And, I suddenly think, what the hell is Ben doing over in Chugach anyway? He doesn’t mention it to me tomorrow, I know that much.
I smile as Amy holds out the coffee mug for me, take it from her as I pick up my keys, shove my feet into my boots, and head right on out the door. She tries to speak, but I gesture to the phone, shrug my shoulders in apology, and leave the house behind.
“Can you just get him to call me, if you get through to him?” I ask as I blip my car, pull the door open and jump inside, sipping the first layer of coffee as I start the engine.
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll do that,” the lady at Palmer PD says. “Is there anyone else here who can help you?”
I wonder about this for a moment as I pull out from the driveway, then make my decision. “No,” I say, “no, thank you. Have a nice day.”
“You too, Ms. Hudson,” she says, and I cancel the call, throwing the phone onto the passenger seat next to me and taking another hit of caffeine from the coffee mug as I turn past Artie’s farm, accelerating off up the semi-paved road on my way toward the highway, and Menders’ cabin.
The time on the clock in the dashboard reads 10:42, and I struggle to come up with a viable plan. I check for the .38 in my coat, curse as I realize that I don’t have it yet – Ben doesn’t give it to me until tomorrow. I then I realize that I could have – should have? – used it on Paul, gone for it as soon as I’d heard him lock the door. I’d only thought of the gun locked away in the kitchen cabinet, I’d forgotten all about the one in my coat pocket.
I sigh, thinking how typical that is – when I had it, I didn’t use it because I didn’t think to use it; and now I remember about it, I don’t have it.
I consider turning back, getting the gun out of the locked cabinet, but think better of it – I’m tight for time as it is, and I don’t want to risk missing out on my opportunity to identify Menders’ killer.
I wonder then – strangely, for the first time – if I might even be in time to save Menders. And then an ugly thought enters my head – do I want to save him?
I am disgusted with myself for thinking it, know for fact that if I can save him, I will, but the existence of such a thought is perhaps understandable; after all, this is a serial rapist and – on the balance of probability – a killer. Maybe not of Lynette, but probably of victims back in Florida. What was it that Ben had told me? Fifteen years for three cases of raping a minor, and a homicide charge from ligature strangulation that he narrowly avoided.
Does a man like that deserve saving?
Of course he does, I tell myself – everyone deserves a chance.
And yet I haven’t called the police, or the ABI, only Ben. If I really wanted to save him, I’d pick up that phone, call them, and get them up there with their sirens blaring, scare the killer off.
But then we will lose maybe our only chance of identifying him, and the killer can go on to torture, rape and kill other victims. And if he runs away, not caught – and there is no evidence in the minds of the cops that anyone was ever there, that Menders was under any sort of threat – then there is nothing to stop the unidentified killer from going back and murdering Menders at some other time anyway.
I’m trying to justify myself, and I know it; but I’ve obviously decided to use Menders as some sort of bait. I know the killer is on his way there – is maybe there already – and I don’t want him scared off.
I have to know who it is.
I’m skirting around the base of the mountains now, coffee mug empty and dashboard clock reading 10:56, and I pick up my cell and try Ben’s number again.
Still nothing, just that hollow, empty beeping to remind me that I’m on my own.
I’m off the Farm Loop now, on the service road that winds its way precariously up the hillside toward Menders’ cabin. I’m glad that the snow isn’t so bad today, and I remember it doesn’t really get started in earnest until tomorrow morning; it makes driving a lot easier, that’s for sure.
I’m nearing the cabin now, the snow slightly more apparent as the car snakes upwards, and fear – horrible, gut-churning, naked fear – suddenly sweeps through me. My muscles tense involuntarily and I feel the car swerve across the road as I pull on the wheel, my pulse high, my stomach roiling.
Breathe, I tell myself, breathe!
I need to get this under control, I need to sort myself out, but I cannot rid myself of the knowledge that I’m purposefully putting myself in harm’s way.
The best guess that Ben and I could come up with is that either Menders and the man who kills him are partners, possibly working together on abduction/murders like the Lynette Hyams case, or else Menders is trying to blackmail the man responsible. Either way, I am about to put myself right into the crossfire of two very dangerous people, with no real idea of what I’m doing.
Surveillance, a voice somewhere in my head tells me, and I know it is right, surveillance is my best option, perhaps my only option if I don’t want to get picked up by these people and become a victim myself. Because it also occurs to me that nobody knows where I am.
And then it also occurs to me that – if I am killed out here, if Menders is killed – then Ben won’t come up here tomorrow, he won’t find us, nobody will find us, maybe for a long time; because the only reason Ben does come up here tomorrow
(the tomorrow that has already happened)
is because I mention Lynette pointing up the hill toward the cabin over breakfast at the Noisy Goose. But if I’m dead, we don’t have breakfast, and he has no reason to come up here.
Wow, if I’m not crazy already, thinking about this stuff will soon sort that out, I think as I reach the last mile of road before the cabin.
I’m running out of time, and I ease off the accelerator without even thinking, then stand on the brake and come to a sliding stop, angled up the hill, just before another long, looping bend.
I wonder what made me stop here, and then I see it, a tiny trunk road off to the right, its entrance partially covered by the spreading branches of several fir trees.
Perfect.
Even if I leave any tire tracks, I know the snow will have completely eradicated them by tomorrow.
I move the SUV slowly forward, pulling off the main road and hiding the vehicle deep inside. The last thing I want is to pull up right in front of the cabin, drawing anyone’s attention straight onto me.
I look around the car for something I can use as a weapon, find a tire iron in the trunk and a can of de-icer in the glove compartment. Not exactly ideal, but better than nothing. I pocket the can, and take a secure grip on the tire iron. Yes, I think again, feeling its solid weight in my hands, it is definitely better than nothing.
I feel the icy tension of fear slice through me once more, and it makes me doubt what I am doing, doubt whether I am capable of this.
Then I remember the elk, the giant elk that I saw in this same forest
(unless you just imagined it)
and the memory – real or not – gives me strength.
I can do this.
I can.
I look at my watch – 11:12.
I know I might already be too late.
Dammit, I will do this!
And then I move, legs pumping through the thin covering of snow as I make my way to Menders’ cabin, and whatever – or whoever – I might find there.
I pick a position from where I can see the cabin, but I cannot be seen myself.
I hope.
I am hidden in the trees, crouched down behind a fallen trunk, eyes focused like a laser on Menders’ homestead.
There are no vehicles outside, that is the first thing I notice, and I hope this means that I’m not too late, the killer is not already there.
I then realize that perhaps the killer isn’t using a car or – like me – he parked it further away and hiked in the rest. Which means, of course, he could be somewhere close, and a shiver runs down my spine as I realize he could already be watching me.
I take a deep breath, tell myself that there
’s no use in thinking that way, if I do that, the fear will almost certainly stop me from doing anything.
And so I grit my teeth, and wait.
An hour later, it’s already past midday and I still haven’t seen any sign of Douglas Menders in the cabin, and I am starting to wonder if he is even there.
It’s possible, I suppose, that Menders was/is killed elsewhere, and the killer comes back to place his body here, framing it as some sort of struggle.
But why?
I start to become anxious, check the time again – 12:12 – and suddenly wonder if he’s already dead. Maybe I arrived too late? Maybe the killer has already been and gone?
Is Doug Menders already on the floor of his living room, head split open by the brass lamp?
Sighing heavily, I know there is only one way to find out.
I’m going to have to go over and take a look.
I arrive at the cabin, tire iron in one hand and can of de-icer in the other, out of breath from my half-crawling approach, as well as the sheer stress, the fear of discovery.
But there is nobody out here, it is just a cold, crisp day with a mere hint of tomorrow’s snow in the air.
I take another step toward the wooden structure, off to one side of the window I have identified as that of the living room. I hold my breath, count to four, and breathe slowly out.
I’m going to just slide my eyes across the bottom of the window, check inside, see if the body is already there, and then get back to a safe distance and decide what to do.
Before giving it another thought – before I can chicken out – I move slowly across, keeping my head low, letting my eyes pass the window pane. I stop, my eyes focus, trying hard to penetrate the dark interior. I can see the space lit by the single bulb, and I look to the floor, trying to find the place where Menders fell. Or falls.
My heart is in my chest, and I know this is already taking longer than it should, I’m too exposed here, the killer – if he’s out there – can see me clearly right now, and all I have is the tire iron and the de-icer.
I sigh, move away from the window, and turn back to the woods.
At the same instant, my head snaps back, a rope or cord around my neck, the hot stink of onion breath close to my face, whispered, hate-filled words in my ear.
“You little whore,” the voice taunts. “I’ve got you now.”
2
I sit in the dimly-lit living room of the cabin, the still-living form of Douglas Menders right in front of me, regarding me like an animal in a zoo.
Or like a predator looks at its prey.
I suddenly consider the fact that Menders wasn’t just observing through his telescope, wasn’t just trying to blackmail the real killer. Maybe my first instinct was right, Menders is the leader, the instigator; whoever raped Lynette was just a moon in his orbit.
But where is that second person, the one I assume is coming here to kill Menders?
I am scared, frightened beyond all measure. Before long, I am sure, there will be two dangerous men in this house, in this room – men who hate women, torture them, rape them, kill them. And I’m tied to a chair, helpless.
And nobody even knows I’m here.
My neck still hurts from where he wrapped the rope around my neck and pulled me from the window; it had been so tight, I’d dropped my makeshift weapons without even trying to use them, and by the time he’d brought me inside, the lack of oxygen had made my body weak, compliant. My mind had wanted to resist when he’d tied me to this chair, but my body had not been able.
And now here I am, in the den of the predator.
The fear is back with a vengeance, and I am not sure if I can control it; everything around me is suddenly hyper-real – colors are brighter, contrast is sharper, smells are stronger. I can even smell the adrenaline in my own fear-sweat.
I try to put a positive spin on things – perhaps the man who kills Menders is not his partner-in-crime? Maybe it is a vigilante, or group of vigilantes, come to seek revenge on Menders, believing him to be responsible? Is it possible that he/they will save me?
I laugh, gagging slightly, knowing that I am grasping at straws. It is far more likely that whoever it is will kill me too, or worse. Maybe the two of them are working together, and I have very stupidly entered the lion’s den, unprepared and unprotected. And my earlier thoughts come back to me, how nobody even knows I’m here, and I gag again.
“Jess,” Menders says soothingly, and – despite the pain and disorientation – I am still disturbed by his use of my name. I know it will have been in the papers recently, but he uses it with such familiarity that I wonder for how long he has been spying on me, down in the valley below. Has his voyeurism created some sort of relationship between us in that twisted mind of his? “Jess,” he says again, “what were you doing outside my cabin? You spying on me?”
He says it good-naturedly, almost as if it’s funny, and I can see he appreciates the irony; he’s been spying on all of us, and for who knows how long, and then he catches me peeking through his window.
His face seems relaxed, jovial even, but I notice that in his hands he still holds the short length of rope that he used to strangle me with, that he dragged me into his house with, and the effect is chilling.
“Someone’s coming here to kill you,” I say, trying to make myself valuable to him, already bargaining for my ongoing safety.
“Who?” Menders says with a dark chuckle, pointing toward the floor. “You?” he asks, and I see the tire iron and the de-icer there.
I shake my head vigorously. “Protection,” I mumble softly.
“Protection?” he asks. “Against who?” He smiles. “Me?”
“You,” I say, “and whoever you’re working with, or whoever you’re trying to blackmail.” My eyes dart nervously around the room, still waiting for the arrival of the other person, whoever it is, the killer I am looking for, the man who smashes Menders over the head with the big brass lamp.
“Is that who you’re looking for?” Menders asks, following my roving eyes. “My ‘partner’?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
Suddenly, Menders’ demeanor changes, and in his eyes, I see something different, something terrible, something I imagine those women he raped would have seen, as he moved in. “That’s right,” he growls, “you don’t know shit, you stupid little whore.” He sits back in an easy chair just across from me and smiles, playing with the rope in his hands. “But I do.”
“I know that you’re about to die,” I say, as bravely as I can.
“You know what?”
“I see things,” I tell him, thinking that if anyone will believe my crazy story, it’s another crazy person. “I saw the girl die, days before she did. And I’ve seen your dead body, right there on the floor in front of you.” I see a clock on the mantelpiece, check the time. “You’ve got an hour and a half left,” I tell him, “maybe less.”
Menders looks angry, but he doesn’t yell, doesn’t shout, doesn’t even move, he just keeps on looking at me with those dark eyes.
“Bullshit,” he spits.
“There’s someone coming here,” I press.
“There’s someone already here,” he says, pointing at me; then he licks his lips, reflexively, like a reptile might, and the chill down my spine comes back, even worse than before.
“I’m serious,” I say, still trying to sound cool, like I’m in charge. But Menders knows better, and I get the feeling that this isn’t the first time he’s had a woman tied up.
I panic again, crazy with fear that – at any moment – someone else might turn up, and then both of them will do what they want with me. I’ll know who the killer is – maybe – but I’ll be the next victim, and there won’t be anything I can do with the information.
Unless, I think to myself, the same magic that sends me around time when I sleep, will also do the same if I die?
It is unlikely, of course, but I take comfort from the thought anyway; it gives me succor, like the
thought of Heaven for a devout Christian, it makes me believe that – whatever happens here – it might not be the end.
I decide to attack, to go on the offensive; if the other person turns up, so be it, but I will see what I can get from Menders first.
“Did you kill her?” I ask, matching my gaze to his, determined not to be the first one to look away.
Menders matches my gaze and looks at me in wonder. “What,” he says, “that girl who died on your farm? You think I had something to do with it?”
“Before she died,” I say, “she pointed up here. The last thing she did.”
“She pointed up here?” Menders responds with a barking laugh. “From all the way down there, she pointed up here? Shit, lady, that’s some pretty fucking accurate pointing, ain’t it?” He shakes his head. “Let me tell you what I think – you’ve been told stories about me, the big bad monster up in the cabin. No other leads, must be me, right? And then all of a sudden, you remember the girl pointing where? At my house?” He laughs again. “What bullshit. And even if that girl did manage to point at anything before she died, there must be half a dozen other ranches down there between your house and mine, why couldn’t she have been pointing at one of them?”
“Was it you?” I ask again, ignoring his words. If I am going to die here anyway, I might as well try and find out some information before I go. I would hate to die, still not knowing.
“Shit, what would I be doing with that girl anyway?” Menders explodes, rope tight between big, strong hands. “You think she was here? You think it was me that took her? What the fuck for?”
Suddenly, Menders jumps to his feet, and I tense in my chair, ready for the blows, for the rope; but he stops, grunts heavily, and pulls his pants down around his ankles, tottering uneasily in front of me. He looks at me with hate in his eyes, and I once again imagine that this is what those girls might have seen back in Florida and Texas; maybe the girls here in Alaska too.
Then he pulls his shirt up and reveals himself to me, a small dark shaft hanging limply between his legs, testicles removed, the scrotal sac shriveled behind it. Menders’ eyes bore into mine. “Just tell me Jess, just tell me what the fuck I’m going to do with that?”
Red Moon Rising Page 19