Red Moon Rising

by J. T. Brannan

  A narrow escape, I guess.

  As I walk, I subconsciously use my thumb to stroke my empty ring finger. My hands were never tanned enough to have a visible mark – I worked too hard, too many hours indoors under cold, filtered electronic lighting for that – but the mark is there all the same, within my mind.

  I sigh inwardly, involuntarily, wondering if it will ever go away. Do I miss Paul? My mind says no, of course you don’t; he’s a thoroughbred bastard just like your father; he left you when you were in a coma, for crying out loud! And yet my heart refuses to listen. Stupid thing.

  I suppose the only person I really miss – with both my head and my heart – is my middle brother Jack, and the sad truth is that he’s been dead since he threw himself out of his apartment window fifteen years ago at the heart-breaking age of twenty. I close my eyes to the thoughts, blinking them away. Not now, I tell myself. Not now.

  I check my watch, note the time, realize I’d better start getting ready soon. There is a party at Artie Jenkin’s place tonight, and – after so long alone – I’m looking forward to it.

  Artie is my nearest neighbor – although he lives half a mile away, his is the nearest house out of the six other ranches that are spread across this part of the valley, and he mentioned the party when I bumped into him in Palmer the week before.

  He’d asked me to attend his party, claiming such affairs were legendary around these parts. His brother was coming up from Seattle – it was going to be something of a meet-and-greet for him – and I’d forced myself to say “yes”.

  After all this time, I’d figured, why the hell not?

  I’d later found out that he’d been telling the truth when he’d said lots of people would be there; according to the girls in Eagles Creek, Artie’s parties are legendary. Go figure.

  It’s been the talk of Palmer over the past few days; the chief of police, school governors, the heads of Palmer’s biggest firms, even the town mayor are going to be there.

  After New York, I was a little nervous of being around people, but if anyone got out of hand, Ben Taylor would sort it out. The Chief of Palmer Police Department, Ben was a strong, decent man, a professional in every sense. He’d come to see me, aware of my background and my recent history, and made it clear that he could be called upon night and day if I needed him. I think he sees the possibility of another attack, Zebunac’s goons coming back to finish the job. Part of him, I think, would welcome the change of pace. The other side – the more pragmatic, sensible side – would surely not.

  There’s nothing to worry about on that score anyway, I consider as I walk back across the fields to my farmhouse, checking on the large tracts of vegetables as I go, Molly my Border Collie – friend and loyal farmhand – close at my heel. If Zebunac wanted the job finished, he could have had me killed in hospital. Besides which, there was no point; he had gotten what he wanted. I was unable to continue with the case, a less prepared replacement was substituted, and the state lost. Zebunac went free. And – as if to add insult to injury – the gunmen were never found.

  It pains me still, that lost court case. I wasn’t even there, and yet I see it as a failure. It was a failure. How could he have escaped conviction? I sometimes wonder whether the DA’s office was indeed intimidated, as Zebunac had clearly hoped, not tried hard enough as a result; but perhaps that was unfair.

  The bottom line, though, is that I am under no threat; I’d been removed from the case as if I’d been dead anyway. Mission accomplished. It would serve no purpose to go after me now.

  That’s what I tell myself, anyway; but the fear that constantly eats away at my gut tells me something else entirely.

  Back at the house now, I open the screen door to the kitchen and see Nero and Luna sat waiting for me, eyes up, ears pricked back, as if to disprove my previous thoughts. Black brindle Cane Corso, pure-bred Italian mastiffs a hundred and fifty pounds apiece. Guard dogs. Beautiful, but damn good at their job, which – yes, I’ll admit it – is keeping me safe. Because although my conscious mind accepts the fact that Zebunac will have no interest in me now, out here in the middle of nowhere, my mind can play tricks on me. Sounds, shadows, feelings; I am often unnerved out here, used as I am to the constant cacophony of a big city. Out here, the wind in the trees still makes me jump. And so – whereas Molly helps me around the farm – the two big guys keep me safe. They would protect me with their lives, and that gives me peace of mind. Maybe I’m not completely healed yet, after all.

  The dogs sit up instants before the kitchen phone rings, almost as if they sensed the electricity racing through the cables. I wipe my hands on my work trousers and pick up.

  “Jess?” the all-too familiar voice on the other end of the line says, thousands of miles away. “It’s Paul. We need to talk.”

  My stomach turns, and I know Nero and Luna cannot protect me from everything.

  2

  I ring the doorbell, wondering if anyone will hear it; the noise coming from inside the house is terrific. The phone call from Paul, out of the blue after so many months, is playing on my mind, but I make a conscious effort not to think about it. I can’t let it spoil my night.

  Seconds later the door is opened, Artie standing there with a big smile on his face. “Jess,” he beams, “you made it! Come in, come in.”

  He gestures me inside the big farmhouse, and I hand him a covered plate of shortbread as I go.

  The house is already filled with people even at this early hour. Everyone has a drink in their hand, and one appears in my own as if by magic. “Rum punch,” Artie tells me. “It’s got quite a kick, so be careful. Now come on, I want you to meet my brother.”

  He takes me through the throngs of guests to the far side, where a handsome, bearded man is leaning against an oak counter, laughing with friends in between sips of bottled beer. Except for the beard, he’s the spitting image of Artie. Then I spy the teeth, and realize that perhaps he’s not quite as handsome as I thought.

  “Pat,” Artie says, “this is my neighbor, Jessica, she just moved here from New York a few months ago.”

  I see Pat lever himself upright, extending a hand. I take it gingerly, and he smiles. “A fellow Outsider,” he says, and I’m not sure if I find it ingratiating or offensive – outsiders are how Alaskans refer to people from the “Lower 48” states. It’s a party however, so I decide to go with ingratiating. “Delighted to meet you.” He extends a hand and I shake it.

  “Pat’s wife and kids haven’t been able to make it unfortunately,” Artie explains, “so he’s up here by himself this time.”

  Pat smiles. “A bit of freedom at last,” he jokes, although I can’t be entirely sure it is a joke. “No,” he says, taking a pull of his beer, “Julia – that’s my wife – she’s snowed under with work right now, and my kids have both got exams coming up, they couldn’t really afford the time off from school.”

  Nice, I think. His wife is snowed under, so he’s left her alone with her work and the children. “Oh,” I say, before realizing that something else might be required here. How do conversations work again? Damn, it’s been a long time. “What does your wife do?” I ask eventually. That’s the sort of thing people ask, isn’t it?

  “Oh, nothing world-changing,” Pat says, and again I think: nice. It’s just lovely how he values her. “She just works in a travel firm, and it’s a busy time of year, people trying to get last-minute deals, you know.” He finishes his beer, another one appearing instantly in his big dry hand. “She gets good prices for flights though, my ticket out here cost next to nothing.”

  I’m still thinking of what to say next, my social skills badly receded by months of solitude and introspection, when Artie touches my arm. Is he going to rescue me? I wonder hopefully.

  “Sorry Jess,” he says, disengaging himself, “I need to circulate, do the host thing, you know? But Pat here will look after you, won’t you Pat?”

  The brothers’ eyes meet, both pairs twinkling with some unknown understanding. I feel
faintly disturbed.

  “You bet,” Pat says, smiling at me. “Us Americans will stay right out of your way.” I know now that Pat is not ingratiating.

  I take my first sip of rum punch, and it hits my throat hard. I shudder involuntarily, and Pat laughs. “Strong stuff, yeah?” He shrugs his big shoulders. “Artie’s made that crap for years, same recipe since he was a kid. It’ll burn the stomach lining off all the bums in Seattle, that stuff, I guaran-damn-tee it.” He raises his beer. “That’s why I’m sticking to these.”

  He finishes off the bottle and grabs another, his third in as many minutes. I take another sip of my own, prepared this time. “It’s not so bad,” I say casually.

  “So what brought you up here anyway?” Pat says. “Escaping from something?”

  I’m amazed at the arrogance of the man, his utter lack of charm. But I’m here at a party, and he’s someone to practice on, at least.

  I shrug my shoulders. “Well, the Serbian mafia shot me in the head last year to stop me trying a case against them in New York. I was in a coma for six months, when I woke up I’d lost the case, my job and my fiancée. So you could say I’m escaping from something, yes. It’s called my life. What’s your story?” I kept my gaze levelled at him as I took another hit of punch.

  Perversely, it felt good to say it out loud, get it in the open like this. Perhaps I’m not much of a charmer myself.

  “Wow,” Pat says now, holding up his hands, regret on his face. “I’m really sorry, I had no idea.”

  I soften in turn. “I’m sorry too,” I say. “I’m not used to this, it’s been a while since I’ve really had to speak to people I don’t know, I’m still trying to get back into the swing of it.”

  “Well, let me get you a refill and we can start again, okay?” he offers, and I pass him my cup, accepting the invitation. It might help me get my mind off Paul, at least.

  As he leaves with my cup, I feel a hand on my elbow and I turn, seeing the familiar, country-girl face of Larraine Harrigan beside me. We’ve met before, once or twice, but it’s Artie’s description of her that I remember best.

  “Larraine Harrigan, yeah,” he’d said. “Lives in the farm just over from me, near you, too. Amazing woman. Helps out at the shelter, amazing with the girls, really knows how to talk to them. And she still has time to look after the rest of Palmer, she’s the go-to woman for advice, brings cakes around to the police department, campaigns for the mayor. And then she still finds the time to work on the farm,” he’d continued, in open admiration. “Although I guess her boys help her out with the field work.”

  I’d met those boys too, I recall now; nice kids, polite and clean-cut, maybe about twelve and fourteen, maybe more. I’m not an expert on children’s ages, and – sadly, I recognize – probably never will be.

  But Larraine had seemed nice, and I’m glad she is here.

  “Hi,” she says, “Jessica, isn’t it?”

  “Larraine, hi,” I say, and we both lean forward, kissing the other’s cheek like long-lost friends. “It’s so nice to see you.”

  She smiles back at me, and presses a glass into my hand. I look down, see white wine. “I thought this might be more your sort of thing,” she says, and I know she is offering me a way out of my awkward situation with Artie’s brother. I appreciate the save.

  “Well, you’re not wrong,” I say, taking a grateful sip. It’s not the best, but it’s definitely better than seventy-proof rum punch. “Thanks.”

  Larraine gestures with her head. “Come on, there’re lots more people here to introduce you to,” she says. “Pat’ll understand. After all, he’ll be going back to Seattle before long, and you live here now. And these are the people you’ll be living with.” She puts her hand on my arm, a soft touch but strength seeming to be transmitted into me. “Now come on.”

  She is so right; so very, very right. Artie thought someone from Seattle would make me feel more comfortable, missing the point entirely. I came here tonight to make friends with people from my new home, right here. Larraine understands that, and I will be forever grateful to her.

  I see Pat heading back over to me, and I gesture with my head to Larraine as she leads me away, shrugging my shoulders apologetically. What can I do? I try and say. I’m helpless here.

  Pat smiles and shrugs himself, but – as he downs the punch in one go and casts the cup carelessly to one side before starting on his own bottle of beer – I can see another reaction entirely, barely restrained underneath.

  I follow Larraine gladly from the kitchen.

  3

  Over the next couple of hours, I meet an incredible variety of people, my social skills being prized back out of my subconscious slowly but surely; the white wine helps, I’ll admit.

  She makes sure I know the rest of my neighbors first; they are all here at Artie’s party, and they all tell me they wouldn’t have missed it for the world, they never do.

  Bill and Rachel Townsend are the old grandees of the valley, they’ve lived here for the past forty years or more, in the same house, which Bill built with his own hands; and then there are the Latimers, a solid nuclear family of four who moved here from Fairbanks just a few years ago; Tom Judd is a retired judge, a widower who splits his time between his farmstead here and an apartment in Anchorage; and Claude and Lea Eberle, French Canadians with six pre-teen children, make up the last ranch in our little hamlet.

  Larraine is like a magician of some sort, leaving me alone when appropriate, coming back to introduce me to others when it seems it will help. And all the while, she is making her own rounds of the party guests, always welcome, everyone happy to see her. Her children are here too, and I see them making conversation with the adults, especially the men.

  I wonder if it’s because they’re looking for a male role model, living only with their Mom. Or do they? I realize I don’t know. Is there a Mr. Harrigan somewhere? I wonder if I should ask, or try and find out, but I realize I don’t know how. I used to be an Assistant DA for the whole of New York County, and now I can’t even find out about one single aspect of a woman’s life.

  I feel my shoulders sagging as I realize just how much my life has changed. Where has the hard-charging woman gone? The woman who was willing to take on the Italian mob, the Triads, the East European gangs, the Balkan criminal underworld? The woman who had made her own way, refusing hand-outs from her father, who had just started to dominate the New York legal scene with a pair of figurative brass balls? A woman with a high-rise apartment in the Upper West Side and a handsome, sexy, charming, go-getting fiancée to match?

  I put the glass of wine down, wondering if I’ve had too much. I start to zone out from the sounds of the party – the shouted bets from the poker tables in the dining room, the raucous laughter from the impromptu drinking games in the kitchen, the thumping music and dancing in the living room. All I can think about is Paul.

  He called me, wanting to know if there was still a chance for us. He apologized, he poured out his heart, he begged for forgiveness. I put the phone down.

  And yet . . . And yet . . .

  “Honey?” I hear the voice next to me, see Larraine standing there, concern on her homely features. “Are you okay?”

  I restrain the tears that want to pour down my face, but for some reason I can’t lie to her. I simply shake my head.

  She puts an arm around me and ushers me out of the room, cooing gently in my ear. “Come on,” she murmurs, sheltering me. “Come on.”

  “So now you don’t know what to do,” Larraine finishes for me.

  We’re sitting on the end of a bed in one of the upstairs rooms, far away from the party. We can’t even hear the music anymore, just the loud ticking of a clock on the bedroom dresser.

  Tick, tock, tick, tock – I think I can hear my life, melting away around me, vanishing without a trace.

  I’ve told Larraine everything; everything about New York, everything about my current state of mind.

  Artie had said that Larraine was
“great with the girls”, and I remember now where it is they work; the Anchorage Street Shelter, a drop-in refuge center for runaways, beaten women, prostitutes and other people who are in trouble and have nowhere else to go. Artie helps run the place, and Larraine is one of the volunteer counsellors. I can see now why she is good at the job; she has a nature, a manner, which demands that you just pour out your heart to her.

  I nod my head. “Yes,” I manage, the tears having come and gone by now. “I guess I’m confused.”

  “And yet here you are. A strong, intelligent woman. Not in New York, pining away after your fiancée, desperate to get him back. You moved away. You moved on. No matter what he says now, the fact is that you’ve already made your decision. A strong, intelligent decision.”

  Tick, tock, tick, tock – still the clock counts down the seconds of my life. “Damn, that thing’s annoying,” I say, and Larraine smiles.

  “Yes,” she says, “it is, isn’t it? Do you feel like your life is being counted down?” I nod, and she gestures towards the window. “Ignore it,” she urges. “Get up, go over there.” I do as I’m told, and Larraine is next to me, opening the window as I get there. The cold air hits me. Cold, but fresh. It reminds me that I’m alive. “Look out there.”

  The stars are bright here, and I can make out the great pine forest beyond Artie’s farm, the huge jagged peaks of the Bald Mountain Ridge far beyond. Even at night, the sight is beautiful.

  “This is where you live now,” Larraine whispers, “where you belong. You’ve made that decision, you’ve left the other world behind, far behind. You just have to accept it.”

  I sigh, knowing she is right. It’s the acceptance that’s so hard, the fact that things have changed. But they have changed, and there’s no going back.