I break down what I think has happened, clear to me for the first time.
I see a girl die in my arms. I go to sleep, and wake up on another day, a day from the past. I make a statement to the police, I think I’m going crazy, a doctor gives me pills. I go to sleep, and when I wake up, time has been rearranged once more.
I sleep, and time changes.
Does it sound crazy? Of course it does. And yet – unless I am crazy, and I’m hallucinating the whole thing, and I simply can’t accept that – this is clearly what is happening.
Why it’s happening, I have no idea. Is it linked to the gunshot wound to my brain? Is it linked to the horrifying experience of the girl dying in my arms? Is it something to do with the red moon, the one I saw that night, but no one else did? The red moon which stirs memories in me, which rise to the surface only to be dashed beneath the waves of consciousness?
But whatever is happening, and for what reason, one thing is clear to me at last; if I sleep, I might slip through time again, wake on another day. Which day? I don’t know; I don’t know how it works, or even if it will work.
Ten minutes left. Can I get to sleep in ten minutes, my mind on fire with its thoughts? But I must. I don’t want to go to Wildwood. I don’t. I’m not sure what it will do to my mind. Right here, right now, I feel I’ve got a chance. I don’t trust my mind to cope if I’m in prison.
I lay back on my metal cot, close my eyes.
I see the girl, face bloated, blood oozing from the corners of her eyes; I see my father in court, shouting, arguing, pointing, winning; Paul bent over a dead body, blood dripping from vampire teeth; a masked gunman, rifle exploding towards my face; the tears of a small girl, her dreams ripped from her; the screams of my brother as he throws himself from his apartment window, falling to his death; the hideous glow of the red moon watching it all.
A bang on the cell door breaks my reverie completely, and I sag, hopeless. So close. So close.
The door opens and De Nares comes in, accompanied by two armed prison guards. “It’s time,” he says pleasantly, as if he’s picking me up for a date.
The guards approach me, handcuffs out. “Hands please, ma’am,” one of them says, and I know this is it. My last chance.
I raise my hands as the men approach. I smile, watch as they relax slightly.
And then I turn and run, run straight for the wall on my right, head down.
My head connects hard with the concrete and I see stars, my vision swimming, everything around me a blur.
There is one second of final consciousness as I fall backwards, look up at the ceiling.
And then I am gone.
DAY FOUR
1
Jack smiles at me, and I smile back.
His handsome face changes before me, the fullness of youth bleeding out of him; I see him in his black leather jacket, studs in his nose and eyebrows, older now. I see him in jail, my father there also, spit flying out of his mouth as he shouts violently at my brother, shaking him by the shoulders, their faces just inches apart.
The flesh on Jack’s face wastes away further, leaving him gaunt, a pasty skull atop skinny shoulders. We are in a dingy apartment and the jacket is off now, his t-shirt sleeve hitched up, his teeth pulling tight on the cord around his bicep. I see the relief in his eyes as the needle enters his scarred upper arm, the pain leaving him in an instant as he presses the plunger.
I hear a noise outside and open the door to see Beauty running down the corridor towards us, galloping, his muscles rippling. I back away but he crashes through the door and rears up in front of us. I hold Jack in my arms while Beauty’s hooves hover above us, threatening to crush us. Then he lets out a feral shriek, and I see his eyes for the first time, blood-red and fear-crazed. His hooves crash down in front of us, blood-spittle flying from his mouth, teeth sharp and deadly, coated in foamy blood. He shakes his head and the blood is cast loose, spraying the dark walls from one side of the apartment to the other.
I pull Jack’s head into my shoulder, protecting him, but then he wakes and I feel his body jerking. He cries out in blind panic, pulling away from me, and then he’s gone, running the other way.
I reach out after him but he’s too fast, he’s at the window already.
He doesn’t stop, but just keeps on going, right through the glass. The window shatters and Jack disappears into the night beyond.
I race to the window, see Jack below, his eyes looking up at me as he falls, his arms extended. I reach out for him, but he’s gone too far already. It’s so far down I hardly see him hit the sidewalk; I just see the halo of blood around his body, highlighted by the sodium glow of half-broken streetlights.
I turn back inside the apartment, but Beauty is gone. I turn back to the street, and Jack is gone also.
I look up at the sky, and watch as a red moon rises above the horizon. I watch that moon, and realize that it is watching me right back. I feel it as it watches us all, seeing everything, knowing everything.
Hopeless, all I can do is fall to my knees and cry.
Half asleep, I think about the dream.
I never saw Jack the day he died, was never in the apartment, and yet for years I’ve dreamt that I was there, unable to stop him, unable to help him. I know it’s suppressed guilt. He was troubled, he was involved with bad people, into drugs, I could see it was taking its toll on him, he was losing control, and yet I never said anything, never did anything.
But I’ve never seen Beauty there before, never seen the red moon. I wonder what it means.
I sense movement next to me, and my eyes open, fully awake in an instant.
And I gasp as I realize I am in bed with a man.
A naked man.
His back is to me, wide and muscular. I have no idea who it is. Slowly, my hands search my own body, and I feel that I am naked too. I can smell the sweat on both of us, sickly sweet.
Unwilling to move, my eyes scan the room. It is still dark, and I wait for my eyes to adjust. Slowly – so painfully slowly – I start to be able to make out the basics.
We are in a king-size bed in the middle of a small bedroom, a door directly opposite. There is one night-stand, on his side of the bed. No pictures of a wife or family. A digital alarm clock which tells me the time is just after six in the morning; a shame it doesn’t tell me the date. One old wooden wardrobe in the corner, a half-open chest of drawers, socks sticking out at odd angles.
A part of me breathes a sigh of relief. Whoever I’m in bed with, at least he’s probably single. My eyes keep roaming, but I see nothing else.
I concentrate on my breathing, trying to get my heart-rate down. Who the hell have I slept with?
The good news, I suppose, is that I’m evidently not in Wildwood. Not unless Alaskan prisons are very liberal, at any rate. Which means that my theory must be correct – I go to sleep, I go through time.
Unless you’re just crazy.
I ignore the little voice in my head, however much sense it makes, and begin to formulate my strategy.
Even more important than finding out who I’m in bed with, I need to find out what the date is. Have I travelled forward or backward? Has the girl died yet? Have I been arrested yet? Have I been to the police precinct to make my statement/confession yet?
I roll over in the bed, away from the strange man, and look down on the floor. Yes. My clothes. Slowly, carefully, I reach down to them, feeling around for the hard shape of my phone. I find it, pull it out and flick the screen on.
It’s Thursday. I’m back on Thursday again? I check the exact date, and see that it’s not the same Thursday. Instead, it’s October 16th, four days after my visit to the cells of Palmer Police Department, five days since the girl died at my house. I wonder, helplessly, what’s happened during those days.
I decide to become pro-active and slide my naked body out from under the sheets, gather up my things from the floor and head for the bedroom door.
As I creep across the unpainted floorboards, my ey
e catches something on top of the drawers, and my head turns to get a better look.
I stifle a cry as I realize what it is.
A gun.
My heart leaps up to my mouth, but then I notice something else lying next to it.
A badge.
It is a golden shield, held fast to a black leather wallet.
I hear movement behind me, and turn to see the naked man turn over in his sleep, closed eyes looking sightlessly up towards the bedroom ceiling. I gasp in surprise.
The man is Ben Taylor, Chief of Police.
2
The bathroom is mercifully easy to find, directly across the small hall from Ben’s bedroom, and I slip inside, lock the door behind me, and hit the lights. I saw stairs off to one side of the hall, so I guess I’m in a house rather than an apartment. I wonder if he lives alone, or if he shares with anyone.
I get changed quickly, nervous about exposing my body in this strange place. Pants on, I sigh with relief as I button my blouse. I feel protected.
I turn to the mirror and look at myself. As if the headache and booze-smell didn’t already give the game away, my face tells the tale that I had too much to drink last night. Bags under my eyes, hair wild. I see I have make-up on, wonder why. Did Ben and I go out on a date?
I look closer. Even though I’ve slept in it, it’s not run too much. Amazingly, it doesn’t look too bad. I don’t look too bad, all things considered.
But what the hell am I doing here? What’s been happening the last few days? Am I seeing Ben Taylor now? Or was it a one-off, something we should try and forget?
I realize that it’s going to be difficult to find out without my sanity being called into question. The fact that I’m not in a psychiatric ward after knocking myself out on the cell wall indicates that I’m being perceived as sane, at least for the time being, and I don’t want to jeopardize that by asking too many strange questions about things I should already know the answer to.
But I’m also not in prison; not in Palmer, Wildwood, or anywhere else. Which might mean that they’ve already caught whoever did it, or else at least have further evidence which has cleared me. Or else it means that my bail has been posted, which might also therefore mean that my father has become involved.
The fact that I’m in Ben’s house hopefully indicates that I’ve been completely exonerated though. Would the Chief of Police take home a woman who’s out on bail for aiding and abetting a homicide just outside his city limits? It seems unlikely.
I want to have a shower, but decide against it; I don’t want to use the towels. It’s strange, but I have no idea what my relationship is to the man in the next room. I’ve never been the type to go out, get drunk and wake up next to a stranger. It’s just not me. Even when I was younger, rebelling against my father, the guys I slept with were all boyfriends. Bad, inappropriate boyfriends perhaps, but boyfriends nevertheless. This experience is entirely new to me, and I don’t really know how to handle it.
I look at the toiletries on the sink and around the shower though. Just one of everything; one toothbrush, one tube of toothpaste, one soap, one shampoo, one shower gel, one razor. So at least he lives alone, and I’m unlikely to run into anyone else; I have to take small comforts where I can.
I turn back to myself. The clothes I’m wearing are nice; I might be wearing jeans, but they’re my best jeans, and the blouse is a Chanel. It’s as if I’ve dressed up for something low-key but special. Did I? Do I like Ben Taylor? It pains me, but I just don’t know.
I think about the choice of clothes, wondering what they mean. I’m not wearing a dress, so I know we weren’t at the theater, or dining out at a fancy restaurant. Jeans and a top. Almost casual, and yet I selected the best I’ve got in that department. I know how my mind works. I will have arranged to meet Ben, or he will have asked to meet me, to informally discuss some aspect of the case. I dressed up in an understated way, presumably because I was (am?) attracted to him, and wanted him to notice me as something more than a suspect. It obviously worked.
Unless I was trying to get information from him, and wore something nice to encourage him? Perhaps then drank a bit too much, and one thing led to another?
A sickening feeling hits me as I wonder if he drugged me. How would I know? But he’s the police chief, and I can’t believe he’d do that. He seems like an honest, good man. But then again, he’s been through an acrimonious divorce, so presumably can’t be entirely perfect. Although perhaps that’s unfair; my fiancée broke up with me, and that was hardly my fault.
But you never can tell about people, my years in the courts taught me that much at least. What if Ben is the killer?
I shake my head, clearing it. No, I tell myself clearly, no. That’s paranoia talking.
On the other hand though, paranoia is probably reasonable given my situation.
A thought occurs to me, and I fish my phone out of my pocket. Flicking it on, I check the call log.
Apparently I’ve been busy the last few days. There are several numbers I don’t recognize, as well as some that I do. AER Headquarters. My own home number (whoever’s looking after my horses?). My father’s cell phone, mom’s cell phone, and their home number back in Boston. The New York DA’s office. And two other numbers – Ben Taylor (Cell) and Ben Taylor (Home). The first call came on Tuesday morning.
There are two interesting things about this, I think as I start to try and deduce what has been going on. The first is that I didn’t have either of Ben Taylor’s numbers on my phone prior to Sunday, at least as far as I remember. The second is that I’ve entered his first name and surname, something I normally do if it’s for a formal relationship. Friends I normally just put in as a first name. I wonder if this confirms my previous suspicion that we were originally meeting up to discuss the case, or in some sort of other, non-dating capacity.
On the other hand, it might just be because Ben is a common name and I’ve already got one or two in the phone book.
I groan inwardly. Damn, this is impossible! I’m trying to piece together the events of four whole days from my choice of clothes and a call list.
I access my text messages in the hope that I’ll find something else.
Again, there are a lot, and I trawl through them. Most are from friends asking after me, and my replies reveal some useful information. In fact, a picture gradually begins to emerge.
It seems that most people don’t know why I was arrested, and now appreciate that it was some sort of mistake anyway. It also becomes apparent that my father has become involved, getting the charges dropped due to lack of evidence. There are a couple of texts from him, wanting to meet up, presumably after he’d already negotiated my release. I haven’t replied, and I wonder if I have met up with him, if he’s still here in Alaska, or if he’s already flown back to Boston. I wonder if Mom came with him. There are no messages from her; but then again, I might have spoken to her instead.
There’s no news in the texts about Paul, and I wonder what’s happened to him. Was he arrested, and if so, is he still in custody, or has he been released too? And if so, where is he now? It’s strange that there are no calls or messages from him. Does this mean he’s locked up, unable to use his phone? Or have I just deleted anything he might have sent me?
It also looks like Amy is staying in my house now, a semi-permanent guest whilst I sort things out. I hope I haven’t been too unpleasant to live with.
The messages between me and Ben are fairly low-key and innocuous – “You still ok for tonight?” – “Yes” – “Okay, see you at seven” – and don’t give me much to work with. There are no declarations of undying love, at least.
I note that this seven o’clock tryst was being arranged for Tuesday night, so at least I had the good grace to get a second date out of the man before I slept with him. I hope. There were calls, but no messages from yesterday.
I search for a Wi-Fi connection, but can’t find one; just my luck. I won’t be able to find out if there’s been anything on th
e news yet.
I run a little water, splash it on my face, turn off the light and open the door.
It’s time to see if there’s anything to find in his house which might help me get a grasp on what the hell is going on.
3
I creep slowly down the stairs, careful to test each step for creaks. The floorboards are bare throughout the house, which seems old enough to have plenty of noise hardwired into it by the years.
In the dark, I put one hand on the rail and one on the wall to guide myself. There were three other doors upstairs, but I don’t want to go rummaging around so close to Ben. At least when I make it downstairs and turn the lights on, I’ll be able to relax a little.
The stairs lead straight down into the living room. I wonder whether the light will travel up the stairs to Ben’s bedroom, but decide it’s worth the risk – his door is closed, and it’s further down the hall anyway. I fumble for a light switch, and when the place is lit I see the living area is open plan, an archway leading to a dining area and kitchen beyond.
The place isn’t massive, but it’s homely and comfortable. There’s a beaten-up sofa to one side, a leather recliner having pride of place in front of the big-screen TV. I’d bet it has a beer cooler under the armrests; bachelor’s paradise.
The floorboards are bare down here too, but in the light I can see why; it’s oak hardwood, very pretty. There’s a rug under the recliner and the coffee table next to it, and I guess it’s to keep Ben’s feet warm for those long nights in front of the TV, watching the game. I wonder if friends come around to join him. I hope so.
The dining table through the arch is nice, a family heirloom perhaps. It looks old, but barely used. I see the kitchen beyond, stains on the breakfast bar indicating this is where Ben does most of his eating. There and the recliner, anyway.
I notice a dark shape in the corner of the dining area, and turn to examine it. An upright piano, cheap but serviceable, its stool worn and well-used. Surprised, and immediately hating myself for that, I stroll over, looking at the sheets on the music rack. I see Chopin’s Scherzos No. 2 Opera 31 pushed to one side, the Duke Ellington Orchestra’s Take the “A” Train lying victoriously atop it. With a twang of guilt, I check the box next to the piano, seeing a mix of classical and jazz pieces. I sense the classical is how he was trained, and how he feels he needs to practice, but his heart is pure jazz.
Red Moon Rising Page 8