Red Moon Rising

by J. T. Brannan

  And then I see something else in the elk’s eyes, something deeper, something hidden away, buried far beyond where I can see . . . and yet I do see.

  A burning red moon, imprinted on the black pinprick in the sea of brown, a burning red moon in each eye that taunts me, that threatens me, that is forever watching me . . . a red moon that will never leave me, and I know that the feeling of being watched isn’t the killers, waiting for me in the trees, it is this same red moon, the red moon that watched as Lynette died in my arms, the red moon that stalks my every moment, chasing me, pushing me, challenging me to . . .

  Yes.

  To solve the crime.

  And then the spell between us is broken and the elk turns and runs back for the trees, snow churning up behind it from its stamping hooves.

  11

  I don’t know how long I’ve been walking for, but the hazy sun is low in the sky now and my body is exhausted. I cannot even remember much of what happened up there, my freezing journey down through the deep snow and ice of the thickly forested slopes. It all seems like a dream.

  Out of the woods – even though I am now much further away – I can hear the sirens wailing up at the top of the mountain, outside Menders’ cabin. Within the huge walls of trees, enclosed within the forested slopes, I could hear nothing except the wind; the experience had been unnerving, at least until I’d seen that giant elk.

  But had I really seen it?

  I just don’t know; it could have been a figment of my imagination. Maybe the cold, the wind, the driving snow, the fear, all combined to make me hallucinate back up there. After all, did such animals normally appear so close to humans? And that wasn’t even to mention the twin red moons that shone within its eyes.

  I am pretty sure that – even if the elk was real – I must have imagined those.

  But what does that say about me? What does it say about this whole thing?

  Am I just imagining everything?

  It had all seemed so clear back in the woods, staring into the eyes of that magnificent animal.

  But what I fear is the real answer taunts me from the edges of my consciousness.

  You’re crazy.

  You’ve imagined it all, including the murder, including the party, you’ve imagined everything.

  Or else I’m dreaming it all, asleep in Mount Sinai, still not awake from the gunshot wounds.

  Or maybe I’m already dead? Like the kid in that movie with Bruce Willis, he’s dead and he doesn’t even realize. Is that what I am?

  Am I a ghost? Am I –

  “Jessica?”

  The sound hits me like a rifle shot, startling me. I turn, and see Pat Jenkins leaning against a fencepost, whisky bottle in a gloved hand, smiling crookedly at me. He’s in one of his brother’s fields, although at first glance I cannot see why.

  But he is drunk, I can see that immediately.

  “Pat,” I manage, not knowing what else to say; our last meeting didn’t exactly go too well.

  If it ever happened at all, an unwelcome voice in my brain fires back.

  “Jessica?” he asks again, and I can smell the whisky on his breath even from the other side of the fence, several feet away. His beard – previously so neatly trimmed – has been allowed to grow, and I get the sense that it has probably been a while since he last had a shower too. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Going for a walk,” I answer immediately, without skipping a beat.

  Pat looks around him, eyes quizzical, and I can see that he’s wondering – even in his whisky-addled state – where I’ve been walking.

  “Hiking in the woods,” I add, hoping to forestall any more questions.

  He takes another swig of the whisky, looks thoughtfully at the nearby trees, then gives a low whistle. “Shit,” he says, “you believe in playing with fire, I guess. Don’t you know there’s a killer out here?”

  My body gives an involuntary shiver as I remember the fact that Pat was seen trying to spike the drink of an underage girl at that party

  (the party which never happened)

  even though he has a wife and kids back home, and that Pat is also one of the suspects in the death of Lynette Hyams.

  Does De Nares have a good reason to suspect him?

  Do I?

  I recall how he had approached me at that party

  (it did happen!)

  and how uncomfortable he’d made me feel, how awkward; how grateful I’d been when Larraine had rescued me. Maybe I’d misjudged him, but now I’m not so sure; I’m not so sure at all.

  And then I realize that – in this reality, at least according to De Nares – I didn’t attend the party at all. So how the hell does Pat Jenkins know who I am?

  “How did you recognize me?” I ask him, better late than never.

  “Photo in the papers,” he answers easily. “And who the hell else is gonna be walking around here, anyway? That’s your house over there, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say in agreement.

  “Well,” he says, lip curled, “aren’t you gonna ask who I am?”

  Damn, I should have asked earlier – but earlier, I’d forgotten that we’d not met. “I don’t have to ask,” I say confidently – more confidently than I feel. “You’re Patrick Jenkins. You look just like your brother, whose field you’re standing in. And who the hell else is going to be stood in Artie’s field, looking like him?”

  The curled lip turns into a smile, of sorts. “I guess you’re right,” he says

  But what the hell is he doing out here in the fields, dressed in a heavy parka, gloves and hat, leaning on a fencepost and drinking whisky?

  Who does that in a snowstorm?

  Reflexively, my hand touches the gun, which is now back in my coat pocket, and I feel very slightly reassured by its presence.

  “Sirens,” he slurs, answering my question before I’ve asked it, pointing up the hill. I turn, see the reflection of the blue flashing lights high up, far away, and realize he’s come out here to investigate.

  And that concerns me – what if he links me coming out of the woods with what happened up at the cabin? It’ll be on the news soon enough, and I hate to think what he’ll do with the information.

  Act innocent, I tell myself.

  Act normally.

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding, “kind of crazy, huh? I couldn’t hear any of it when I was in the woods, trees must have blocked it all out. How long’s it been going on for?”

  He regards me coolly for several moments, and – reluctantly – I meet his gaze until he turns away and shrugs. “A few hours now, I guess,” he mumbles, before taking another swig from the bottle. “Came out here to check it out in the end. Fucking cold though, should have stayed where I was.”

  “What do you think’s going on up there?”

  Pat shrugs, eyes drooping. “Hell should I know?” he mumbles, then seems to perk up a little before continuing. “But my brother reckons there’s some crazy old pervert lives up there, a fuckin’ sex monster, you know?” He spits on the floor, on his own side of the fence. “There’s a convicted fuckin’ sex killer up there,” he says, angry now, “and those sonsofbitches arrest me! I’m just here visiting Artie, and I get dragged into this whole fuckin’ mess.”

  He shakes his head, drinks from the bottle, and turns his eyes like a hawk up toward the faint lights flashing away up the hill, before shifting them back to me.

  “Arrested you too, huh?” he asks. “Before Daddy came to the rescue,” he adds scornfully.

  “I didn’t ask him to,” I say, before I can stop myself, the words an instinctive response to such accusations; I know it’s pointless defending myself, but I’ve had a lifetime of people accusing me of having it easy, of “Daddy” helping me out at every turn. No matter what I do, it’s hard to get out from under his shadow, even now.

  “Uh huh,” he says doubtfully, and I find myself hating him even more. He shakes his head. “I still don’t really get what happened.”

  “Me nei
ther,” I agree, meaning it. I mean, I really don’t know what happened; I might not even really know what’s happening right now.

  “No,” he slurs, “no, I mean I don’t understand how you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “How you knew.” His eyes bore into mine, accusation flaring within them. “You knew about that girl before you ‘found’ her.”

  “And who told you that?” I ask, surprised that he knew the reason for my arrest; I didn’t think it would be public knowledge. But Palmer is a small place, and people talk; I suppose rumors were bound to surface, sooner or later.

  Pat shrugs again. “It’s the word around the campfire,” he says, still leaning his weight heavily against the fencepost. “Is it true?”

  I don’t know what to do, what to say. How can I possibly explain it?

  Yes, I knew that she was going to die because I’d already seen it, I’d already been there, she’d already died in my arms.

  I went to the police because I didn’t even know what day it was, I didn’t know that the murder hadn’t even happened yet.

  I’m traveling through time as we speak; I have no idea what day it will be tomorrow. Will it be the day of the murder again? Before? After?

  But we’re all traveling through time, I tell myself; it’s just that most people are traveling forward.

  Which direction I’m traveling in, is anyone’s guess.

  “That’s none of your business,” I say at last, wanting to cut the conversation off. “You of all people should know better than to listen to rumors.”

  The best form of defense is, so I’m told, to attack; it seems like as good an idea as any.

  “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Pat asks, levering his body off the fencepost at last, eyes fierce.

  Why am I upsetting this man?

  I finger the gun in my pocket once more, made nervous by his proximity. There’s a fence between us, but it isn’t much.

  “There are rumors about you too,” I say, before I am able to stop myself. “Spiking drinks. Things in Seattle.” I’m fishing with the second claim, but I know the ABI must have had some reason to push him up their suspect list.

  “What things?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.

  I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t listen to rumors.”

  He continues to stare at me, then grins his crooked grin. “Touché,” he says. “Touché.” He sniffs hard, rolls phlegm into the back of his throat then hawks it out onto the snow. I watch in disgust as it melts through the upper crust and disappears. “Anyway, I’ve heard what I’ve heard, there ain’t any un-hearing it. You went in to the Palmer PD and asked about that girl, several days before she died. Then when the body was found – on your property – you were arrested for aiding and abetting a homicide, am I right?”

  “I’ve already told you,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite my rising anger, “that’s really none of your business.”

  “Oh really?” he asks, the venom back in his voice, in his eyes. “Well, it is my fucking business when I get arrested too, when they try and make some sort of connection between us, like we’re some sort of sicko, child-killing Bonnie and Clyde pairing, what do you think? They think we’re in this together.”

  He drinks some more whisky, then I see the anger flash through him and he smashes the bottle down on the top of the fencepost, the glass shattering everywhere. I back away, hand halfway to the gun in my pocket.

  “I had to explain this shit to my wife,” he shouts, “my wife! I’m not allowed to go home, I’m not in jail, but I’m not allowed to leave Alaska, can you believe that shit?”

  Suddenly he breaks down, his fury replaced by helpless sobs. “She’s gonna leave me,” he cries, “I just know it, I just know it . . . after last time, she . . . she . . .”

  He starts to cry again, body wracked with the sobbing, and my hand comes away from the gun.

  I wonder what he means by “after last time”, but decide not to push it, to merely file it away for future reference.

  He’s bent over now, crouched down in the snow, the tears continuing to stream down his dirty, bearded face. And then a finger comes up, points at me accusingly.

  “But you know something,” he hisses, “don’t you? Don’t you?”

  “No,” I say, backing away, “I don’t know anything. Whatever you’ve heard, it’s not true.”

  “Bullshit,” Pat fires back, “you’re fucking that cop too, aren’t you? Screwing the chief of police, a great way to get away with murder, you fuckin’ little whore, you –”

  I’m moving toward him before I know what I’m doing, hand flying out to slap his dirty, lying face; but then I feel a hand on my shoulder, a reassuring voice in my ear.

  “No,” Larraine Harrigan says gently. “No. It’s not worth it.”

  At the same time, Artie Jenkins appears from the same direction as Larraine, jumping the fence and pulling his brother away.

  “I’m sorry,” Artie says, “he’s struggling to cope with . . . well, with everything that’s been happening, you know, he –”

  “Fuck you,” Pat responds angrily, “I don’t need you to make excuses for –”

  Artie cuts his brother off with a single look, and hauls him away across the fields, looking back toward us. “I’m sorry about this,” he says again, “I’m sorry.”

  And then the brothers are gone, away across the fields on their way back to Artie’s farmhouse.

  I turn to Larraine, see her SUV parked nearby, front doors open. I’m surprised we didn’t hear it arrive, but I guess we were too involved in our little “debate” to concentrate on anything else.

  “We were just coming home from the shelter,” Larraine says, “I was just dropping Artie off when we saw you two talking over here. Given everything that’s happened, we thought it might not be a good idea.”

  I nod, recognizing that she is right; and what’s more, that this is the second time that she has rescued me from the unwanted attention of Patrick Jenkins.

  Although in this reality, it’s just the first, an inner voice reminds me.

  “You look terrible,” Larraine says, eyes concerned. “Are you okay? Do you want to come to my house for a cup of coffee?”

  I wonder how I look. Do I look terrible? A part of me is offended by the suggestion, but then I realize that she is probably right. I’ve stumbled across a dead body, hiked down – maybe for several hours – through a mountain in a snowstorm, and then had a near-violent encounter with one of the suspects in a young girl’s murder.

  I probably don’t look my best.

  I wanted to get home, to visit Amy, the dogs, the horses.

  But do I want her to see me like this? What sort of message would that send about my state of mind, my health?

  Eventually, I nod in agreement.

  “Yes,” I say to Larraine, trying out a smile. “I think that would be nice.”

  12

  Larraine’s home is lovely; unlike most of the pioneer-style interiors found throughout the area, her farmhouse is almost like a little English cottage. We are in the kitchen, and from the Aga stove resting against one whitewashed wall, to the checkered cloth that lies on the turned-leg wooden table, the room is both cozy and functional.

  I sip the hot, milky tea she has given me, taking in my surroundings. In some ways, it perversely reminds me of Douglas Menders’ cabin – that could have been cozy and homely too, had it not been for his almost demented obsession with religious iconography. There is a cross on the wall here too, I notice, but it is simple and seems to fit in with the rest of the décor instead of overpowering and dominating it.

  It makes me think of my own home, which is perhaps just a little austere in comparison. I suppose it reflected my mood when I moved here from New York – empty and barren. I’ve made an effort to give it a homely feel, but I can see now that – in comparison to this – my own farmhouse is still a work in progress.

  “There you go, Jessica,”
Larraine says as she puts a large slice of homemade apple pie in front of me, smothered in cream.

  “Thanks,” I say, before gesturing to the house. “Beautiful place you have here.”

  “You like it?” Larraine asks as she sits down at the table with me, pouring herself a cup of tea. “It wasn’t like this when I first got here, believe me. I was in such a state after leaving my husband, the house was half-empty for about a year, maybe two. But I eventually got a grip, and . . . well, yes, I’m quite happy with it now, I guess.”

  “It looks amazing,” I confirm, thinking it funny how similar my situation is to Larraine’s own past. She has kids, of course, and I’ve been shot in the head; but other than the details, the essence remains the same – we are both women seeking refuge here in Alaska, escaping from a life that had threatened to finish us.

  “Thank you, dear,” Larraine says, adding spoon after spoon of sugar to her tea before taking a sip. She puts the cup down, looks at me curiously. “If you don’t mind my asking, why were you at Artie’s farm today? Given . . . what’s happened, I wouldn’t have thought it a good idea to fraternize with his brother.”

  I shake my head. “No,” I say, “it was just a mistake, that was all. I was out walking in the hills, the snow started to come down hard and I decided to get back home the fastest way possible – so I came out of the woods and walked past Artie’s fields. Pat was there when I got there.”

  “Oh? And what was he doing there?”

  “He’d heard the sirens,” I say, “he came out to investigate.”

  Larraine seems to think things through carefully for a while, taking a bite of her own apple pie and chewing it slowly.

  I use the time to take a bite too, and it tastes just as good as it looks. “Delicious,” I say, and although Larraine smiles, it is clear her mind is elsewhere.

  Finally, she looks up from the pie. “I suppose he had something to say about those sirens up the hill, and you walking in the woods at the same time?”