Red Moon Rising

by J. T. Brannan

  RED MOON RISING

  J.T. Brannan

  Published by Grey Arrow Publishing

  Copyright © 2017 J.T. Brannan

  The right of J.T. Brannan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First Edition

  For Justyna, Jakub and Mia;

  and my parents, for their help and support

  Author’s Note

  Writing this novel has been immensely rewarding, exciting and fulfilling work. At times, it has also been damned scary. Some nights, I couldn’t sleep. It has even altered the way I see the world, to a certain extent.

  Serial killing is a major theme of this book and, to make sure I presented it as accurately as possible, I threw myself into researching this intriguing area. I devoured textbooks on the subject, true-life crime novels, fictionalized accounts, movies, documentaries, interviews with serial killers and other violent offenders, I was completely immersed. And, as a result, became increasingly disturbed.

  In fact, this novel has taken three years to write – mainly because I stopped writing after completing half of the manuscript, because I wanted to forget everything I’d ever learned about the subject. But the story kept on pulling me back, until I decided – eventually – that I had to finish it.

  Some of the scenes in this novel maybe be disturbing to the reader, so please take this as fair warning. Although this novel is pure fiction, many of the activities, behaviors and methodologies that I describe are based on real life case-histories.

  That being said, I truly hope that you enjoy Red Moon Rising. It has been a labor of love, and of terror, in equal measure.

  J.T. Brannan

  “In Einstein's equation, time is a river. It speeds up, meanders, and slows down. The new wrinkle is that it can have whirlpools and fork into two rivers. So, if the river of time can be bent into a pretzel, create whirlpools and fork into two rivers, then time travel cannot be ruled out.”

  – Michio Kaku

  “You feel the last bit of breath leaving their body. You’re looking into their eyes. A person in that situation is God!”

  – Ted Bundy

  PROLOGUE

  1

  The bullet hits me in the head at fourteen hundred feet per second.

  Blood, bone and tissue spray across the grand steps of the New York County Courthouse.

  And I am dead.

  At least that’s what I remember, what I cannot fail to remember, the final part of that day in New York, all those months ago. It was the same story that Detective Jake Franks told me, when I’d woken up in Mount Sinai half a year later. The shot to the head – along with another to the clavicle, and one more to the hip – had put me into a deep coma; I had actually been considered clinically dead, at first.

  But I didn’t die.

  Some miracle saved me, and I still don’t know why.

  My life had fallen apart around me back in New York, and all I had left when I was released from Mount Sinai was the fear. Fear of another attack, fear of what the bullet might have done to my brain, fear of what I was going to do for the rest of my life.

  Before the attack, I’d been Jessica Hudson, Harvard alumni and hard-charging Assistant DA of New York County, with a place on the Upper West Side and a fiancée who was the partner of one of New York’s most prestigious law firms. I’d had it all.

  And now?

  All I have now is the fear.

  I feel it now, as I stand in the field with one of my horses, my ranch situated right in the middle of the empty farmland of Alaska’s Mat-Su valley – an icy dread, a deep sense of foreboding I just don’t seem able to shake. I can feel the breeze even through my jacket as I brush Hero’s silken flank. It’s nearing winter now, and night-time temperatures are starting to drop rapidly.

  I try and tell myself that this is where the icy feeling in my veins comes from – it’s not the fear, it’s not, it’s not – but I know I am only lying to myself. It was this fear that drove me from my home in Manhattan to the wilds of Alaska in the first place.

  The fear that refuses to go away, no matter what I do.

  I try not to remember, try to keep my thoughts on the present, live in the moment, but it’s too hard . . . too hard . . .

  And eventually, my mind slips back to New York.

  New York . . .

  Where it all began.

  2

  Eleven Months Earlier

  Goran Zebunac is a cruel, cold-hearted son of a bitch. He raped, tortured and killed his way across the Balkans as part of Arkan’s Tigers – a ruthless paramilitary force active during the Yugoslav wars – before turning his hand to organized crime, first in his home country of Serbia, and then right here in America.

  But today is the start of the end for Goran, and I’m going to make sure he never makes it back onto the streets.

  My father – head of one of Boston’s largest law firms, a man who made his name defending the city’s Irish-American gangs, and a thoroughbred bastard – has already warned me off the case, several weeks ago. But I am treating that as I treat all other warnings.

  I am ignoring it completely.

  The DA’s office is taking things slightly more seriously however, and there are two armed NYPD undercover officers waiting outside my apartment to escort me to the courthouse. Just a precaution, they tell me.

  I look in the bathroom mirror, checking my appearance closely for this first crucial day in court. Not too much make-up, just enough to smooth the edges. It’s a balancing act, to be both professional to the judge and yet appealing to the jury.

  I look at my watch and decide to make a move; I’ll check myself again in the washrooms at the courthouse. I don’t consider myself a vain woman – who does? – but I long ago realized the necessity of looking the part. The battle is to secure a conviction, and appearance is but another weapon I use to win that battle.

  I pass the bouquet of flowers on the kitchen table and smile; a good-luck present from Paul. He’s on the other side of the business, a defense lawyer like my father, and a damned good one too. Ever the early-bird, he’s already left for the day. Paul keeps trying to convince me to go into private practice, but I think he’s finally starting to understand that it’s not going to happen. Maybe the flowers are part of that understanding.

  I let my nose drift close as I go past, the sweet scent of gardenias and roses following me as I leave the apartment.

  3

  “Good morning Ms. Hudson,” says the policeman outside my door.

  “Morning, James,” I reply cheerily. Sergeant James Traynor is a big man, six feet four and well over two hundred pounds. I don’t know how he gets on with undercover work, but as a bodyguard, he’s a terrific visual deterrent. His partner, Tom Brooks, must be waiting in the car. I know he will be watching the street, engine running. Transitions to and from the car are always the most vulnerable times, both men keep telling me.

  “How you feeling today?” James asks as we wait for the elevator.

  “Good thanks. Confident.”

  He nods his head. “Good,” he says as we move forward through the open elevator door. “He needs to be put away for a long time.”

  “You’re not wrong there. And trust me, I’ll do my best.”

  We travel the rest of the way down in silence, James alert as we move from the elevator, through the foyer, his eyes scanning the street as he ushers me towards the Ford Mercury sedan parked outside the building. One hand on the gun under his jacket, the other reaching for the door handle, opening it and sweeping me inside in one practiced movement. Seconds later, James is in the passenger seat and we’re in motion, Tom pulling the car out into the heavy morning traffic. Siren on,
and we’re turning onto Broadway in record time, heading south from the Upper West Side.

  My apartment’s in an upscale neighborhood, but it wasn’t always the case; I lived in a small one-bedroom unit in Brooklyn for five of my six years in New York. Law school didn’t come cheap, and a large part of my monthly paycheck went on loan repayments until only just recently.

  Although Paul lives with me now, he still has his own place on Amsterdam Avenue, which I see as we glide past, still overtaking the Broadway traffic. He sublets the place now, always looking to make the quick buck.

  I stare out of the windows as we cruise past the Lincoln Centre, Macy’s, the Flatiron Building. I see it all, and yet none of it, my mind gearing up for the battle ahead. Past Greenwich Village now, Soho and Little Italy, the sights filtering through my eyes without processing any of it. Focused. The boys in front know better than to talk to me; they don’t even talk to each other.

  Chinatown on the left now, the turn-off to the imposing Babylonian temple of the Criminal Courts Building swept away behind us, the case too important to be dealt with there. It is the New York County Courthouse for us today, seat of the Supreme Court; my first time as lead prosecutor within those hallowed halls. I shake the thought away, not wanting nerves to get the better of me.

  And then we’re there, and I see the huge pyramid-topped tower of the United States Courthouse opposite before the neo-classical grace of the County Courthouse, its fluted Corinthian portico giving shelter for the gathered news crews who crowd the wide steps beneath.

  “Okay Ms. Hudson,” James says from the front seat. “There’s a place for us by the steps, I’ll get out and open the door, and courthouse security will escort you inside.”

  “Thank you, James,” I say, steadying my breathing, wanting to be poised for the first shots of the cameras, the first shouted questions of the reporters.

  The big Ford rolls to a stop just as James says, right on the steps of the courthouse. He jumps out, running around to open my door, and I step out into the bright morning sunlight, hand going up reflexively to shade my eyes.

  I see James’s head turn then, even as I hear the noise. An engine, revving hard, loud rumble getting closer. Faster.

  I turn to follow James’s gaze, see the black SUV heading straight towards us across the traffic; so close now, so terrifyingly close. I hear James shout something at me, pushing me down, his hand flapping at his coat, flash bulbs going off behind me from unseen cameras; and then the massive front end of the SUV smashes into the Mercury like a medieval battering ram, smashing the vehicle over onto its side.

  The violence of the impact sends me reeling across the steps; I see the terror in Tom’s eyes as the car rolls, see James’s body trapped, crushed, by the tons of moving metal.

  A cacophony of noises, indistinct and yet curiously identifiable; camera shutters opening and closing, screech of metal on concrete; men and women screaming, shouting, car doors opening; gunshots popping.

  I look up, look across the wrecked Mercury, see a second SUV rolling to a stop in the street, two men jumping out, masks on, sticks in their hands.

  Flames shoot from the sticks, I see red mist flying across me; the men move closer, the flames brighter. The sticks are pointed at me.

  I feel a curious sensation in my chest, my hip; like a bee sting, but the force knocks me back onto the steps. I see the red mist again.

  I look up, see a man standing over me, his face black, woolen, indistinct, green eyes the only thing visible. The stick rising before me, a hole in the end.

  I see the flame, hear a rough bark; feel the bee sting in my head.

  And then nothing.

  Lights, flashing above me, around me.

  Voices, urgent, strident; other voices, calm, warm. I hear no words. I see nothing, only shadows, sinister shadow-shapes etched against the flashing lights.

  Everything is confusion. My brain cannot sift the information.

  I cannot feel anything.

  I lie flat, looking up. Faces above me, leaning in close then pulling back. I recognize no-one, again the mysterious shadow-people, marionettes in a black-and-white puppet show.

  I can hear nothing, nothing at all.

  A curtain of red streams across my vision, fluid, viscous; a storm-cloud come to take me away.

  The red fades to black, and everything is still now, so still, I can sense nothing around me except the cold.

  It is so cold.

  I feel my body giving in, releasing itself to the promise of sleep. A wonderful, deep, comforting sleep.

  The feeling is wondrous, and I know in an instant that I will never wake up.

  DAY ONE

  1

  I stroke Hero’s smooth chestnut flank with a body brush. He’s perfectly clean now, this is just to relax him; soothe him. Like me, he’s been through a lot.

  It wasn’t long after I arrived in Alaska to take possession of my farm, that I stumbled upon Alaska Equine Rescue in Eagle Creek, down the Mat-Su valley between Palmer and Anchorage.

  They were looking for suitable foster homes in which to re-house neglected and abused horses, and I immediately offered to help. One of the reasons I’d gone for Little Creek Ranch in the first place was the forty acres of grazing land that came with the property, immediately seeing horses frolicking across the fields. My dream; since becoming obsessed with riding at the age of four, always my dream. I hadn’t always wanted to be an attorney; I was going to be an eventer, mixing the style of dressage with the thrill of cross-country racing. I was going to be the best, and for a time it looked as if I might even make it. Until my father – for a reason still completely unknown to me – suddenly decided to ban me from taking part in the sport when I was thirteen.

  No more Boston Equestrian Centre, no more trips to the family ranch in Westford with its dozen horses, my beloved Beauty the best of the bunch; no more horses at all. And later, no more ranch either, sold off just three months later. It was as if my father wanted to expel the countryside from me altogether. There was just the enormous townhouse on Commonwealth Avenue, perhaps a weekly game of tennis at the Saxon courts over the bridge across the Charles River.

  But after the attack, needing a change, I drifted back to those old memories; the smell of grass and hay and horses, the sun warming my body as I ride across a field, golden-green in the heat of an Indian summer.

  Yes, I’d thought, that’s what I want.

  And with the multi-million-dollar pay-out – the damage to my brain was declared to be so severe that I would never be able to work again, certainly not in public office – I had gone ahead and bought this ranch outside Palmer. Little Creek Ranch. A childhood dream. All I’d needed were the horses.

  When I moved in, I commissioned six new stables to be built, ready and waiting. I knew what I wanted, horses just like Beauty. I could afford them myself now, so why not? I’d ride them all, every day; maybe select one and start competing again, at least locally. I wondered what the equestrian scene was like around Anchorage.

  But when I visited the AER headquarters, these ideas vanished immediately. No – this is what I would do. I would take in these poor animals which had been neglected, abused, abandoned; I would give them care, attention, and – yes – love. I would give them all the love I had.

  It’s working out well. Alaska Equine Rescue is delighted to have an extra foster home, and I am delighted to be helping. To be fair, the horses are helping me too. Helping me to heal.

  I am content now as I stroke Hero, looking across the cold, darkening fields at the other horses I look after, seven other wonderful animals I’m committed to rehabilitating until they can move on to new homes. Sometimes I have as many as ten horses here, and I’ve built more stables to accommodate them. I have twelve now – just in case – which is exactly the same number as we used to have, once upon a time, back in Westford.

  The gunshot wound to my head didn’t kill me; that was the good news, or so they told me. There was one hell of a lot o
f bad news to balance it out though.

  For example: James Traynor and Tom Brooks were killed during the attack on the courthouse, along with a reporter for WABC who was hit by a stray bullet. James was hit by seven bullets, whilst Tom was crushed when the car rolled. He lived for two days in hospital before his shattered body finally gave up. Two other officers and three more reporters sustained serious injuries. And I was hit in the clavicle and just above the hip, before one of the assassins had moved in and shot me once in the head.

  The wounds to my body were severe enough to impede my walking for the several months they took to heal; that didn’t overly concern me though, as I was in a coma from the third bullet for nearly half a year.

  By the time I did wake up, the rest of my body had healed fine; the doctors were the best my family could afford, which meant that they were the best in the country. But still, nobody really expected me to wake up – Paul sure as hell didn’t, anyway – because of the damage to my brain. The assassin’s bullet had entered above my eyebrow, the bone miraculously deflecting it away from deeper penetration and sending it up my forehead where it exited at the top of my skull. There was a tremendous amount of blood, bone and tissue spread out over those courthouse steps, but my brain received only a graze rather than being completely destroyed. Still, it was enough for discussions to be held about if and when my life support systems would be shut off.

  Luckily for me (although in my dark times, I sometimes wonder), I woke up before those decisions were finalized. Two months of physical therapy and psychological counselling followed before I was allowed home. Such as it was, anyway; Paul had already moved out, leaving the big rooms feeling desolate, empty. I would have thrown my diamond engagement ring into the Hudson Bay, if he hadn’t already taken it from my room when I was “asleep”. Always on the lookout to make a quick buck, my beloved Paul.