Another slap sends the air right out of me again, and the voice is back, menacing in its lack of identity, its absence of humanity.
“I . . . asked you . . . why . . .”
I am not sure how to answer, what to answer, and my throat and mouth seem too dry to form words anyway, and I suddenly wonder if there is anyone else nearby, anyone else who might hear me, might come and help me . . .
And so I scream, scream harder and louder than I have ever screamed before, even though my ears still don’t register the sound, my own violent screams sounding distant, under the same thick, noiseless water that masks the voice of my tormentor.
And then all the air is driven from me as I feel a sharp, crushing pain in my side, as though my body has been smashed in half with a massive hammer.
(. . . a ball hammer . . .)
I gag again, feel my ribs broken, my insides ruptured, and I feel blood trickling out of my mouth, and I hear the sounds of laughter in the background, sinister, evil laughter . . .
I want to cry, but there is nothing left inside – no tears, no sound, no hope.
“You’ll . . . talk . . .” the voice says, and I know it is right, I will talk, I will tell everything I know, anything they want to hear, anything to stop the pain.
“I . . . want to . . . fuck her . . .” a voice says, and the ice hits my veins again, I know there are at least two people here with me for sure now, I know that I have no chance . . . no chance at all . . .
“Go . . . on . . . then . . .” the first voice says. “Fuck . . . the . . . bitch . . .”
There is more laughter, and then I feel hands on my body, all over me, I feel hands roughly parting my legs, pushing them aside, I feel other hands holding me, restraining me; and then I feel a hot pain as something hard, something warm, forces its way violently inside me, I hear laughter, grunting, grunting and laughter as I am raped, and the tears stream down my face, I scream again, louder now, louder, louder, I scream and scream and scream until he finishes inside me and pulls out, slamming his fist into my gut a moment later and leaving me doubled in pain, and I hear the muttered curse of Whore as the hands come away and I am left there, swinging helplessly from my rope, a hateful wetness dripping from my thighs, crying, crying and still screaming . . .
. . . screaming . . .
. . . and then I pass out, and – mercifully – can feel no more.
2
Another savage blow to my gut wakes me up, long before I have reached the point where I can be transported away, to a different time, a different day.
I feel cool metal against my flesh then, know that one of my abductors is holding a knife to my skin, know that more pain is coming, know that if I turn away, try and struggle free, then the pain will only be worse, and so I grit my teeth and tense, tense, tense as the sharp blade slices through the skin of my thighs, opening me up, I try and ignore the sharp, stinging agony of the wounds, the feel of blood as it drips down my body, even as the knife traces higher, cuts across my abdomen, up to my arms, stabbing deeper, the blade penetrating the muscle tissue of my biceps, twisting, tearing . . .
And then the pain is too much, and I start to scream again, unable to help myself, and I twist and turn on my hook in a desperate, useless bid for freedom, the movement making the knife dig deeper, cut harder, hurt more . . .
And in the background is the laughter, the deep, sinister laughter of the shadow-killers as they play their games with me, safe in the knowledge that they will never be found, never be caught, never be brought to justice . . .
Through the pain and the agony, I know that if I can only just fall asleep, if I can only be left alone long enough to sleep, I might still be able to get away from here, to get out, to escape to a different time . . .
“Just . . . need more time . . .” I whisper helplessly, the words barely audible.
“More . . . time . . .?” the voice queries, followed by a slap to the face, a punch to the gut. “More . . . time . . .?” A laugh follows, sharp and guttural. “Sure . . . have some . . . time . . . but we . . . will be . . . back . . .”
A slap, then a door opens and closes, and then there is silence, a silence only interrupted by the pitter-patter of my blood as it drips onto the cold floor beneath me.
The door opens again, and my heart reacts badly, my stomach churning hard, but there is no pain, no hitting, only the sound of a loudly ticking clock, placed somewhere close by. “There’s . . . your fucking . . . time . . . Whore . . .” one of the voices says, and I hear the door close again.
Have they gone? I wonder, my body still tense as I await further punishment. Have they really gone?
The next few tentative, terrifying moments turn into minutes, and I start to believe they really have left me alone, for now at least, and the space gives me time to reflect on what they have done to me, how they have hurt me, degraded me, defiled me in a way worse than I could have ever imagined.
But you knew they did this to Lynette, don’t you?
But that was her! This is me!
You think you’re better than her? Because of your rich daddy? Is that it? She deserves this, and you don’t?
No, no, that’s not what I meant, it’s not, I don’t think that, I don’t!
Bullshit, you believe it, you think Lynette and girls like her ask for this, but not you, not a do-gooder little rich kid daddy’s girl like you, right? Right? Right?
No! Shut up!
Why won’t even my mind leave me alone?
I have to ignore those voices, I have to sleep, I have to force myself to sleep, to sleep, sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep . . .
I don’t know how much time passes, but it is enough for my body to take over from my mind, to begin to relax, and I start to count the ticks of the clock, to take my mind off the horrors I am facing, the horrors I have yet to face.
Sixty ticks . . . a minute . . .
Three hundred . . . five minutes . . .
A thousand . . .
And at last, I feel myself starting to drift off, drift away into the dream-world, a dream-world that might be my only chance of salvation.
I see my dogs, bouncing and happy, the horses in my fields, the sky blue and wonderful overhead, I am in one of the green, green fields stroking Hero’s flank, my house a pretty picture in the background, I am –
The shrill, piercing noise of an old-fashioned alarm bell rings then, a deafening din that wakes me instantly, shocks me, frightens me, terrifies me, a noise that goes right through me.
A moment later, I hear the door open, people laughing, and I know that leaving me alone was just one more form of torture, they were allowing me to relax, just so that they could frighten me anew, weaken my defenses, make me even more vulnerable than before.
And then the terror starts again, I feels blows raining down on me, feel my legs pulled roughly apart as I am raped once more, beaten around the head, the legs, the arms, and I feel my will to live leaving me slowly but surely, and I long to be left alone by these animals, I long for death as the torture continues, blood dripping from my skin, from inside me . . .
And then they are gone once more, with wild grunts of whore and bitch their only form of communication with me, and I wonder if they are right, I am a bitch, I am a whore, I deserve this . . . I deserve this . . .
I am left again with the ticking clock, asking myself if it is worth it, to be here instead of Lynette Hyams, for the anger of my abductors to be vented on me instead of her, and I hate myself for my answer but NO! it is not worth it, not worth it at all, I would swap places with her in a heartbeat if given a choice right now, I would send her here and go back to my quiet life of ignorance and innocence, away from this prison, away from these people . . .
I hate myself, but I would sacrifice her for my own safety, I would, I would, I would . . .
You wouldn’t . . .
Yes I would, I fucking would!
Fuck Lynette Hyams, damn her to hell! Damn her to hell!!!
She should be h
ere instead of me!
The clock continues to tick, taunting me, teasing me, terrifying me, until the alarm rings again and brings a fresh batch of HELL upon me, I am raped once more, cut by knives, hit by hammers, my nails pulled from my fingertips, bones cracked, teeth broken, and then they leave me again . . .
And on and on the pattern continues, pain mounting upon pain, insult upon insult, fear upon fear, terror upon terror . . .
The rape, the torture, the beating . . . the ticking of the clock in the cold, dank emptiness of my prison . . . the alarm . . .
I do not know how long I have been here for, I do not know when I last ate or drank, I do not know how many times I have been raped, stabbed, cut, hit, punched, kicked, I do not know what is left of me, if there is any trace of Jessica Hudson left or if I am just an empty shell, a living corpse.
All I know, when the alarm sounds, is that my tormentors are back, but this time I am taken down from the rope and pinned down on the ground, bent over, and before I can react I feel something hard being forced inside me from behind, something hard and wooden forced inside my . . . my . . .
The pain is intense, worse than before, and the pain and humiliation is too much to bear, too much to accept, and I know one of the men will be there soon, in its place, the ultimate defilement, and know there is only one way out, one option left, and I bite down hard on my tongue, as hard as I can, bite through the thick meat with my jagged, broken teeth, and I feel my tongue erupt in a geyser of blood, filling my mouth, and I gag but keep my mouth tightly closed, choking on my own blood, killing myself with my own blood . . .
Anything, anything but this, better death than this I think as I bite deeper, more blood filling my throat, choking me, and my lips keep shut, keeping the blood in, and I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I can’t feel . . .
I do not know if death will transport me, if I will switch days before it is too late, or if everything will soon be over, but as the mist descends and I see the red moon, the huge RED MOON within that mist, brutal, massive and all-knowing, I understand – as I continue to choke on my own blood – that either way, the end is near.
The end, mercifully, is here.
DAY EIGHT
1
I wake up screaming.
I am screaming and I cannot stop.
I tell myself to stop, to stop, to stop, but I cannot.
The screams come from a place I cannot access, that I have no power over.
Am I alive? Am I dead?
I do not know, I cannot see anything, can hear nothing except for the screams, my screams, the screams that I know might never end, should never end, not after what has happened to me, what has been done to me.
I hear another sound then, and without conscious thought, my screams die down, become rapid, ragged breaths, helpless and weak.
The other sound, I realize now, is the sound of dogs whining . . . my dogs, whining at the door, pawing at it, scared by my screams.
My eyes are adjusting now too, and I start to see again, little by little . . .
I am in my room, the door the dogs are pawing at is my bedroom door.
I am here. I am home.
I start to sob now – deep, convulsing sobs that wrack my entire body – as images, memories, sensations, flood my mind, things I never want to think of again, things I never want to feel again.
The pain, the terror, the violation of my body, my mind, it is all too much for me to handle and I pull the covers tight around me, ignoring the dogs, I just curl into a protective ball and cry. I cry, and I do not stop, I cannot stop.
I know the horses are outside, I need to go to them, but I can’t, I daren’t; I’m too afraid, I cannot leave my room, I cannot leave my bed.
All I can do is hold myself, and cry.
I don’t know how long it lasts – maybe minutes, perhaps hours; but by the time the tears are gone, eyes swollen and painful, the sunlight filtering into my room through the half-closed curtains is stronger than when I’d first woken, the sun high in the sky.
I wonder – did it happen?
Did it really happen?
I let the covers drop slightly, turn my face to the light; the terror is still with me, but – although it takes a few moments – I realize that the pain has gone; the terrible, mind-numbing, soul-crushing pain that consumed me entirely for hours, maybe days, has finally gone.
Did it even happen in the first place?
My hands reluctantly pull the covers down further and I fearfully examine my body – no bruises, no cuts, no scars; no damage whatsoever. I daren’t check any further, don’t want to look there, don’t want to think about it, never want to think about it again – even the thought of checking brings back those images again, those memories, the fear, the pain, the humiliation, the devastation, the . . .
And then the covers are up around me once more, I am curled in ball, and I am not sure if I will ever move again.
By the time I finally summon the courage to check my cellphone, it reads 12:18. The morning has gone, filled with tears and dread, confusion and horror.
I check the date, re-check it; it’s October 7th, the day before I drive to Anchorage and rescue Lynette, substitute myself for her into the killer’s sick prison.
Nothing has happened at all, none of my experiences, none of it at all – Lynette is still alive, Douglas Menders is still alive, nobody has been arrested or seen the inside of a jail cell, Dennis Hobson hasn’t had his face burned off.
My body sags. What was the point? I wonder. What the hell was the point of waking up on the 8th? Of going to Anchorage? Putting Lynette on that plane?
She’s still there, being pimped out by her boyfriend.
What the fuck was the point?
I get the confidence to check the rest of my body, look beneath the covers and check everything, every little part of me, from head to toe.
There are no marks, no bruises, nothing; I am clean, uninjured.
Like nothing ever happened.
Maybe nothing did happen?
Maybe it was all a dream, just a dream, none of it was real, none of it at all . . .
And yet the memories are so vivid, so brutal, so intense, that it is inconceivable that it was all a dream, just impossible.
Isn’t it?
What sort of proof is there, if nothing has happened yet?
I grab the phone again, call Palmer PD. “Is Chief Taylor there?” I ask when the call is answered. I don’t have Ben’s number on my cell anymore, and I didn’t memorize it.
The lady at the other end tells me he is, asks who’s calling, tells me to wait . . . and then, after an interminably long time, what seems like hours but is probably only seconds, the friendly, familiar voice of Ben Taylor comes on the line.
“Ms. Hudson,” he says, “how are you? How can I help you today?”
“Do you like jazz?” I ask, realizing how odd the question sounds but no longer caring. What does any of it matter anymore, anyway?
“What’s that?” Ben asks, obviously confused. “Do I like jazz? Why –”
“Please don’t ask why I’m asking,” I say quickly, “just know that it’s important. To me, anyway. Do you like it? Listening to it? Playing it?”
“Well,” he says, his voice unsure, “yeah, I do as a matter of fact, I love it. Listening to it, playing it, both. Do a bit on the piano when I can, you know, when I’m not too busy.”
Holy shit, I think. It’s not a dream. None of it.
“But come on,” he says, “I’ve got to know, why are you asking?”
“Oh,” I say, thinking quickly, “someone mentioned you liked it, and I’ve got some records an old boyfriend left me, I thought I’d bring them to the party on Saturday night, if you’re going?”
“What, Artie’s party?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Artie’s party.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ll be there. And if you’ve got records, I’d be glad to take them off your hands for you, thank you for thinking of me.”
An hour later and I am dressed and outdoors, tending to the horses; I am tired of calling Dawn at the AER, tired of asking Amy to come and help.
I am nervous still, frightened, and I have the Cane Corsos with me, close by my side as I walk the fields.
There are no physical scars on my body, nothing to remind me of what has happened; but the mental scars run deep, might never be healed. I want to spend the rest of my life back in my house, my room, my bed; but the horses deserve better than that, the dogs deserve better.
And I still have to answer the question that has been buzzing around my mind all day, even while I was cowering beneath my covers, struggling to forget.
What was the point of it all?
Because I know there is a reason, I can feel it somewhere deep inside; and the knowledge that there is a purpose helps me to concentrate on something else, something other than my torment at the hands of those rapists, those killers.
There is a reason, and it’s teasing at the edge of my consciousness, there but just beyond my reach.
But I know that I do understand the reason, I do know why I am back here, why things haven’t sorted themselves out, why time didn’t go back to normal, why getting Lynette to safety wasn’t enough; I just don’t want to admit it, to verbalize it out loud.
Because if I admit it, I am going to have to deal with it.
And I am too scared to do what needs to be done.
Because I know, in my heart of hearts, that I made a mistake; all I did when I put Lynette Hyams on that plans was remove a single victim, save a single person.
But the killers were – are – still out there, able to do whatever they want, to whoever they want.
Like me.
And I know that the reason I am here, on this day, is because I got the mission wrong.
It was never about saving Lynette, at least not directly.
Red Moon Rising Page 29