“Paul’s a part of that past now,” she says soothingly, closing the window, looking me in the eye. “The same as my own husband is a part of my past.” She pulls me back to the bed. “Let me tell you a story of my own, it might help in some way.” We sit down together again, and I wait for her to begin.
“I didn’t have a very nice childhood,” she said uneasily. “It was rough, it was unloving, it was lonely. My father left when I was little, my mother moved around a lot, bouncing from one new man to the next. And then I was thrown out entirely, tossed from one home to another. It was . . . bad. But I turned things around, got myself through college, earned a degree in psychology, got a job. Met a guy, a really fabulous guy, a doctor. He was part of the in-crowd, you know, took me places a girl like me couldn’t have hoped to see otherwise. He took me to the fancy restaurants, to the private clubs, we even toured Europe. It was like a dream.
“We got married, of course. Had children, you’ve met them. Wonderful kids, aren’t they?”
I nod my head encouragingly but remain silent, not wanting to interrupt; she is building to something.
“Well a few years ago, nine now I guess, I discovered the bombshell; my husband, my wonderful husband, the father to my wonderful kids, was a cheat. I discovered him with his girlfriend, in our bed one day. And she wasn’t the first, it turned out, not by a long-shot.”
She shrugs, and I feel my heart going out to her. How terrible it must have been.
“It nearly destroyed my life, let me tell you,” she continues. “After the childhood I’d had, to feel that someone loved me, wanted to be with me, it was the best thing in the world. For a time, I even wondered if I could live with it, you know? For everything I had, could I forgive him?” She shook her head, and I felt the strength of her character emanate from the very core of her. “No, I could not. I just couldn’t live like that, I’m not that sort of person. I dragged myself up from the gutter, and I did it myself, with nobody’s help. My husband made me hit a low – and I mean a real low – but it wasn’t the first time I’d been there, and I knew I was strong enough to haul myself up again.
“So I filed for divorce, got the kids, a big pay-out, and moved out here with them.” She smiles at me. “So you see honey, you’re not the only one. A lot of us here were outsiders at one time or another, and a lot of us rebuilt our lives here.” It surprises me, this revelation. I was so caught up in my own life, my own problems, I had never really thought about anyone else here. I just assumed that everyone “belonged”.
But Larraine Harrigan, one of the most respected ladies of Palmer, has only moved here a few years ago herself. Artie’s brother lives in Seattle, and I realize that perhaps Artie wasn’t born here either. I know Ben transferred from the San Francisco Police Department after a messy divorce. Who knows who else has similar stories? I am already starting to feel less of an interloper, less of an outsider.
She puts a hand on my shoulder, her gaze levelled at me. “I was strong enough to do it, and I know you are too, honey. I know it.”
I smile at her, confidence building within me for the first time in months. I can’t even hear the ticking of the clock anymore.
Maybe, I think, I’ll start to know it too, soon enough.
And then – maybe – I really will start to heal.
4
I can feel the breeze even through my jacket. We’re not far from winter, and night-time temperatures are already starting to drop.
After talking to Larraine, we returned to the party, and I actually enjoyed myself, even started to work the crowd a little; almost like I was back in the cocktail bars of New York after work, but more relaxed. Here, there was nobody who wanted anything from me.
There had been an ugly incident when Pat had allegedly been seen slipping a drink to an underage girl. It couldn’t be proven, but the mood had soured considerably after that. The girl’s parents were unhappy, Ben was unhappy, Artie was defensive, everyone else was keen to see what would happen. Larraine decided that it was time to leave with the kids, and I followed her lead.
She asked if I wanted a lift home, but I wanted to walk; the party had given me a lot to think about, and I wanted to do it in the fresh air, by myself. But I’m terribly grateful to Larraine for her timely words; perhaps more than she will ever know.
I walk down a narrow track which links some of these farmhouses, lost in thought. Larraine was right; I’ve made my decisions, moved on. It was – is – the right thing to do. I loved Paul, yes, that’s true. But it’s over now, and I have to face that.
The trouble is, I still love him. I know how stupid that is, I know he stole the engagement ring back off my finger when I was unconscious, in a coma; I know he moved his stuff out of my apartment, leaving it an empty shell to come home to, empty and heartless. I know he’s a bastard, and yet I can’t help myself.
But I must; there’s nothing else for it. Larraine overcame an even worse betrayal and look where she is now. So Paul is coming crawling back, hat in hand. Let him. I can tell myself it means nothing to me.
Yes, I confirm to myself. It means nothing to me.
I survey the land around me, the post and rail fences of Artie’s farm, my fields just half a mile further. The sweeping pines beyond, the mountain ridges beyond that. Beautiful. All I’ve ever wanted, before law ever reared its ugly head. Back when I was a girl, and my dreams were the innocent, sweet dreams of youth.
I remember Beauty, my first horse. I’d been riding a while, taking my lessons with the rest of the girls at Boston Equestrian Centre; and even back then, I’d wanted to be the best.
And then one day my mom and dad had taken me and my older brothers out to Westford. As we’d driven down that long, winding gravel driveway, I’d known there would be something special at the end.
Ted and Jack had been taken aback by the ranch-house, instantly running in to pick a bedroom for themselves, but I hung back. There was something else there, I could – literally – smell it.
My father took me by the hand and led me around to the far side of the house, and I saw them.
The stables.
My heart beating, I ran to the wooden stalls, instinct leading me to him. I ripped open a door and there he was; Beauty.
He was an American Quarter Horse stallion, seventeen hands and black. Not grey, black hairs on white skin, but black; true black, a real rarity. My father had remembered my favorite story, right from being a toddler when my nanny had read it to me over and over again. Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty. It was what had made me love horses in the first place. And now here he was, right in front of me, his muscles rippling underneath the sheen of his incredible coat.
I have never loved anyone more than I loved my father at that moment.
But it had all come crashing down in the end, to be replaced by a life of harried academia and the sad results of criminal violence.
But now there is a chance – if I don’t let Paul, or any other aspect of my past, interfere with it – that I can have it all back, the magic of the early days.
Maybe it is the thought of magic, but I notice it then; a reddish hue, lighting the sky from the south-east.
I turn my head, stunned by the ball of fire I see before me, raging across a sky which has already surrendered to the night. A huge, bloody, monstrous moon. A red moon, rising over the jagged horizon, as if set alight by a perverted miracle of nature, hell itself climbing over the mountain peaks to rule the night.
I am struck by the majesty of the image, the beauty, the magnificence. At the same time, I shrink from it, the size and scale of the thing scaring me; an indefinable, gut-instinct fear which seems to raise unbidden from the primeval marshes of my subconscious.
And then – even more than that – there is the déja vu, which I feel so strongly that I shudder. I feel it right down to my very core. This thing, this blood-red moon, is a part of me somehow, evoking emotions within me I had no idea even existed.
I stand still, drinking it in, awed and
horrified at the same time.
I try to remember the reasons for such a thing happening. Dust in the atmosphere? Was that it? Something else tells me it is caused by an eclipse of some sort. And yet I’ve already seen the sun this evening, and they’re not in the same part of the sky.
I find it hard to drag my eyes away from the fireball, bound to it in some strange unknowable way; afraid that if I do, I may lose a part of myself that I may never get back.
But finally I do look away, and continue on towards my house, the night sky lit up all the while by the blood-red moon.
Eventually I pass the heavy railings which mark the boundary of my land, and step into my own fields.
Some of my horses are in the stables, others are out at pasture. Later in the year they may all have to be kept inside, but for now, some of them prefer to be out.
I pat Lady’s face, my hand running under her chin, stroking her gently. She turns her head then, bending to resume her feeding.
The others are further away and I briefly consider going to them before deciding against it. I’m tired, and I need to go to bed. I’ve had too much wine, and I still need to be up early to muck out the horses and walk the dogs. They won’t listen to my complaints of a hangover.
I’m nearing the house now; simple, modest, perfect. It’s home, and it finally really feels like it. The moon casts a strange crimson glow over the clapboard paneling and I look towards the fireball once more, wondering what it reminds me of.
And then I hear it. Panting; breath ragged. A horse? I stand stock-still, listening. I hear feet working over the fields, gasping.
A person.
I freeze, immobile. Who would be out here at this time of night? Have Zebunac’s goons come for me after all? I wonder where my gun is, realize it’s in a locked cabinet in the kitchen. A lot of good it’s going to do me there.
But I understand then that the sound isn’t threatening; I can hear Luna and Nero growling in the house, but they’re not barking.
No, the sounds are . . . frightened.
I continue walking towards the rough panting, passing the house now, and then I see her – lit up by the red glow of the moon, silhouetting her against the front fields.
I wonder for a moment if I’m seeing a ghost, the image is so strange, so disturbing; a young girl – fifteen, sixteen? – naked, bleeding, fighting her way through the tall grass towards my house. Seeking . . . refuge?
I break then, running to her, legs pumping beneath me as I cross the pasture to the bloody, naked girl; and then I’m there, and the ghost falls into my arms, eyes delirious with exhaustion and terror.
I’m shocked, horrified as the girl’s brutalized, cut skin leaks fresh blood over me, her face puffed and bruised, her breath even more ragged now.
She lays in my arms and I tell her that it’s okay, I’ll get help for her, she’s okay now; all the while wondering where she’s come from, who’s done this to her, what the hell is going on?
Her broken teeth appear as she tries to smile for me, to show me that she’s okay, she feels safe now at last; then blood runs from her broken nose and she chokes violently. I hold her closer, her head to my breast so she can hear my heart beat, offering her comfort.
But I feel the breath becoming more and more distant, and I pull her head away, see the eyes rolling upwards into their damaged sockets, feel the body sagging deeper into me as she starts to let go.
“No,” I whisper to her, “stay with me, stay with me.”
Feebly she raises one pale, skinny arm and extends a finger. Pointing? I follow the finger across the fields, the farms, to the trees and mountains beyond. What is she trying to tell me?
The effort is too much for her and the arm drops, useless. It was the last of her energy and I know it is too late now for her; although I will spend the next twenty minutes trying in vain to restart her heart, I have felt the life leave her, a single rending breath which travels into the cosmos and leaves me crying over her dead body.
And high above, the red moon watches us both.
5
“Holy shit.”
I turn my head to see Ben Taylor standing next to me; I must have missed the sound of his car, his footsteps on the gravel path which leads to the fields.
I’m still sitting in the wet grass, the dead girl’s head cradled in my lap. As if I can still provide comfort to her in some small way.
I remember calling Ben on my cell-phone, knowing how close he was. I have no idea what I said to him.
I remember beating on the poor girl’s chest, going mouth-to-bloody-broken-mouth with her.
I remember screaming, crying, tears of frustration and horror, tears which wracked me to the core.
And all for nothing. She is still dead. This poor unknown girl.
Still dead.
“It’s okay,” Ben says now, edging closer. “EMTs are on their way, guys from the PD.” He stands and looks at us, runs a thick hand through his thinning hair, shakes his head in disbelief.
And then his professionalism takes over and he bends to one knee, checking for a pulse. I already know there won’t be one.
“Shit,” he says again, before placing a hand gently on my shoulder. “Come on, you’ve done enough here. Come on. It’s okay.” He takes the limp form of the girl from me, lays her gently on the ground, pulls me to my feet. I don’t resist. “Come on.”
He pulls me back, and I am still in a daze, but I let him; he’s the Chief of Police, and I’m just in the way.
He kneels again, examining the girl more closely; and although I know I shouldn’t, I edge forward too, really taking her in for the first time.
She’s young like I thought, not yet an adult. Just a girl. Her skin is pale and she has the gaunt look of someone who’s been on the streets for a while.
There are tears in her skin, rough cuts which are finally stopping bleeding. Marks on her wrists, ankles, neck. Ligature marks. She’s been tied up. Strangled.
There are other marks too. Cigarette burns? Bite marks? Maybe both.
Her dark hair is greasy, speckled with dried blood, and it looks like clumps have been torn out from the root.
What the hell happened to her?
Ben’s examination goes lower, but his body blocks out my view of her lower torso. “Ah shit,” he says, and for a second I think he’s going to be sick.
“What is it?” I ask
“Trust me Ms. Hudson, you don’t wanna know.”
He stands, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, turning to me.
“Look, my guys will be here any minute. This place is a crime scene now, we’ll have to get it cordoned off, okay? Then we’ll wait for the State Troopers, they’ll want to bring in their own investigators. These ranches are outside Palmer city limits.”
He looks down at the body, turns back to me. “Why don’t you go inside, get the kettle on? There’s nothing more you can do here.”
I nod my head, turn without thinking; his hand stops me, turns me back.
“You did good. You showed her a friendly face before . . . you know. You couldn’t have done any more.”
I nod my head again and turn to the house, my mind adrift on a sea of guilt and pain.
From the kitchen, I see the flashing lights outside, hear the murmured chat of people. My ranch is a crime scene, the streets of New York supplanted here to the Mat-Su Valley.
I clasp a cup of coffee in my hands, hoping the caffeine will sharpen my mind, bring me out of the dark hole into which I’ve fallen.
“So,” Ben says, seated at the kitchen table, note book open before him, “the girl was alive when you arrived home, is that right?”
I nod my head, take a sip of coffee. Another officer, Rob Kittson I think his name is, leans against the kitchen counter, eyeing the dogs warily. But they’re in their beds, and they’ll stay there unless I tell them to move.
“Yes,” I say eventually. “I came across the fields, back from Artie’s house, came around the side and that’s when
I heard the feet running through the grass. The panting, someone out of breath, struggling.” I close my eyes.
“I know this is hard for you and I’m sorry,” Ben says. “But the ABI won’t get here for another hour or so, and they’ve asked me to do the prelims.” He shrugs, and I know he would rather be anywhere else than here. I don’t blame him.
The Alaska Bureau of Investigation will take the lead on this case, being the department of the State Troopers that deal with major crimes. And this looks like a definite case of kidnap and torture, and possibly murder too. But although we’ve already got the EMTs and the police department from Palmer, it’ll be a while longer before the big guns get here.
I shrug too, showing Ben I understand his position. “When I saw it was a girl, I ran out to her, and she collapsed in my arms. It was all over so quick, I . . . But she pointed.” I take another sip of coffee, nod my head. “Yes, before she . . . before she died, she lifted her arm and pointed.”
“Where did she point?”
“Past the other farms, over to the woods, maybe the mountains,” I say, although I’m not really sure.
Ben turns to Rob Kittson, and the two men exchange looks. “Doug Menders lives –” Rob begins, but he’s cut off instantly by a quick shake of Ben’s head. Rob looks at me and clams up.
“Okay,” Ben continues, “then what happened?”
I sigh. “Then . . . she died.” My shoulders sag, grief hitting me once more as I remember the breath, the life, leaving the young girl. But I refuse to cry until I’ve finished. “I called you from my cell-phone, then tried to resuscitate her with CPR.” I shake my head, fighting back the tears. “But it was no good. I stopped trying just before you arrived, just laid her head in my lap and held her there.” I wipe a tear away; I didn’t quite manage to hold it in after all.
Ben nods, smiles. “Okay Jessica, thanks very much, I think that’s all we need for now. Unless you saw anything else suspicious at all? Anyone walking around who shouldn’t be here? I mean, not just now, but at any time recently? Anything at all?”
Red Moon Rising Page 3