Beneath the Bleak New Moon

by Debra Purdy Kong

  “I just got here.”

  Casey wanted to ask MacKenna what he meant by chance racers, but a car horn blasted and one of the civilians she’d asked to help with traffic was now yelling at a driver.

  “Hey, Double D,” MacKenna said. “Can you organize traffic control before someone else gets mowed down?” Without waiting for a response, MacKenna spoke into his radio, while Denver met up with two more officers. “Okay, I want everyone on the sidewalk,” MacKenna said to the spectators. “You people are trampling on a crime scene and blocking traffic.” He herded them toward the curb.

  When Denver returned, Casey said, “I’ve never seen MacKenna before. Rookie?”

  “No. He has a whole five years. Been brown-nosing his way up the ladder like a monkey on speed.”

  Denver had been a patrol officer for fifteen years. He once told her he wasn’t the ambitious type, and that the criminology classes were simply to keep up. She had no idea if he felt he had to, or whether someone had told him to, but she’d always sensed that Denver’s story was more complicated than he wanted her to know.

  “You said one of the vehicles was a Lexus.” Denver moved closer to Rod and opened his notebook. “Can you tell me anything else about the vehicle?”

  “Not really. The windows weren’t tinted or anything.”

  “I got a glimpse of the Lexus driver,” said the teenager with the flashlight. “He was white and looked about my age.”

  “Where were you when you saw him?” Denver asked.

  “Standing on the corner.” He pointed to the northeast corner. “I was walking south, waiting for the light to change.”

  “Then you would have seen the jogger?” Casey asked.

  “She passed right in front of me,” the teenager answered. “I heard people yelling at her to watch out, but she was wearing earphones.”

  Casey glanced at the road. She hadn’t noticed an iPod or anything.

  “What else can you tell me about the driver?” Denver asked the teen.

  “Clean-shaven, wore glasses, and he looked kind of scared, but I only saw him for, like, three seconds.”

  “Was he alone?” Denver asked.

  “I think so.”

  The second gauze pad had soaked through. “Where in hell is that ambulance?” Casey muttered.

  “I saw the passenger in the car that hit her,” a shaky female voice said.

  Casey looked up at a middle-aged woman fumbling with the ends of a blue wool scarf.

  “Ma’am?” Denver stepped closer to her.

  The woman stared at the victim. Her lips trembled and she removed her glasses to wipe her eyes. Denver moved to block her view. “I appreciate how difficult this is, but anything you can tell us would be helpful.”

  Casey heard the kindness in his voice. All those years with VPD, and Denver still had compassion.

  “I was in the northbound curb lane.” She paused. “I probably should have looked at their license plates, but those cars made me so nervous, the way they were zipping in and out of lanes like that.” She slipped her hands into her coat pockets. “When the car stopped after hitting that poor lady, I saw a young man in the passenger seat.”

  “Can you describe him?” Denver asked.

  “I’m pretty sure he wore a gold hoop earring, like mine.” Her fingertips fluttered against the small gold circle dangling from her ear. “And a red bandanna.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  “Just his profile.” She hesitated. “His mouth was open, like he was shouting or screaming. And he wasn’t a big man. At least I think it was a man. I suppose it could have been a woman.”

  Casey’s hopes sagged. Would they ever be able to identify these guys?

  As Denver wrote down the woman’s contact information, the ambulance finally pulled up and the paramedics took over. Casey’s knees creaked as she stood, and her butt was freezing. While she removed the bloodstained gloves, she described what she knew of the victim’s medical condition.

  Rod also peeled off his gloves. “Is there someplace I could put these?”

  “Sure.” She held out an empty bag. “Thanks for your help.”

  He nodded and looked at the jogger. “Your arrival was a blessing. Maybe she’ll make it.”

  “That would be good.” Although Casey still had a bad feeling about this.

  Once Denver had finished talking to Rod, he stepped closer to Casey. “Are you working this route all week?”

  “Yes. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.” The twins’ riding schedule.

  Denver watched his colleagues direct traffic. “Another pair of eyes would help. I heard a couple days ago that several races are planned over coming weeks. Maybe this disaster will slow things down. Who knows?”

  Casey didn’t ask who had told him this. Denver placed professionalism above friendship, and since she was a civilian in VPD’s eyes, she headed back to the M7 bus, which was parked at the stop just past Forty-First Avenue. Officers had cordoned off the intersection and were rerouting traffic, so this part of Granville now seemed eerily quiet. It wasn’t supposed to be like this at eight-thirty on a Wednesday night.

  As Casey boarded the bus, Adrianna said, “Will she be okay?”

  “I don’t know.” Casey noticed that half of the passengers were gone. “Have the police talked to you?”

  “Just finished with them a minute ago. I’m free to go.”

  “Finally.” Lara threw a crumpled bag on the floor. “Let’s get moving.”

  The twins had taken seats near the front, probably for a better view of the carnage. Casey looked at the third, full bag oozing on the seat between them.

  “We’ll go after you’ve picked up your garbage and wiped off the grease your bags left on both seats.”

  Lara’s hate-filled eyes were fixed on Casey.

  “Just do it, Lara,” Paige said, handing her a wad of paper napkins from the remaining full bag. “We’re really late.”

  Lara jumped up and stomped toward the back.

  “You’ve got blood on your jeans,” Paige remarked to Casey.

  Casey spotted dark smears above the knees and felt a little queasy. As she slid into the seat behind the twins, she watched the ambulance leave. Denver and other officers were placing markers on the road next to bits of debris. The crowd on the sidewalk had started to disperse, and MacKenna was taking a closer look at skid marks.

  Casey looked up at the night sky and tried to spot the dark new moon. In short minutes, it felt as if the whole world had become bleaker and more somber. So much for fresh starts.

  TWO

  SOMETIMES, THE MOST HEARTFELT PRAYERS weren’t enough. And sometimes, all the medical talent in the world couldn’t mend a body ripped apart inside. Casey had known this long before Wednesday night, yet news of the jogger’s death still filled her with grief, helplessness, and fury. Images of that poor woman flying through the air had haunted her sleep for the past three nights.

  Casey picked up the Vancouver Contrarian and read, More Street Racing Carnage in black bold letters. Beneath the heading: On October twenty-seventh, street racers struck and killed twenty-nine-year-old Beatrice Dunning, a Vancouver high school science teacher.

  Casey tossed the paper onto the living room floor. There was no need to read the article a fourth time. She knew it by heart; hell, she’d lived it. The trip to Vancouver General Hospital later that night . . . meeting the grief-stricken parents and learning from Denver—who’d also come by—that Beatrice had died in the ambulance. The moment Chuck Dunning started thanking her for trying to save his daughter, Casey lost it and collapsed into a tearful embrace with both parents.

  She folded the Province and the Vancouver Sun newspapers. Both had printed factual stories. The smaller, edgier Contrarian, however, had been publishing a gripping series on street racing by journalist Danielle Carpenter. Carpenter had written about the emotional toll racing took on the families, friends, and colleagues of those killed, or severely injured, by racers who believ
ed they were invincible.

  Casey picked up the Contrarian again and found herself reading another piece by Carpenter, this one in the editorial section. Over two hundred young people have died in high-speed crashes in British Columbia in recent years. Innocent bystanders have also been killed: people walking by the road, standing on curbs, waiting at bus stops; children riding bicycles. Skulls have been crushed and limbs severed, simply because of the need for speed.

  Casey pictured Beatrice’s bloodied face.

  The police and the public must do more to catch those with too much horsepower and too few brains. Parents need to stop buying their kids expensive cars and expensive lawyers. If they refuse, then perhaps parents should share a cell with their kids. Judges must stop handing down pathetically light sentences.

  Casey paced around the living room. To stop street racing would be like trying to stop a tornado in its tracks. Once these guys started up, one could see it coming, anticipate its path and destruction, but how could anyone prevent the maelstrom from playing itself out when everything was happening so fast? As far as Casey knew, the police still had no leads on the hit-and-run vehicle. Maybe they never would.

  Lou entered the room, carrying a large cardboard box marked HALLOWEEN. Summer followed with two more boxes. Cheyenne trotted after her, tail wagging, carrying a plastic orange pail in her mouth.

  “We’ve left decorating too late,” Summer said, gathering her dark hair—still damp from swim practice—in a ponytail. “We’ll be lucky to finish before the party. This year, we should start on Christmas right after Remembrance Day, to cheer this room up.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Lou said.

  Casey barely glanced at the walls, well aware that this big old room of Rhonda’s sure needed something. Dark wall paneling, an ancient burgundy sofa, and wall-to-wall red shag carpet hardly lifted one’s spirits. The dreary room reminded Casey of Rhonda’s absence.

  As Summer took the pail from her golden retriever, Casey wondered how badly the girl missed her mother right now. Rhonda loved this holiday . . . all holidays. For a while, Summer had acted out and threatened to leave home, but once she’d re-established contact with Rhonda, she’d settled down. Casey was relieved that Rhonda had decided to stay as involved as possible in her daughter’s life, though the arrangement was far from perfect. Frustration was beginning to set in, as Rhonda repeatedly told Casey to ensure that Summer did her chores and homework. Then she had the gall to follow up with phone calls to see if Casey was staying on top of things.

  “Everything okay?” Lou asked Casey, his face pensive.

  “Yeah, fine.” Or it would be once she stopped being so maudlin. She’d been grateful that he’d stayed over last night. A comforting hug after another nightmare had calmed her down.

  “Are you sure?” Lou wandered toward her. The worry in his gray eyes contradicted his happy face T-shirt.

  Casey liked that he was only a little taller than her, and that she didn’t have to reach too far to touch his hair. “I’ve been reading the papers again.”

  Lou placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Want to help us make this room even spookier?”

  She appreciated the attempt to cheer her up, but she’d rather get out of here. “Actually, I should pick up some groceries, then start the housework.”

  She didn’t look forward to the cleaning part. Becoming Summer’s legal guardian was a big enough responsibility, but when Rhonda had also asked her to become caretaker for this big old house, Casey knew that a lot of her free time would be lost. Summer preferred to use this room and the large kitchen at the back rather than hang out in Casey’s third-floor apartment. Although Summer kept the kitchen clean, for the most part, Casey was the one who washed the floor and cleaned the fridge. She also did most of the yard work.

  Mercifully, the two tenants occupying the second-floor studio suites paid their rent on time and were rarely home, which meant little work in that respect. Still, with a job plus school, she’d been tired a lot these past eighteen months. Rhonda wouldn’t be eligible for parole for another eight and a half years, a reality Casey didn’t want to think about.

  “Remember how late we were last year with Christmas?” Summer opened her box. “We didn’t even set up the village.”

  “I’ll help you,” Lou said. “It’ll be fun.”

  “You truly are a holiday junkie,” Casey remarked.

  “I like to celebrate stuff, like the fact that we’ve been going out one year, five months, and twenty-two days.”

  Casey looked at him. “Have you been crossing the days off a calendar?”

  “I figured it out last week, just for fun.” Lou lifted a life-sized, glow-in-the-dark skeleton out of the box. He laughed as Cheyenne barked at the skeleton, then sniffed it all over. “We’re going to miss you tonight,” Lou said to Casey. “With your seniority, you shouldn’t have to work till 2:00 AM on a Saturday night.”

  Casey said nothing. What could she say? Lou knew she’d never really cared for Halloween silliness. She’d only agreed to this one because Summer had asked for a party and Lou had volunteered to host it. From there, things had evolved into inviting a few of his buddies over as well.

  “How many friends are coming tonight?” Casey asked Summer.

  “Six, and maybe one more.” She removed a row of paper witches from the box. “His name’s Jacob.”

  A guy friend? This was new. Until recently, Summer had come home from school complaining about how disgusting boys were.

  “Is he a classmate?” Casey asked.

  “Yeah, in math and science.” She pulled Cheyenne’s inquisitive snout out of the Halloween box. “We sort of hang out.”

  Sort of? What did that mean, or should she ask? “Make sure Jacob’s parents know there will be plenty of adults around, and that the kids will only be drinking pop,” Casey said. “If his parents need to talk to me, you can give them my cell and landline numbers.”

  “I’ll call him later.”

  Lou rummaged through a box. “Do you have any corn syrup and red food coloring? I need to make blood.”

  Disgusting. “I’ll put them on my grocery list.” Her cell phone rang.

  When she answered, a quiet male voice said, “Miss Holland, this is Chuck Dunning, Beatrice’s father.”

  “Oh.” Her breath caught in her throat. “Hi.” Casey stepped into the hallway. She’d given Mr. Dunning her business card and said he could contact her if he needed anything.

  “I’ve, uh, that is, my wife and I have made funeral arrangements.” When his voice cracked, Casey’s cheeks grew warm. She sat on the bottom step of the staircase by the front door. “We were hoping you could come to the service.”

  It was a kind gesture, but she hadn’t known Beatrice. Attending would seem intrusive. “That’s nice of you. When is it?”

  “Tuesday at eleven.” As he gave her the name of the church, the despair in his voice made her want to cry. “We’d really appreciate it if you could come. After all, you helped try to save my little girl.” He choked on the last word.

  Casey’s eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “It’s just that . . . Well, this is so . . .”

  “I understand.” Casey rested her elbow on her knee and placed her hand on her forehead. “I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you.”

  As he disconnected, a chorus of “Whooooh” followed by Summer and Lou’s laughter in the living room jolted Casey. She wiped her eyes, plastered on a smile, and returned to the Halloween merriment.

  THREE

  THE HEELS ON CASEY’S PUMPS sank into the cemetery’s soggy grass. Standing in one spot for so long hadn’t been a great idea, but she’d been afraid to fidget, to show how uneasy and out of place she felt. A large group had gathered at Beatrice Dunning’s grave. Boots, gloves, hats, and umbrellas obscured her view of the many wreaths surrounding the polished casket. It was just as well. Funeral wreaths and caskets depressed her, as did the
sparse maple trees carefully interspersed among tidy rows of plaques. She had assumed the interment would be for family and close friends; however, as she’d paid her respects to the Dunnings after the service, Mrs. Dunning had gripped Casey’s hands and said, “See you at the cemetery.” Not a request or command, but an assumption; one that would have been rude to contradict.

  In front of Casey, Beatrice’s female students clung to each other and wept, while the boys stood apart with their heads lowered, hands rising furtively to wipe their eyes. Other guests dabbed noses or struggled to keep umbrellas upright in the occasional gust of wind. In the past few minutes, the rainfall had fizzled into a light sprinkle, yet umbrellas stayed up. Casey didn’t blame people for wanting a partial shield from so much grief. Today, she’d learned that a stranger’s funeral wasn’t much easier to bear than one for someone she’d known.

  Casey spotted a short South Asian woman staring at her. This same person had sat in the pew across from her in the church. Three times, Casey had caught the woman watching her. The first time, she’d smiled at Casey and nodded. Later, she simply stared as if to say, who are you and why are you here? Despite the dark lipstick and black eyeliner, this woman barely looked twenty, too young to be a teacher, too old to be one of Beatrice’s current biology students. Perhaps a former student?

  Tiring of the woman’s stare, Casey looked away and focused on the few orange and yellow leaves still clinging to the branches of an enormous maple tree by the cemetery’s fence. Behind the tree trunk, someone dressed in black was watching the funeral. The individual was petite enough to be female, yet something about the wide stance and the way their hands were shoved in their pockets made Casey think this was a man.

  Was he a curious bystander? One of Beatrice’s students? Or was he someone with a guilty conscience? TV and radio newscasters had announced the date and time of the service. Casey’s heart beat a little faster.

  The minister asked everyone to pray. Casey lowered her head as far as she could without losing sight of the man by the tree. When he headed for the gate leading out of the cemetery, she shifted her weight back and forth until her heels were free. Glancing over her shoulder, Casey took a small step back. She hadn’t noticed any police watching the crowd, but this was a large crowd. They could be filming the mourners. If they were here, were they watching the guy leave? She moved slowly to avoid drawing too much attention and didn’t see anyone else follow him. After clearing the group, Casey hurried after the bystander. The guy walked at a fast clip. Casey started to jog.