The Girl in the Moon

by Terry Goodkind

  Angela retrieved another knife from the cabinet and fit its sheath into the pocket in the lining of a new pair of boots that hadn’t been covered in blood. She had never known that it was illegal to carry the knife. She had carried the knife because she knew it was illegal to carry a gun. She thought she was taking on an extra risk by carrying a knife instead of a gun in order to stay legal.

  Since it was illegal to carry the knife, too, that changed everything.

  Angela went back to the cabinet where the supplies were stored and retrieved her grandfather’s inside-the-waistband leather holster for the Walther P22. She tried the gun in it. It fit like a glove. But that wasn’t exactly what she needed.

  Angela put the leather holster on the counter and used a utility knife to cut off the bottom end of the barrel pocket to make an opening. She screwed on a suppressor and tried putting the gun into the holster. She had to cut away some extra leather until the suppressor fit down through the hole and the gun sat snug in the holster.

  She undid the button and zipper on her jeans and fit the holster to the inside of the waistband in back. It would stick out and be too visible if she wore it on her hip. Wearing it in the back she could wear a top to help conceal it.

  The suppressor made for a long weapon, but she found that with the barrel of the suppressor resting partway down into the crack of her ass, the gun was well concealed.

  She often wore a short top that showed her midriff when she tended bar. She decided that her cutoffs revealed enough to keep men buying drinks and leaving tips without needing a cropped top as well. A longer top would allow her to carry the gun with the suppressor already attached.

  Ever since she had killed that first man, who had murdered the girl with red hair and dumped her body in an old cistern in the deserted industrial tract, she knew she had found her calling in life. It seemed like the more men she killed, the more she wanted to kill. It was addicting.

  Fortunately, she seemed to be a lunatic magnet. Killers were drawn to her like wolves to a lamb.

  Angela figured that if she was breaking the law carrying the knife, then she might as well carry a gun. Better to break the law than to be murdered. The next time she wouldn’t have to worry about it being out of reach in her truck.

  Even if she did have a gun on her, she was concerned by how fast those men had gotten control of her. She wasn’t sure that even if she had been carrying a gun she would have been able to get it out fast enough. She wasn’t sure yet what she was going to do about that problem. There seemed to be a piece to the puzzle missing.

  Satisfied with the way the holster fit, Angela collected a few boxes of ammunition and went out to practice. Having the gun holstered at the small of her back added a challenging new dimension to shooting. She would have to get used to drawing it quickly, even with the suppressor attached. That was not going to be easy. It was a trade-off of speed for stealth.

  First, she needed to master drawing it quickly and then getting off rounds accurately. It didn’t matter how fast you could shoot if you missed the target. Her grandfather often told her that you couldn’t miss fast enough to save your life.

  She soon became good at drawing the gun from a concealed position and getting off the first round with dead accuracy. Once she could draw and every round pinged the steel triangle, her confidence grew that having the gun concealed on her would be worthwhile.

  Her abdomen was finally feeling better and the bruises were healing. When she went for a checkup, Dr. Song was pleased with her progress. The stitches inside her cheeks were beginning to dissolve, too.

  Confident she could cover the remaining bruises with makeup, she felt good about going back to work for Barry. To celebrate being alive and going back to work, she dyed her hair a stark platinum blond with blue tips. Her hair and her cutoffs showing off her legs always brought in good tips. For all she knew, maybe the tattoo across her throat did as well.

  Since she was carrying her gun in the waistband at the small of her back, she had to wear a longer top to cover it. Because the suppressor made it hard to wear her gun when driving, she decided that for now she would carry the suppressor separately. With no pockets big enough to hide a suppressor, she put it down the inside of her left boot, much the way she did with her knife in the right boot. It wasn’t too comfortable, but it worked well enough for the time being.

  While she was concerned that it was illegal to carry the gun and knife, and doubly illegal to have a suppressor, she was far more realistically concerned about suddenly finding herself looking into the eyes of a killer. That happened far more often than she had ever encountered the police.

  At least with the four men who tried to kill her in jail, she wouldn’t have to worry about encountering them.

  Pleased that she was going to be well armed, and just as she was about to leave to bartend, she got a call.

  She pulled out her phone as she was heading for the front door, keys in hand. “Hello, this is Angela.”

  “Hi, Miss Constantine. It’s Detective Vaughan.”

  Angela used her shoulder to hold her phone to her ear as she locked the front door. “Have they set a trial date?”

  The detective cleared his throat. “I hate having to give you this news, but the charges were dropped and all four of the men were released.”

  Angela straightened, keys in hand. For a moment, she couldn’t seem to form a thought.

  “I don’t understand. Why would they be released?”

  “I’m afraid it was the prosecutor’s decision.”

  At first, Angela felt like she might faint. It took only seconds, though, for rage to take over.

  “But I identified them. I said I would testify. You have the DNA evidence they collected at the hospital. It’s all in the rape kit.”

  “Rape kits from all over the state are backlogged for years. There’s not enough funding to process them. It will be at least three years, more likely four or maybe even five years, before they can get to yours for processing and DNA analysis.”

  “But I’m willing to testify. They have the rope. My blood was at the location. There’s a hospital report of what they did to me. None of that has to be processed.”

  “Look, Miss Constantine, I’m on your side. I’m angry about this, too.”

  “Oh yeah? Did those bastards rape you? Did they put a fucking rope around your neck, hang you from a beam, and leave you to strangle to death?”

  The line was silent for a moment.

  “Of course not. I realize there is no way I could feel the way you do. I’m just saying that I’m on your side. I wanted those four assholes to go to prison. I was pretty angry when I heard that they’d been released.”

  “Who ordered them released?”

  “John Babington, the assistant district attorney.”

  In her courier job delivering legal documents, Angela had met John Babington a few times. He was a prick.

  “Can’t you—”

  “There is nothing I can do about it. It’s over my head. The reason for my call is to inform you, but more importantly I wanted to warn you. Those four are out of jail and since they had intended to kill you, it’s possible they could decide to finish the job. I asked if we could provide protection, but since there is no specific threat, the chief said we don’t have the manpower.”

  Angela scanned the surrounding woods.

  They could be anywhere.

  “Do you have any idea if they left town?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t. If I get any word on their whereabouts or if they left town, I will certainly let you know right away.”

  “All right, thanks,” Angela finally said.

  Her thoughts were already elsewhere, already on that pompous prick, John Babington.

  One time in the hall of the Municipal Building, when no one else was around, John Babington had put his hand on her ass. It wasn’t tentative or fleeting. It was deliberate and forceful. In the same way she handled drunks in the bar, she simply glided out of range with
out making an issue of it as she handed him the documents she was delivering for one of her attorney clients. He had flashed her a smile that was both lewd and condescending at the same time.

  Instead of going into work at the bar, Angela called Barry and told him she would be a little late, that she had to make a stop, first.

  TWENTY-NINE

  After calling Barry, Angela drove straight in to downtown Milford Falls. The whole way she kept trying to think of a reason why they would have let the men go. It didn’t make any sense. These weren’t petty shoplifters. These men had beat her senseless and left her hanging by a rope, fully expecting she was going to die.

  Having been to the Municipal Building before, Angela knew that they had metal detectors. Once she found a parking place in a commercial lot about a block away, she did as she always did—she pulled the knife out of her boot and slid it under her seat. Since she was now carrying a gun, she removed the holstered weapon and hid it, along with the suppressor, under the back end of the floor mat in the passenger foot well, where it went under the seat.

  Going up the broad steps, she realized that she wasn’t exactly dressed properly to see the assistant district attorney. Most of the other people going in and out were dressed in business suits, even though there were some messengers and lower-level workers who were dressed somewhat more casually. Angela had been on her way to work to tend bar, so she was wearing cutoffs and boots. Her attire earned her some inviting smiles from men and murderous looks from women.

  Inside was the usual entry to a public building: a large, bland chamber that echoed voices and footsteps. A small line had formed at the security checkpoint as people laid briefcases and purses in tubs on a table before going through the metal detector. Angela slipped her purse off her shoulder and slung it up into a gray plastic tub. She knew the routine from delivering documents to the prosecutors who had offices in the building.

  Once past security, she took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Down the hall, past people who paused to stare at her, she came to the office of the assistant district attorney. The receptionist was a thin young man with perfectly styled hair. His blue shirt, offset with a coral-colored tie, was too big for him. He asked if she had an appointment to see Mr. Babington. When she said no, he told her he was in a meeting and she would have to make an appointment and come back. She said she wanted to wait to see if he would have time to see her after his meeting. Annoyed, he asked her name. Angela told him that she was a courier and had delivered packages to Mr. Babington before. Pouting, he told her to have a seat.

  Just before 5:00 p.m. John Babington opened his office door to let out a couple of men. They hurried past him on their way out. He paused, putting on his suit coat.

  The guy at the front desk smirked his disapproval as he pointed at Angela. “I told her she would have to make an appointment, but she insisted on waiting.”

  John Babington stood frozen with one arm in the sleeve of his jacket, taking in her bare legs. There was no question in her mind that he remembered her. He pulled his suit coat back off and gestured with a tilt of his head for her to come in to his office.

  Angela closed the door and then sat in one of the two maroon leather chairs in front of his wooden desk. He swung his coat over his taller chair behind the desk and sat down.

  “What can I do for you … ”

  “I’m Angela Constantine.”

  He leaned back in his chair and with one hand slicked back his long, thick, dark brown hair. “What can I do for you, Ms. Constantine?”

  “Four men tried to murder me. I was told you dropped the charges and let them go. I want to know why.”

  Recognition showed in his eyes and then he smiled to himself as if she were a child who had asked something naive.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  Angela nested her hands in her lap. “It is to me. They tried to murder me.”

  “Didn’t you say they raped you, as well?” He leaned in with a hint of a smile, wanting to hear the juicy story.

  A simple “Yes” was all she gave him.

  His extra chins oozed over his collar and tie as he tried to glance down at her legs, but she was too close to his desk for him to see much, so he took a long look at her chest instead before he shifted his attention to the stack of folders to the side. He fingered through them until he found the one he was looking for and then tugged it out.

  He dropped the folder on the desk in front of himself and then flipped it open. He turned over papers, reading, making small sounds in his throat. She saw the photocopied mug shots of the four men. He flipped those four pages over, then wet his thumb and picked up a page, studying it for a moment.

  He finally looked up over the top of the paper. “What exactly was it you wanted to know?”

  “I told the officer who came to see me in the hospital that I was willing to testify against all four men. I can identify them. I gave the officers the license plate number. I want to know why you would drop the charges and let them go.”

  He gave her a long, cold look. “Are you prejudiced, Ms. Constantine?”

  Angela blinked. “What?”

  John Babington gave her a haughty smirk. “They’re undocumented Mexican immigrants, Ms. Constantine. This state has a policy of giving sanctuary to undocumented immigrants.”

  Angela leveled a glare back at him. “They tried to kill me.”

  “The good people of New York State”—he lifted his arm to twirl his hand in the air over his head—“and all the elected officials above me, have made it abundantly clear that this is to be a sanctuary state for undocumented aliens. That means we protect them. There are standing orders not to cooperate in any way with federal officials—”

  “This isn’t a federal case,” Angela said, cutting him off. “This is a criminal case. I don’t want them deported, I want them prosecuted.” With a finger, she pointed out the bruises around her neck. “They hanged me and left me to die. They attempted to murder me. You’re the one who is supposed to speak for victims and prosecute criminals.”

  He stared at her throat a moment before looking up into her eyes. “Are you into Satanism, Ms. Constantine?”

  “What?”

  “Satanism. You know, Devil worship.” He gestured toward her neck. “Your tattoo, there. It says ‘Dark Angel.’ Do you worship Satan?”

  Angela frowned her incredulity. “No. And even if I did, which I don’t, what does that have to do with those men raping me and trying to kill me?”

  He briefly looked back at the paper he was holding and then looked up with icy contempt. “It says here that the men said the sex was consensual.”

  Angela stared in astonishment at the accusation. “That’s a lie. Of course they’re going to say it was consensual—they’re trying to get out of going to jail for what they did. I suppose they also claimed that the attempted murder was actually assisted suicide?”

  He arched an eyebrow at her sarcasm before going back to silently reading the report in his hand. “I have the testimony of all four men saying the same thing, that it was consensual. They claim that you wanted to have an … ‘experience.’ ”

  “What are you talking about? What ‘experience’?”

  “They all say that they met you at Barry’s Place, where you’re a bartender. They say that after work, out in the parking lot, you got friendly with them and then told them that you had a rape fantasy. They say you asked them if they wanted to play along and help you have that kind of experience.”

  After work that night Angela was busy killing Owen. But she could hardly say that.

  “They put me in the hospital.”

  He nodded as if he knew all about it. “They claim you wanted it to be rough sex, so that, as they say, it would feel real to you. They say you told them beforehand that you wanted them to hang you by a rope and leave you so as to complete your fantasy. When they were reluctant to go that far, you told them not to worry, that you had a knife in your boot and you would cut yourself down.”


  Angela sat stunned. The men didn’t know she had a knife when they’d left her there to die. That knife was only discovered by Officer Denton at the hospital. That could only mean that someone fed that information to the four men and helped them craft their statement, or crafted it for them.

  She realized that since the state’s policy was to provide sanctuary to undocumented aliens, he needed to find an excuse to drop the charges and let the men go, so they fabricated a story to discredit Angela.

  He cocked his arm and pumped his fist as he gave her a knowing wink. “You enjoy a little gang bang, now and then, Ms. Constantine? Is that it? A bit of hard, fast, and rough?”

  Angela could barely contain her rage. But she knew she had to. She knew her face was going red but she couldn’t stop that.

  “I’m telling you what happened,” she said as calmly as she could. “I’m the victim of a crime, of attempted murder.”

  John Babington regarded her with an imperious expression. “I’m just letting you know the statement the four men gave. It certainly is at odds with what you say. Their account would come out in court, of course. There are four of them and one of you. Their side of it would be a sensation in the press. It would be all over the Internet with sympathy pouring in from all around the country for the poor, innocent, undocumented immigrants. You would be hounded as a bigot, a racist, and worse.

  “That’s why, in my view, I had to drop the charges. It protects everyone, including you.”

  “They’re criminals,” she repeated. “I’m not a criminal.”

  He flipped over a few more pages. “Well, let’s see. I have a report here that you were carrying a concealed weapon.” He looked up over the paper and arched an eyebrow. “Is that true?”

  Angela swallowed. She knew better than to lie. “Yes. I carried a knife for self-defense. I was unaware it was illegal.”

  “Ignorance before the law is no excuse, Ms. Constantine. You do realize, don’t you, that because the officer found the weapon and seized it, we have the evidence needed to prosecute you for carrying a concealed weapon?” He gave her a threatening smile. “At the discretion of this office, of course.”