela didn’t say anything.

  Officer Denton finally gestured at Angela’s throat. “I’m beginning to wonder if maybe this whole thing with these men may have been a drug deal gone bad. Is that it? Does this somehow involve drugs? They bringing you a supply up from Mexico and you couldn’t pay what you promised them? That sounds more like what really happened.”

  Angela blinked in disbelief. “I don’t do drugs.”

  “You just sell them. Smart. Lots of people who sell use. That eats into their business and gets them in trouble. The smart ones sell but they don’t use their own inventory.”

  It was all Angela could not to tell the woman to go fuck herself, but she knew that would only convince her that she was on to something.

  “I don’t do drugs,” Angela said as calmly as she could. “I don’t live there with my mother anymore. As soon as I was old enough, I moved out. My mot
her’s a meth-head and that brought a rough group of men around the place. When my mother was high some of those men abused me—raped me—when I was just a girl. I hate drugs. I don’t want anything to do with drugs. I have a courier business and I tend bar. That’s how I earn a living.

  “If you don’t believe me, they have plenty of my blood around here, test it all you want. Go out and search my truck if you want.”

  Officer Denton tapped her thumb on the railing of the bed, still showing no emotion.

  “I’m terribly sorry for what happened to you, Ms. Constantine,” she finally said. “With the information you’ve provided I’m sure we will be able to capture these men.”

  With that, she turned and left.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Three days later Angela was still in the hospital, but she was hopeful they would release her soon. A lot of the swelling had gone down. Everything was still sore, though.

  She wanted to go home to her cabin and crawl into bed there where people wouldn’t come in and wake her up at all hours of the night to take her temperature and blood pressure and give her pills. She was tired of having to roll the IV stand along with her when she went to the bathroom.

  She had just returned from another one of those tricky bathroom trips and settled back into bed when two men in plain clothes came up to her room and stood in the doorway. They knocked on the doorframe and at the same time identified themselves as detectives Preston and Vaughan. They were both middle-aged. Both were dressed in suits. They had police badges hung on chains around their neck. The badges rested over drab ties.

  “Are you up to talking with us?” Detective Preston asked. He was the older of the two, heavyset, with a buzz cut.

  “Sure,” Angela answered cautiously, fearing they might have come with more accusations about her selling drugs or that they might even want to charge her with carrying a concealed weapon. “What is it?”

  “We’d like you to take a look at some photos of some men,” Detective Vaughan said. He was thinner, taller, and with even shorter hair. His eyebrows and eyelashes were a light color that looked weak against his penetrating blue eyes.

  Angela was relieved to hear that and gave them a nod. They rolled the food tray in over the bed and positioned it in front of her. She used the buttons to elevate the top half of the bed until she was almost sitting up. They laid out two rows of three photos each. The six photos looked like they had been made on a black-and-white copy machine, but the men in the photos were recognizable enough.

  “Take your time,” Detective Vaughan said, “and tell us if you recognize any of these men.”

  Angela looked at all six faces only briefly. A brief look was all she needed.

  “No. None of these are the men who tried to kill me.”

  Detective Preston took them away and Detective Vaughan laid down two more rows of three photos each.

  Angela pointed at the last one before he had even finished laying it down. “Him. That’s Emilio.”

  “None of the other five look familiar?” Detective Vaughan asked.

  When Angela shook her head, Detective Preston took the photos away, keeping Emilio’s mug shot to the side.

  After Detective Vaughan laid down six more, Angela pointed at the one in the middle of the top row. “That’s Juan,” she said, her anger rising. “He was one of the four men who tried to kill me.” She pointed at the photo beside it to her right. “That’s Pedro.”

  Angela held out her hand as Detective Preston took them away, keeping two of them aside. “Just give me the rest of them and if Miguel is in there I’ll know his mole-covered face when I see it.”

  The two detectives shared a look and then Detective Vaughan handed Angela the rest of the photos. She went through them quickly, one at a time, laying them facedown on the tray in front of her until she got to the photo of Miguel. She would recognize his face anywhere. Angela plunked the photo down for the two men to see.

  “That’s Miguel. That’s all four. If you have their mug shots, does that mean you have them under arrest?”

  Detective Vaughan nodded. “They were just picked up a couple hours ago. We wanted to make sure we had the right men. From how certain you are, it appears we do.”

  “When is the trial? I want to testify. I want to help put them away forever.”

  Detective Preston smiled at her eagerness. “We’ll be in touch and let you know what happens at the arraignment.” He laid his business card down on the tray. “In the meantime, if you have any questions or think of anything else here’s my card.”

  “And mine,” Detective Vaughan said as he laid his down beside it. “A lot of victims are afraid to testify. We’re glad to hear that you would be willing.”

  A short time after they left, Barry stopped in to see how she was doing. It was his second visit. He assured her that the bruises on her face looked better, as did her neck. She didn’t know if he was just trying to cheer her up or if he was being honest.

  Barry was a nice guy, but he wasn’t the type who was comfortable expressing sympathy. He didn’t know what to do with his hands as he stood beside the bed. Before long he said he wanted to let her rest, so he didn’t stay long. Angela appreciated him stopping in.

  He told her not to worry about her job, that once she was better it would be waiting for her. He smiled, then, and said that she was the best bartender he’d ever had and he wanted her back.

  The next afternoon, Dr. Song stopped in. It was earlier than she usually came by.

  “This morning’s CT scan looks better,” she said. “If you feel up to it we could release you today. But only if you feel up to it. I can tell you, though, that the less time you spend in a hospital, the better.”

  Angela sat up. “I’m good. I’m ready to go home.”

  Dr. Song smiled at Angela’s impatience. “I’ll send down the release orders, then. A nurse will come by in an hour or two and take out your IV and sign you out.”

  “All right,” Angela said, already eager to leave. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

  “Happy to help,” she said with a smile. “But I want you to take it easy. No strenuous activity. No physical exertion. It would be best if you got a lot of rest for the next couple weeks. Eat light meals. No aspirin—we’ll give you a few pain pills to take home and a prescription for more, but if you feel any increase in abdominal pain you need to let me know right away.”

  Angela simply nodded. She didn’t want to tell the doctor that she had no intention of taking pain medication. The drugs made her feel sick. She’d rather have the pain than the nausea.

  By later in the afternoon, she had been unplugged from everything and had signed all the paperwork. Julie brought her a shirt and jeans from the lost and found and told her where she had moved her truck into the parking lot. Angela thanked her for all her help and promised to buy her a drink if she stopped into the bar once Angela was back to work.

  Julie paused for a moment. “Do you remember Carrie, the nurse who worked here? She gave you samples to be taken to the lab not long ago.”

  “I remember her,” Angela said. “I heard about her being abducted.”

  Julie smiled, even though her eyes watered up. “Somehow, God intervened, or something, and they were able to find her body along with the guy who did it. We all wish she was still with us, but at least it’s some comfort for her family that they were finally able to give her a proper burial.”

  “I’m so sorry …” After an uncomfortable silence, Angela finally spoke again. “Thank you for taking care of me while I was here.”

  Julie wiped a tear away, smiled, and rubbed Angela’s arm. “Glad to watch over you.”

  As she left the room to get an orderly with a wheelchair, Angela thought, You all watch over me, and I watch over all of you.

  It’s what they did. That’s what Angela did.

  Julie finally brought back an orderly with a wheelchair. As they wheeled her to the door, and then out into the parking lot to her truck
, they offered to call someone to drive her, or to call her a cab. Angela thanked them, but insisted she was fine. When she carefully climbed into her truck, relieved to be free at last, the first thing she did was check that her gun was still there in the center console. It was right where she’d left it.

  She drove through town slowly to be sure she wouldn’t have to slam on the brakes for anyone. She felt a wave of relief that she had survived the attempt on her life and that she had finally gotten out of the hospital. The four men who had raped her and tried to kill her were finally behind bars. She would rather have them down the hell hole, but at least they were in jail. She hoped they spent the rest of their lives in prison.

  When she reached the drive up to her cabin, she let the cable drop to the ground so she could drive in. She would have liked to leave it there and simply drive up to the cabin, but she wanted it back across the drive.

  Her four attackers were in jail, but she didn’t want anyone else coming up to her place uninvited. She struggled to pull the cable tight across the drive, but she finally got it locked back on, happy that she would be left alone.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Even though it was still light out, Angela went right to bed. She was relieved to finally take off the baggy jeans and shirt from the hospital lost and found, but more than that it was a relief to be in her own bed and to at last be completely alone.

  Before climbing into bed, she resisted the temptation to look at herself in the mirror.

  Several mornings later, when she finally did look in the mirror, it was worse than she had hoped, but it wasn’t as bad as she had feared. The bruises had lost their sick-looking deep violet color, but now they were an ugly dark yellowish black. The stitches inside her cheeks were a continual annoyance, but they would dissolve as the wounds healed. She was thankful that they hadn’t gone all the way through her cheeks and that she wouldn’t have scars across the outside of her face. It was going to be a while, though, before she was in shape to tend bar.

  After she got dressed and made herself some soup, she went down into the basement. The quiet of the basement was different from the quiet of the house. The basement was deathly quiet. She thought about the killers she had put down the hell hole, and promised herself they would not be the last.