Anything is possible, and I know I can’t take the chance of leaving her alone with him. The shower is still running – didn’t I tell her to hurry up? – but I know it can’t last forever, soon she will be out and . . . then what?
I see Hobson’s gaze shift then, see his expression change from one of unverified suspicion to one of pure rage as he sees the sports bag, packed and ready to go, lying on the filthy sheets of the double bed.
His eyes snap back to me, and he is already reaching for something – the razor? – from his coat pocket, when I hear the words, “Get down!” coming from right behind me.
I duck in immediate response, and I hear the spray of an aerosol above me, the click of a lighter, the roar of a flame, and I look up and see a stream of fire passing over me and hitting Hobson in the face; look behind me, see Lynette, still naked and soaking wet, holding a can of hairspray in one hand, a cigarette lighter in the other, combining them into a flamethrower that burns the flesh off Hobson’s face; I hear his screams as the flame hits, hear Lynette’s screams as she sees what she’s done, what she’s still doing . . .
And then the flames stop, the pimp drops to floor, writhing helplessly as he screams, hands covering his burned face; at the same time, Lynette drops her makeshift weapons, a look of shock, of horror, on her young face, and I stand and embrace her, turning her away from the sight of Hobson.
“It’s okay,” I whisper to her, “it’s okay, get changed. Go on, hurry, we need to get out of here.”
Lynette’s eyes are wide, wild, and I know she is starting to go into shock from what she’s done; I need to keep her mind off it, keep her moving, keep her thinking of what lies ahead.
“Hurry,” I repeat, “you’ll be out of all this soon, you’ll be out of it for good. Go on.”
She goes, and I turn to Hobson, feeling sorry as he claws at his savaged features; he might be a monster himself, but it is a horrible thing to happen to a human being, and my stomach turns at the sight of him.
I think about approaching, but I know he might still be dangerous; he still has the straight razor somewhere, and if he becomes lucid again, he might still use it.
Hurry up, Lynette, I think. Hurry up.
I ease past Hobson’s body, hoping the screams don’t get the police here too quickly, and grab the sports bag from the bed; a hand reaches out and grabs my ankle but I kick out with my other foot, hard, into the man’s gut and there is a puff of air from his lungs, a deep groan, and he lets go. I can hear him trying to form words, hurl insults, but his lips don’t move, charred and burned, the flesh peeling off them, and I feel guilty for kicking him.
“I’m ready,” Lynette says, by my side, and I turn and nod my head at her, and lead her quickly from the apartment, keeping her eyes away from the gruesome sight of her boyfriend as we reach the door and emerge into daylight at last.
There are people nosing around, neighbors from other rooms emerging to see what is going on, teenagers on the other side of the street watching us as we race down the steps to the line of cars waiting outside.
Maybe they’ll report us, maybe they won’t; but we’ve got bigger things to worry about right now.
As we get to my car and rip the doors open, I can’t help but think about the bravery of Lynette’s actions back in the house; Hobson must have been a man who terrified her, she had been living under the threat of his violence for a long time already. Where did she find the strength to turn on him like that?
But I suppose there must be so much built-up anger in the girl, so much hate; maybe she had been waiting months for an opportunity like this one. But up until today, she had no way out, no way to leave him, no chance of escape.
And now she does.
I pull out of the parking space before Lynette has even closed her door, and we shoot off down West 29th, the sounds of Dennis Hobson’s screams chasing us all the way.
7
Well, here I am again, I think as we look at the departures board.
Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport.
And there it is, the same flight to Minneapolis, 17:10.
I look at my watch, see that it is just after three o’clock. Not long to go now, I think; if nothing else goes wrong, Lynette should be home free.
But did someone see my car on West 29th? Did they take the registration? Call the police? Is there a patrol car on its way here now, to bring us in over the attempted murder of Dennis Hobson?
It is possible, I know; it is definitely possible.
But there is no use worrying over every little detail; we need to move, and we need to move now.
I approach the Delta desk, pay for a ticket, sign a form to say that Lynette is okay to travel as an unaccompanied minor.
I think again about Hobson. Is it possible that he has recovered sufficiently to come here, to chase after us? Does he even know where we are? He saw the bag, but he might not immediately have thought “airport”. We may have been driving, or various other options. Could he send some of his friends to check out the airport anyway?
Again, I think, it’s possible, and the faster we can get Lynette through security, the better.
I don’t think Hobson will have told anyone, anyway. How can he? His lips were blistered and burned through, hanging loosely from his face like bloody pieces of chopped liver; he was unable to speak at all, at least when we’d left him. His eyes, too, were surely useless to him now, the flame burning them in their sockets. I think of the sight of Hobson’s dripping, bleeding eyeballs and feel sick again.
Did Hobson deserve it? It is a hard thing to consider. Yes, he is a terrible man, one who has done terrible things. He seduces young girls with tales of money and fast living, gets them hooked on drugs, then pimps them out, beats and cuts them if they get out of line.
But did he deserve to have his face burned off?
Lynette was only acting out of fear though, not revenge; to hear her tell it, anyway. On the drive in, she’d explained how she’d heard him talking, how she’d become terrified, known that he would kill her if he discovered she was leaving for good. She’d left the shower running to cover the sound of her movements, had got out and looked around the bathroom desperately for a weapon of some kind, of any kind.
Then she’d seen the can of hair spray, remembered a scene from a James Bond film that one of her stepfathers had liked, grabbed the lighter and waited for her chance.
I hope she wouldn’t remember it for too long.
But then again, I know the flight is going to be hard enough anyway; five hours to Minneapolis without a hit of any kind, whether nicotine or hard drugs. But she’s already proved herself to be a survivor, and I know she’s going to be okay.
We approach security, and I know that our short time together will soon be at an end.
Will she be okay? Will she avoid the fate that I’ve already seen? If she does, will her new life be any better than her last?
If she lives, will my own life go back to normal? When I wake up tomorrow, will it finally be tomorrow?
I don’t know the answers to any of it. All I know is that Lynette Hyams has already saved my life – Hobson was reaching for his razor, and his girlfriend saved me.
I just hope that I am doing the same for her.
We reach security, and we turn to one another. “So, I guess this is it,” she says.
“I guess so,” I say. “Except for this.” I reach into my purse, pull out a check book. Old-fashioned perhaps, but I can’t send her to Florida with twenty thousand dollars in cash on her.
I write the check in front of her, watch her eyes as the zeros go down in black ink. “Lynette Hyams?” I ask, and she nods.
“Yeah,” she says. “Lynette Hyams.”
“You have a bank account?” I ask, and she shakes her head.
“Get one,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says, taking the check, eyes still wide. “Yeah, okay.”
“When you get to Gainesville,” I say, a thought suddenly occurring to
me, “if you need help – with the check, a bank account, getting somewhere to live, anything – look up a guy called Dr. Glen Kelly. Lives at Pine Hills Retirement Village. Tell him that Jessica Hudson sent you. Tell him the Red Moon is back.”
“Tell him what?” she asks, brow furrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”
“He’ll understand,” I tell her, knowing it to be true. He’ll know that she’s a girl I’ve saved; he won’t know what from, but he will do his best to help her.
Suddenly, Lynette’s adrenaline from the fight, from fleeing the apartment is gone, along with the excitement of the twenty-thousand-dollar check. “Did I kill him?” she asks softly. “Do you think I killed him?”
My heart breaks as I see the hurt on her face, the guilt; despite what he’s done to her, she can’t come to terms with what she has now done to him.
“No,” I say, hugging her to me, holding her close, just like that day in the past, in the future, maybe never, when I held her close and she died in my arms. Only this time her heart is strong, vital, she is very much alive, alive and strong. I hope she stays that way. “No,” I repeat, “you didn’t kill him. He’s alive. Not very happy perhaps, but he’s alive.” Lynette laughs gently through her tears, and I hold her tighter, all of a sudden not wanting to stop, not wanting to let her go.
I’ve come so far, done so much, can I now release her to a fate I can’t predict, that I can’t control?
But I must . . . I must . . .
And finally, I do let go, and we look at each other for a few moments, almost as if seeing each other properly for the first time.
And then she puts up a hand, gives a small wave.
Turns.
And is gone.
It is only nine o’clock in the evening, but I am exhausted. After everything that has happened, in fact, “exhausted” might not even cover it.
I stayed at the airport until the flight left, watching as the airplane took off into the darkening night; I even checked with the desk that everyone had been on board, that nobody had failed to turn up. But the flight was full; Lynette Hyams is on board, and will now be just an hour or so away from Minneapolis. A couple more stops, a few more hours, and she will be ready to start her new life in Florida.
I am back home now, was even able to help Amy sort the horses out for the evening before having a chat and sending her on her way with my genuine and heartfelt thanks.
I fed the dogs, fed myself, and finally dragged myself upstairs and collapsed into bed.
I am exhausted, but will sleep come? I can’t wait to sleep, can’t wait to wake up and find out if it has worked, if I’ve saved the girl, if I’ve changed reality once more.
Will time return to normal?
Will I break out of this mind-bending, mind-shredding cycle?
But I know that the more I want to sleep, the harder it will be, despite my exhaustion.
I want to call Ben, to talk to him, to hear his voice; my hand even goes to my phone, until I realize that he has shared none of my recent experiences. As far as he’s concerned, we barely know each other; our only meeting has been when he came here after I moved to introduce himself and offer his help if I ever needed it.
I don’t know him at all.
I sigh, try to sleep again, but every time I close my eyes, I see the burned, ruined face of Dennis Hobson. I see the faces of the Latimer twins, of Paul; I see the twisted, dead body of Douglas Menders.
Eventually, I get up, go back downstairs and get a bottle of gin. I wonder, idly, if this is the exact same bottle that I drank that first night, the night I first discovered Lynette on those fields outside my house.
I pour myself a tall glass – the same glass? – and drink the whole thing down as I stare out of the kitchen window at those fields.
The whole experience has been beyond words, beyond comprehension, really.
I pour myself another glass, drink it, and feel the warm liquid turn even warmer as it hits my stomach.
I turn, say goodnight one more time to my three dogs, giving them each a kiss on the head, and start back upstairs, bottle in one hand, glass in the other.
The bottle is empty, and my drowsy, bloodshot eyes see that the glass is, too; sleep is so near now, so near.
Beauty gallops before me, I see Jack falling.
Dennis Hobson, Paul, Mike and Victoria Latimer, Artie and Pat Jenkins, faces swirling before me, in and out, around and around . . .
The Red Moon . . .
The Red Moon . . .
And, finally, I sleep.
DAY SEVEN
1
When I wake, it is the darkness I notice first.
Has it worked? What day is it? What –
And then the pain hits me, hot and scorching, as if my entire body is on fire.
Aaaarrrggghh!!!
I try and scream but all that comes out is a muffled cry, and I realize there is a cloth in my mouth, bound tight.
And then I realize that the reason I can’t see is because my eyes are covered with a blindfold, I can feel the rough material now, grazing my eyelids.
What the hell has happened?
Where the hell am I?
I try and use my senses, try and ignore the pain as I attempt to locate myself in time and space.
It is then I feel my arms, hoisted above my head, wrists bound together; I sense my bare feet scraping the floor, feel the pressure through my arms, shoulders and chest, and understand that I am being hung by my bound wrists, my chin resting slackly on my chest.
There is no sensation of clothing, and I can feel a cool, chill breeze on my body; recognizing my nakedness, I instinctively try and cover myself, but this only pulls my bonds tighter, makes the pain worse.
The fear hits me hard, coursing through my veins, turning them to ice, and the effect is even worse than the pain, it is a fireball in the pit of my stomach and I begin to wretch violently, then choke on the soiled gag in my mouth. Fluids run from my nose and eyes, and the feeling makes me tense my body again – and again, I am hit by searing pain through my arms and shoulders.
I am a fish on a hook, and I have nowhere to go.
I can’t even hear properly, it feels as if there is water inside my ears, as if I am underwater; my head is swimming with pain and disorientation. It is as if I have been drugged. Am I awake? Asleep? Hallucinating?
Or am I already dead?
The tears start in earnest now, my body wracking uncontrollably with the sobs.
“That’s . . . it,” I hear a muffled voice say, again as if it’s coming from underwater, my blocked ears barely able to discern it at all. “Fucking . . . cry . . . you little . . . bitch.”
Old or young, man or woman, friend or stranger, I have no idea, the words are so indistinct, like they are coming from miles away instead of right next to me.
Why am I here? Where is here? What’s going on?
Please, please, what is going on?
I feel a sharp pain as a hand slaps me hard in the face; my head turns violently with the unexpected blow, my neck wrenched with the whiplash. I gasp, but it is muffled through the cloth in my mouth, causing me to choke again.
“Bitch,” I hear the sinister, underwater voice say again, and then I feel a piercing agony on my naked breast, a searing pain that can only come from being burned. A cigarette? my mind wonders, before going blank, the pain the only thing I can focus on, the terrible, searing, burning pain.
Then it is removed, and I sigh in relief, mixed with terror or what might be coming next, the dichotomy of emotion causing an anxiety that is almost as bad as the pain itself.
Then the pain is back, worse than ever, as the red-hot end of
(the cigarette?)
is placed against my nipple, held there until I can smell the burning flesh, know for sure that my nipple is being slowly burned off my breast.
I cry, I moan, I scream, but no sound can penetrate the cloth in my mouth, and my violently twisting body just causes even more pain, and then
– just when I feel I am going to pass out – the burning stops.
Everything stops.
And there is nothing but silence, and in its own way, this is even worse; I know someone is there, maybe more than one person, and I know they are going to hurt me again – torture me, rape me, kill me, like they did to Lynette,
(where is she? where is Lynette?)
maybe like they’ve done to many more girls besides. I do not know when the next pain will come, what it will be like, and the anticipation is horrendous, the fear like nothing I have felt before, it is like a hideous entity living inside me, fighting with me, killing me from the inside.
“Why . . . did you . . . send the girl . . . away?” the disembodied voice asks, and I suddenly realize why I’m here, I’m here because Lynette’s abductor was watching her, waiting to take her, then must have seen me helping her and decided to take me instead.
Oh no.
No, no, no, no, no.
I’ve seen Lynette’s broken body, I’ve read the crime reports, the autopsy, the medical examiner’s notes.
I know exactly what happened to her . . . what’s going to happen to me.
The words come back to me, flashing before my blindfolded eyes, taunting me, threatening me.
Three ribs fractured . . . twenty-two incisions on the victim’s lower trunk . . . deepest cut pierced the lower intestine, causing internal bleeding . . . subjected to forced sexual intercourse . . . foreign object insertion . . . violently sodomized . . . labia minora sewn closed with black thread . . . prepuce mutilated . . . glans clitoris crudely removed . . . severe head trauma . . . repeated heavy impact of a blunt instrument such as a ball hammer . . .
No, no, no, no, no . . .
This can’t be happening to me, it can’t, it can’t, it can’t, I won’t let it happen, no, no, no, no, no . . .
I feel hands go to my gag, rip it painfully away, pull the cloth out of my mouth.
I choke and gag and I want to vomit, but instead I breathe in deeply, trying to fill my lungs with sweet, sweet air, to –
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