Yes, that’s probably it. A man who never admits to doing wrong would probably take several days to work up to an apology. I bet he doesn’t know anything about the girl.
I take a sip of the coke, a bite of the sandwich, not tasting either; my mind is too busy elsewhere.
Why had De Nares looked surprised when I’d told him Paul called just before I left for the party? Surely Ben must have filled him in on that? But he seemed to think I hadn’t even been at the party.
I sigh. Just another bit of a puzzle I might never piece together.
I look down at my plate, see that it is empty. I pull the cup towards me, see that it’s empty too. I push them away. I see paint peeling from the corner of the walls by the ceiling. From condensation. The sweet, adrenalin-scented sweat of the accused?
I shake the thoughts free. It’s time to get my mind straight, before De Nares gets back.
What do I know? I go through the facts as I understand them: my memories of Saturday night; waking up back on Thursday morning, driving to the precinct – this precinct – and asking about the case; realizing that the case wasn’t even open yet, the event hadn’t even happened, it was several days prior to Saturday night; taking the pills, the gin, waking up back here on Sunday morning, this morning. Not waking up at my house. Waking up here, at the police precinct, charged with aiding and abetting a homicide. Because of what I’d said on Thursday. The ramification was clear.
What I did on Thursday – my second Thursday – has altered reality. Things didn’t happen last night like they did the first time. So what did happen last night?
The door opens, the three cops march in.
It’s time to find out.
I decide to take charge and start asking questions of my own as soon as De Nares flicks on the recorder. I’m betting that they’ll let me; interviewers always like interviewees to talk. They might say something incriminating.
“My memory of last night is a blur,” I say. “It was a horrible night. I’m . . . confused. Did I go to the party at Artie’s house?”
I can see the suspicion in De Nares’ eyes. I know what he’s thinking; he’s thinking that I’m already trying to appear as if I’m not all there, in preparation for a future insanity plea should this ever see the inside of a courtroom. But I just want to know what happened.
“No,” De Nares says eventually. “You did not. Which is why I questioned you earlier when you mentioned leaving for the party. If you did, you never got there. According to your statement last night –” De Nares breaks off, pulls a sheet of paper from a file next to him and starts to read – “I was woken by my dogs growling. I moved to the kitchen and grabbed my gun – I’m still scared about things after what happened back in New York, you understand – and started looking out of the windows. Then there was a weak knocking on the door, and I opened it, gun raised, and saw the young girl lying there on the porch.” He looks up from the paper. “You then claim to have pulled her inside, where she subsequently died. You then called Chief Taylor, who came directly from the party. Does any of this sound familiar?”
I shrug my shoulders. It does and it doesn’t. It’s not the same as I remember, but close enough. I try and think. If I was disturbed about what I thought was going to happen, perhaps I decided not to go to the party. Perhaps I thought I was going crazy, couldn’t face other people? The trouble is, I don’t know; it was me, but at the same time, it wasn’t.
“According to Chief Taylor, last Thursday, before he clicked on the recorder to take your statement-slash-confession, you claimed to have attended the party. He says you spoke about the events of Saturday night as if they’d already happened. Would you care to comment on this?”
I can tell that this element of the case confuses him, and he is genuinely interested in what I have to say. But again, I think I can guess what he suspects – it’s all part of my pre-planned insanity defense.
I wonder what to say, decide quickly. To hell with it. I’ll tell them the truth, at least as I understand it. Put it out there, see what they make of it.
“Do you believe in premonitions?” I ask as my opening gambit.
“No,” De Nares says. “But please carry on.”
“It’s the only way I can explain any of it. I woke up on Thursday morning, convinced that it was Sunday, that I’d gone to the party on Saturday night, walked home and seen a girl running across the fields of my farm. The dream, the vision – whatever you want to call it – was so vivid that I was sure it must be true.
“That’s why I turned up here on Thursday thinking it was Sunday, why I asked what was happening with the investigation. When Chief Taylor told me what day it was, how the party hadn’t even happened yet, I freaked out. Who wouldn’t? So I didn’t go to the party, maybe trying to change my vision, but the girl staggered onto my farm anyway.
“So you see, if you think about it, it must have been a premonition. What else could it be? I don’t even believe in that sort of thing myself, but what physical evidence do you have? You must have searched my home by now, and I know you won’t have found anything. All you have is a statement I gave on Thursday about an event I thought had already happened. I don’t think it would stand up in court.”
I purposefully don’t mention the fact that I have no recollection of the new pattern of events between Thursday and Sunday. I reflect on the most obvious, yet utterly impossible scenario – that I’ve somehow moved through time, my days muddled, my actions affecting the outcome of each new day – and decide that staying with the premonition is my safest bet. There is a plethora of cases which deal with suspected psychic premonitions, it is one of those strange things regarded as being unlikely but “possible”. Time travel, on the other hand? I don’t think I could sell it; I don’t even believe it myself.
“I have another opinion on this,” De Nares says in his smooth, even voice. “One that doesn’t involve a belief in the supernatural.” He smiles at me, but it is the false smile of a predator. “I think you had prior knowledge of this crime. Either you were directly involved in the kidnap and torture of the girl, or whoever was, confided in you. Both possibilities mean that you know who else was involved. Perhaps it was your ex-fiancée, mysteriously here in Alaska. Maybe it’s some weird kind of game you two play. Maybe he kidnapped the girl, raped her in front of you as a warning, a message – ‘come back to me or this is what will happen to you’, that sort of thing. Or maybe it was other people entirely, and Paul Southland’s presence here is just a coincidence.
“The bottom line is that your statement on Thursday shows prior knowledge of an event which led to the death of a young woman. We have it on record.” He smirks. “You were a prosecutor yourself, Ms. Hudson. What would you have made of a ‘psychic premonition’ defense? You’d have been over the moon, knowing that no jury in the country, no jury in the world, would ever buy such complete nonsense.”
He’s right, of course. But I don’t need to convince a jury; not yet at any rate. First things first, as always; I just need to convince someone in this room.
“But if I was involved in what happened to this girl, why would I have made that statement on Thursday? What would I have been trying to achieve? If I wanted to confess, why wouldn’t I have just confessed? If I wanted to warn you, save the girl, why wouldn’t I have just told you where to find her? Why this elaborate deception, to try and make it appear that I thought Thursday was Sunday?”
De Nares shrugs his slim shoulders. “I admit, I don’t know. My initial feeling is that it’s part of some sick game. You get yourself involved in the investigation, it gives you some feeling of control, of power. You’re laughing at us.” He sits back in his chair, dark eyes level with my own. “A girl gets kidnapped, raped, tortured, killed; you know who it is, maybe even got involved yourself; and you’re sitting there laughing at us.” The disgust was back in his voice, barely disguised.
“I know it sounds unbelievable,” I say, trying to keep myself calm in the face of De Nares’ brutal accus
ations. “Have you spoken to Arthur Jenkins?” I ask next, a thought occurring to me.
De Nares nods briefly. “Yes, we’ve spoken to everyone at the party.”
“Okay. Did he tell you that I called him on Thursday? After I came here, after I realized it was only Thursday, I wanted to know if I was going crazy, or if there was something else going on. I called Artie, asked about his brother. In my dream, or vision, his brother Pat had a beard. He looked like Artie, but with a beard. And so I called and asked him. He said no, Pat had never had a beard. I felt bad, like I was losing it; but then later on, Artie called back, he’d picked his brother up from the airport and he did have a beard.” I level my own gaze back at De Nares. “How would I have known that? His own brother didn’t know.”
“Mr. Jenkins did share that with us, yes. And we are investigating the fact that you and Patrick Jenkins were previously acquainted. He has certain priors which make him of interest to this investigation.”
What? I realize that now they’re tying me to Pat, insinuating that he too had something to do with it. My actions on Thursday have incriminated myself and Patrick Jenkins, it seems. I wonder what prior convictions he has against him. I think back to the party, remember how he tried to get a young girl to drink. What was his motivation? Was it sexual? To get her drunk, take advantage of her? Was he involved in what happened to the girl on my farm? I think of another avenue to pursue.
“Last Thursday, I told Chief Taylor that Pat had been involved in some trouble at the party, something to do with giving drink to an underage girl, it caused a scene with Pat, Artie and the girl’s parents. I’d seen the chief get involved, break it up.” I turn to Ben, hiding away in the corner. “Did that happen?” I ask him directly.
“Yes,” he says, nodding his head slowly. It was the first thing I’d heard him say all day. I see De Nares turning around, annoyed that Ben was answering the question. Ben saw the captain’s look. Ignored it. “I thought it was weird when it happened. I remember someone telling me that Pat had been seen pouring some brandy from a hip flask into a girl’s orange juice. I instantly thought of you.” He looks at me with a combination of curiosity and fear. I think a part of him believes me. “You knew,” he says, shaking his head. “You knew what would happen. I remember, I wondered what else would happen. I wondered if you were right about the girl.” He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable voicing these thoughts in front of De Nares and Michaels. “I wasn’t surprised when you called me later. I think I already knew you would.” His voice is unsure, but his eyes say it all. He believes me. Or at least he is open to the idea that all is not as it seems.
De Nares ignores Ben’s words of support, choosing to interpret them in a different way. “This is just further evidence that you had prior contact with Patrick Jenkins. It seems that the whole thing was pre-planned; your statement on Thursday, your call to Arthur Jenkins, Patrick Jenkins then spiking that girl’s drink, just as you’d ‘predicted’. It’s just another nail in your coffin, don’t you see?”
Ben is sitting back, silent once more. No matter what he believes, what his gut tells him, this is not his investigation.
“It is entirely circumstantial,” I say eventually. “There’s absolutely no evidence to link me to Pat Jenkins or the girl.”
De Nares just smiles at me, unperturbed by this absence. “Not yet,” he says with total confidence. “But the evidence is there somewhere Ms. Hudson, and I’m going to find it. You can count on it.”
3
It is later in the day, and I’m back on the couch in Ben’s office. The same doctor I saw on Thursday is sitting across from me, peering at me through a pair of thick spectacles. I wonder if she needs them, or if they’re just for show. I still can’t remember her name.
De Nares’ questioning had continued for the next couple of hours, but it was the same thing over and over again. Pretty soon even he realized we weren’t getting anywhere.
It was then that I’d realized that I’d been sitting there all morning answering questions without a lawyer, which proves I’m not myself. What was I thinking? When I mentioned this, De Nares told me I’d waived my right to a lawyer the night before. Apparently, I’d been happy to answer questions with no legal counsel present. I didn’t believe him, but he’d shown me the paperwork and – sure enough – it had my signature on it.
But that was then, and this is now; I immediately pulled the plug on the interview, and had been escorted back to my cell. It was Ben who’d suggested having another chat with the doctor, and I’d agreed; after all, it can’t do any harm. She can’t reveal what we speak about without my permission. And it would also take my mind off thinking about who I want to represent me. Logic screams at me to call my father, but I’m doing my best to ignore that logic at the moment.
“So what do you think is going on?” the doctor asks me.
I shake my head. “I honestly don’t know. You said the other day it might be related to the gunshot wound. Do you still think so?”
She shifted in her seat. “I don’t know. We need to have a more detailed look at you, to be honest. I believe the ABI is looking at Thursday’s statement as a confession of sorts, and this would certainly be the easier story to believe.” She smiles weakly. “I’m sorry.”
I persist. “But is the other thing, the alternative, is it possible?”
“If you’re asking me if the damage to your brain has resulted in your developing what can only be described as some sort of psychic ability, I don’t know. I will admit, there have been cases made for the same thing, but nothing has ever been verified. It’s a fantastical claim, isn’t it? But on the other hand, what we know about the brain is . . . limited, at best. We think we know a great deal, and of course, we know a lot more now than we ever did before, but I fear we’ve yet to scratch the surface. Anything is possible, Ms. Hudson.” She clears her throat. “But the balance of probability suggests that you had prior knowledge of the event, and that’s the bottom line.”
“That’s the bottom line,” I repeat pointlessly. I know she’s right. Nobody’s going to care about some out-there theory about psychic powers or time travel. Are such things possible? The best that can be said for them is that they can’t be ruled out; they can’t yet be dis-proven. But that’s a long way from a water-tight defense, and I know it.
So who will I get to defend me? My father is the best I know, but this isn’t really his thing. What I need is someone experienced in cases which deal predominantly with the psychological aspects of the defendant. But then again, with my father, it might not even get that far; he’s an expert at finding fault with the prosecution’s case. Most of his defendants don’t even see the inside of a courtroom. And yet I don’t trust him.
I settle back into the leather couch, my mind roaming; I can feel the doctor’s eyes on me, but I do not engage her in my thoughts. I know what I will do; I’ll speak to people in my old office, get a recommendation. I wonder for a moment who Paul’s going to get to represent him? Maybe he’ll hire my father.
There is a knock on the door. The doctor looks at me, and I nod my head. “Come in,” she says.
Captain De Nares pokes his head through the door, a smile barely disguised on his handsome features. “Have you decided on your legal representation yet?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m going to have to make some phone calls.”
“Well, you’ll have to make them from Wildwood.”
“Wildwood?” I ask.
De Nares nods, his smile widening. “Wildwood Pre-Trial Facility, Wildwood Correctional Complex. Nice little place on the Kenai Peninsula. I sent some of the case materials through to a judge this morning, seeing as you waived your right to legal counsel. He signed a warrant to have you moved to a more secure facility, confirming the charge of aiding and abetting a homicide.”
I am too stunned to speak. I’m going to prison?
“I understand that you now wish to have a lawyer, and that’s fine. But you’ll have to arrange
it all once you get to Wildwood, I’m afraid. Prison transport will be here to pick you up within the hour.”
His smile breaks into a grin now; a grin that tells me my life will soon be over.
I sit in my cell in Palmer Police Precinct, pondering my immediate future.
Prison transport will pick me up in twenty minutes, and then I’m in the system, trapped. A judge will set bail, and they’ll look at my assets and set a high price on my freedom. Too much? My father could probably pay it, but I’m not going to ask him for any favors.
So there I’ll be, a prisoner in Wildwood. I’ll get someone good to represent me, that’s a given. But what then?
I shake my head, place it heavily in my hands. I just don’t know.
A pain races through my heart, a sudden jolt of adrenaline as a realization hits me.
If they find who really killed the girl, they’ll see I’m not connected to it. Yes, that’s it. They need to find out who’s really involved.
Names race through my head; Patrick Jenkins, Paul Southland, Arthur Jenkins. The name mentioned by Ben’s deputy last night – Doug Menders? All are avenues to explore, and I hope that De Nares and his team are doing so. But I know De Nares already has me, and he believes I will lead him to the others involved. I wonder if this will make him lose focus, concentrate on questioning me when he should be actively looking for someone else.
The pain in my heart hits me again, and I know that I need to find out who killed the girl. I can’t rely on anyone else; I need to do it myself.
And yet how can I? I will soon be trapped, unable to escape, locked in a steel and concrete box while I wait for my day in court.
But I also know it doesn’t have to be that way. Instinctively, I know there is another way. Where this certainty comes from I have no idea, but the idea forces itself upon me with heart-rending surety.
Red Moon Rising Page 7