I sigh too. “No,” I say, “no, I guess I don’t. Even after tonight, what happened, I don’t think he’s capable of that sort of sustained torture, that pathological hatred, psychopathy, whatever you want to call it. And as you say, I don’t think there was the opportunity either.” I think for a few more moments, mentally in pain from the thoughts I am having about my ex-fiancé, the man I was prepared to marry just a few short months before. “No,” I continue, “I think he’s more the date-rape type, I guess. Doesn’t like rejection, doesn’t understand the word ‘no’.”
Ben kisses the side of my head, and it feels good. I’m still on edge from what happened back at the ranch – the reason we’re here again, and not at my place – but I find myself melting into his arms nevertheless.
“Unless he was doing the same thing in New York,” I say, thinking about it for the first time. “Maybe Lynette’s murder is unrelated to the Chugach killings, unrelated to those earlier ones, the bodies left near Anchorage. Maybe it’s just coincidence. If Paul is Lynette’s killer,” (I can’t believe I’m thinking this, let alone saying it), “maybe he’s been doing it for a while.”
I think for a few more moments, goosebumps appearing on my skin as I consider the facts. “He used to get up early, real early, be gone sometimes before I’d wake up. Sometimes not get home ’til late either, I put it down to work at the office, but who knows where he was, what he was doing? I had my own work to think about, I guess I just believed what he told me. But who knows?”
I breathe out slowly once more, gathering my thoughts. “Maybe he came here to see me, but – if he’s that type – maybe he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t go too long without another victim. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, Lynette and those other girls.”
“Do you really think that?”
I sigh. “No,” I admit, “no, not really. But we can’t rule it out either, can we?”
“No,” Ben agrees in that deep, gravelly voice of his, “we can’t rule anything out. But if it’s any help, I don’t think it’s him. Think about tonight, the way he went about things. The man who kidnapped and abused Lynette is organized, highly organized. He can trick people, charm them, fool them into going somewhere with him; obviously, he also has somewhere to take them. If the same man who killed Lynette had wanted to . . . rape you, or whatever, you know . . . then he would have abducted you, taken you to the same place, right? But Southland was disorganized in the extreme; except for locking the door, he probably had no real idea what he was doing. Alcohol, weed and cocaine in his system, come morning he probably won’t remember half of it. Complete bastard, yes. Obviously. Serial killer? I’m not so sure. But as you say, we can’t rule it out.”
“I still can’t believe it,” I say, my voice weak with emotion, and I feel Ben’s arms pull me in tighter.
“Me neither,” Ben says. “I just wish I could have gotten there earlier.” There’s guilt in his voice, and I won’t allow it.
“Don’t say that,” I say, “don’t you ever say that. You did everything you could. You saved me.”
Ben doesn’t know how to respond, perhaps never learned how to accept gratitude, and an awkward silence ensues.
“So what’s the latest on Menders?” I ask, changing the subject. We were at the station together for most of the evening, but only in the capacity of chief of police and victim/witness; and we both knew not to discuss the Menders case in front of anyone else anyway.
“Confirmed cause of death was severe head injury, we have the murder weapon as the brass lamp that we found on the floor next to the body, bits of hair, skin and blood found on the base.”
“A weapon of opportunity?” I ask, surprised.
“Looks that way, and I’m not sure what sort of spin that puts on things.”
“No,” I agree. “If someone had gone there with the intent of killing him, they would surely have taken a weapon with them.”
“Yeah, unless he couldn’t get it into play for some reason, had to go for something else.”
“Or maybe he just went there to talk to Menders, and one thing led to another . . .”
“Yeah, maybe the guy didn’t initially plan to kill him, maybe it was a mistake, or he just took an opportunity when he saw it.”
“Does that tie in with our feelings about this killer? The organized type?”
“But the situation was different. For the female victims, he trolls for them, selects them, takes his time. With Menders, we have some other options. Maybe he was a partner of some sort, they knew each other – a very different kind of scenario then. Or else, like we thought, maybe Menders managed to identify the killer through the telescope, and wanted to blackmail him – calls him over to the house, they discuss the deal, the killer decides there’s a better way and beats him to death with the first thing he finds.”
I consider the matter for a while, before deciding that we still don’t really know anything. “No prints?”
“None,” Ben confirms, “nothing that the crime scene guys have found so far that we can use. Medical examiner estimates time of death as yesterday, somewhere between eleven in the morning and two in the afternoon, give or take.”
I breathe out, recognizing how close we are to the killer. If we’d just been here yesterday . . .
“My tracks?” I ask as the thought occurs to me, suddenly nervous.
“Covered by the snow by the time anyone looked.”
The cramp in my stomach eases up a little. “Any sign of the missing journal, or whatever it was?”
“No,” Ben says, “unfortunately not. From the space, dust, that sort of thing, they reckon it was a book about eight inches by five. Could be a diary or journal.”
“Could just as easily be a paperback novel,” I suggest, and Ben grunts in agreement.
“Yeah, could be anything,” he agrees, before shifting slightly, as if he’s just remembered something. “Hey, I never called Doctor Sandwell. Dammit, it just slipped my mind completely.”
Doctor Alan Sandwell, I remember now, Ben mentioned it this morning. Thought I would know who it was, but we never got a chance to go through it.
Maybe it’s connected to my previous problems, the ones I never even knew I had, until Paul told me? So I’m gonna try calling Doctor Sandwell today, see what we can find out about what happened to you, that’s what Ben had said. What happened to me? My heart beats faster as I grasp at this opportunity. Maybe Sandwell is the doctor who believed me?
“Who is he?” I ask; Ben already knows that I don’t remember anything from the last few days, so I don’t mind asking now.
“He’s an old doctor of yours from Boston,” Ben says, and my heart rate goes up once more. “Does the name ring a bell?”
“No,” I admit, “not really. But my memory of that time isn’t too great either, apparently.” I pull away from Ben, sitting up in the bed. “Do you have his number?” I ask, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.
“Yeah, home and office. Why, you’re not thinking of calling him now, are you?” He shifts around, looks at the bedside clock – it reads 1:24am. “Shit, it’s only half-past one in the morning, he’ll think you are crazy if you bother him now.”
“Half-past five in Boston,” I respond, “maybe it’s not too early to get ahold of him?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No,” I say, my voice firm. “I’m not.” I then proceed to tell him about what Paul said to me, and I am glad that he listens to what I have to say.
“He might have been lying,” Ben says, and I nod my head.
“Yeah,” I say, “he might. But what if it’s true? I have to know. What if he can explain what’s happening to me?”
“Yeah . . .” Ben says, noncommittally.
“What’s his number?” I press.
“I don’t think he’ll thank you,” Ben says, but – to his credit – he doesn’t even try and talk me out of it any further, seeing that my mind is set. Instead, he reaches over for the cellphone that re
sts next to the clock, flicks it on and scrolls through the contacts list. He gets the right number and reluctantly hands it over. “There,” he says, “but be prepared for him to be a little bit grumpy at least, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, then hit the call button.
Grumpy, it turns out, was an understatement – Doctor Alistair Sandwell was a volcano, exploding all over me.
Apparently he had to be up early enough anyway, and didn’t like his traditional six-thirty reveille being interrupted for any reason. But after some sweet-talking, he had given me the information I’d been after, although it wasn’t actually the news I wanted to hear. Turns out that Dr. Sandwell was one of the medical experts that didn’t believe me, and he was unwilling to discuss cases over the telephone anyway. I could make an appointment to see him in Boston, to see him in person, but that was a seven-hour flight and I doubted I’d still be awake after that time – and if I wasn’t awake, then when I did finally wake up, it would be a different day and the appointment would probably be of no use anyway.
But – after much prompting, and the intervention of Ben, who claimed my request was of a vital, life-or-death nature – Dr. Sandwell did give me one piece of significant information. Apparently, the doctor who had backed me up, who had believed my unbelievable story, is called Glen Kelly and – as far as Sandwell knows – he now lives in a retirement village in Florida.
Five minutes later, a badgered Ben turns to me and presents me with a new telephone number – main reception at Pine Hills Retirement Village, Gainesville, Florida.
“But the guy’s eighty-one,” Ben says pleadingly. “Leave it until the morning, okay?”
A part of me seriously wants to ignore Ben’s advice and call the man right away, but then another part tells me that he might just be right; what would be served by calling now? Kelly would probably be only semi-coherent at best, and I might learn nothing. No, I decide, better to wait until morning – or later in the morning in Florida – before I approach him. I want to find out all the information I can, and it’s important that I have Kelly on my side from the start. For all I know, he might hold some sort of resentment against me, a grudge for his being struck off, for being forced into semi-retirement.
But at least now I have a name, an address, a telephone number – whenever I wake up tomorrow, no matter what day it is, I won’t forget those details, and I can contact him then.
It’s not only Dr. Glen Kelly who needs his rest either, I think as I finally relax back into Ben’s arms – I am exhausted myself, literally on my last legs. And, as I decide to leave Kelly until tomorrow – whichever day tomorrow might be – I feel myself relaxing immediately, the tension easing out of my body, my mind.
And, while still wondering what tomorrow may bring, I fall into the merciful embrace of a deep, wonderful sleep.
DAY FIVE
1
The blood runs down the windows, streaking the glass, pitter-pattering off the torn, thinning curtains onto the threadbare carpet of the hotel room.
It runs down the walls too, in torrents.
Torrents of blood.
Whose blood?
My brother’s.
Jack’s blood.
I look out of the window, down, down to the streets below – at first I can see nothing, the lights are too bright; I turn away, think again, turn back . . .
And then I see him, what is left of him, broken pieces of my brother’s body smashed apart over that concrete sidewalk, and I feel vomit rising in my mouth as my eyes zoom in toward his broken, bloody face, the world around me a blur, and now I see only his face, cracked apart, bones and flesh rendered open.
And then, just as I am about to scream, to pierce the air with my fright, my horror, my sorrow, I hear the trample of hooves behind me, the crashing of a door, and I turn, turn to see Beauty rearing up in the doorway, blood all around him – it’s falling from the ceiling now as well as the windows and the walls, it drips from his flat teeth, his eyes, it is everywhere –
And I fall backwards as his hooves come crashing down over me, and I close my eyes as I feel a colossal weight press down hard onto my chest, open them and see –
Paul above me, forcing himself inside me, his teeth fangs in a vampire’s mouth, his eyes twin red moons, and finally I scream.
I scream and scream, and I do not know if I will ever stop.
“Jess,” I hear a voice say to me, near me, so soft I can barely hear it; then I feel a hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake, and I hear the words more clearly now, “Jess, Jess. Jessica, wake up! Wake up!”
And then I do wake up, and stare into the frightened eyes of Amy Reiner, the girl who has been staying and helping me in my home. My head is foggy from the dream, from everything that has happened, but I begin to understand that if Amy is here, then I am once more in my own house.
I look around, check the bed and confirm it – yes, yes I am home, home in bed.
But what day is it?
“You were screaming,” Amy says apologetically, “I didn’t know what to do, I’m sorry for coming in, I just wanted to make sure you were okay, it sounded horrible, really horrible.”
“It’s okay,” I manage, as I turn over to look for my cellphone, grabbing it off the night-stand and flicking it on, ignoring Amy as I search for the day, the date.
I look at it, and it takes me longer than it should to work it out.
Wednesday.
It’s Wednesday, the day before Ben and I go to Menders’ cabin, the day before Paul attacks me, here in my own home.
“It must have been really terrible,” I vaguely hear Amy saying, “a real nightmare, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I say after a few moments, remembering Dr. Glen Kelly – Pine Hills Retirement Village, Gainesville, Florida. “I’m okay.” I turn and smile at her, grateful but at the same time wanting to get rid of her, to concentrate on what I should be doing. “Thank you,” I say, hand resting on her forearm.
“Do you want anything? Cup of coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee,” I say automatically, needing the caffeine but also wanting Amy out of the room. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” she says, turning to leave. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m okay now. Can’t even remember what it was about,” I lie.
“That’s good,” Amy says, and then retreats outside, closing the door behind her.
I look at my phone again immediately, checking the time.
Damn, it’s already half past ten; I must have really needed the sleep.
That makes it about half past two in the Florida afternoon, not a bad time to call . . .
And then it hits me.
Wednesday.
It’s the day Douglas Menders is killed. Which means that the killer will be at his cabin today.
Which means if I can get back up there in time, I might find out who the killer is.
Excitement races through me as I see my chance, then I check the time again.
10.34am.
I think back to my conversation with Ben the night before, and I am already out of bed and pulling my jeans on.
Medical examiner estimates time of death as yesterday, somewhere between eleven in the morning and two in the afternoon, give or take, he’d told me.
Damn, that doesn’t give me much time.
I pull on my shirt at the same time as I call Ben, reminding myself that he hasn’t experienced tomorrow yet – he doesn’t know that Douglas Menders dies, or anything else about it. But he believes my story about flitting about from day to day, so maybe he’ll believe this? If I call him, he can meet me up there, we can find out who the killer is, together.
But his cellphone just beeps lifelessly back at me, and it is clear that either his phone is turned off, or else he’s not in a cellular service area.
Shit.
I pull on a sweater as I leave my room and race down the stairs, calling Palmer PD as I go.
“Is Chief
Taylor there?” I ask as soon as the receptionist answers.
“Can I ask who’s calling?” she answers, and I can hear that it is the same woman who took my initial inquiry last Thursday, the one who smells of candy and deodorant.
“Jessica Hudson,” I answer as I get to the bottom of the stairs, negotiate my way into the kitchen.
“Hello, Ms. Hudson. Unfortunately, Ben’s out at the moment, we’re not expecting him back until late this afternoon.”
Double shit.
I rack my brains, trying to remember if he mentioned yesterday
(tomorrow!)
where he’d been, but I can’t.
“Can you tell me where he is?” I ask.
“Not specifically, Ms. Hudson, I’m afraid. But he said it’s out of the area, somewhere up around Chugach State Park. Bad cell coverage up there, I can try him on the radio though, if it’s an emergency?”
What do I say? What can I say? If I ask for another officer, or for someone from the ABI, if I tell them that the killer might be going to Doug Menders’ cabin, then the obvious question would be, How do you know?
And how the hell would I answer that? De Nares for sure would take it to mean I have knowledge of, communications with the killer.
So what do I do?
Red Moon Rising Page 18