I think about Paul’s phone call, but discount it. It’s only troubling to me, nobody else.
“Just that damned red moon,” I say, trying my best to be light-hearted, make a joke, laugh it all away.
“The what?” Ben asks from the doorway.
“The red moon,” I repeat, “you know, the one tonight, didn’t you see it?”
Ben looks at Rob, and both men shrug their shoulders. “There ain’t been no red moon tonight Jessica,” Ben says, almost apologetically. “Barely any moon at all, just a little crescent, and that’s been as pale as it always is.”
Not knowing what to think, I storm past the two officers, wrenching open my kitchen door. Molly barely stirs, but Luna and Nero bounce to their feet. I glare at them and they lie back down.
I walk out into the cold night air, barely taking in the crowd, the taped off areas of the fields, the dead body still lying there where we left it, waiting for the ABI crime scene unit to examine it in situ; the people from the party all here now, gathered behind the cordon, whispering to each other, pointing. Circling around the dead like damned vultures. But I ignore it all, looking up to the sky, expecting to see the great fireball of the blood-red moon.
But Ben is right.
There is nothing.
And then the stress of the evening finally hits me and I am felled as if I’ve been struck with a pick-axe, fainting clean away onto the cold gravel beneath me.
I lie in bed, still hearing the noises downstairs, outside.
I wasn’t out of it for long, Ben and Rob helped me back inside the house and one of the EMTs gave me the once over and decided I could have a couple of pills and be put to bed. I waited up for the ABI, but they saw what kind of state I was in and said they would interview me tomorrow. The lead investigator gave me his card, and asked Ben if they could use the Palmer police precinct for interviews. Ben had complied readily, and I have an appointment to see them again at ten the next morning.
And now I can’t sleep. How can I? With a dead, naked girl in my front yard and half the Alaska State Troopers camped out around my house, how am I going to get to sleep?
But I realize I need to if I’m going to be in any way coherent in the morning, and so I try and think of something else . . . anything else.
I decide to think about short-bread. Making short-bread. Perhaps the most peaceful part of my day, unrelated to things living or dead. I start to wonder if Artie will like it, if he’s tried it yet, but I stop those thoughts in their tracks. No; I’m not thinking about people right now.
Butter, castor sugar, flour. Pre-heat the oven. Mix the sugar and butter together. Stir in the flour, get it nice and smooth; I feel myself starting to drift off.
Roll it out on the kitchen-top, not too thin. Get the knife, cut it –
Cut the girl, cut her skin, see how she bleeds, the knife passing through her soft, pale flesh, blood dripping, blood spurting –
I see the blood spraying over me, covering my eyes until I can’t see.
I shoot up, bolt-upright in my bed. Sweating.
I shake my head, lie back down. This is hopeless, I decide, and swing the covers back. My feet hit the floor, and I’m on my way back downstairs.
Ignoring the sounds from outside, the bright lights, I grab a bottle of gin from the refrigerator and pour myself a tall glass. Wincing, I down it in one, pour myself another.
I set off back upstairs, my footsteps echoing through the house, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I laugh to myself; the gin is working. What am I scared of? With that amount of law enforcement outside, my farm must be the safest place in the United States right now.
I get back to bed, sipping on the gin as I go.
I let my mind wander freely, and it does, helped by the alcohol.
A fairground, bright lights beaming, children laughing; horses, I’m riding Beauty at a full gallop through the fields; snow and ice, sledging with my friends; heat from the gin in my throat, running down to warm my belly, rising up to dull my thoughts; a red moon, full and crimson, lighting up the night sky.
A red moon that never was.
Finally, I sleep.
DAY TWO
1
I wake thinking of Kenny D’Angelo.
My head is foggy, my brain hurting from too much alcohol. Why am I thinking about Kenny? I’ve not thought of him in years. A high-school boyfriend, he was a biker, a metal-head and – according to my parents – completely wrong for me. I guess that’s what attracted me to him.
He was also best friends with my middle brother, Jack. My brother was Christened John, but he always preferred Jack. Thought it seemed rougher somehow; more honest.
Jack. That’s right, I was dreaming about Jack. Three years older than me, he was still friendly; at least when I hit my teens. Which was about the same time I was forced to stop riding and started to rebel against my parents, so perhaps this is what appealed to him; he’d been rebelling from the day he was born.
But – whatever the reason – he was friendly, and when I needed someone, he was there for me. My older brother Edward was more of a cold fish, much like my father. In fact, he works for the same firm even now. And my mother was never that interested in us. In many ways she was typical of her class; moneyed Boston family, had children to look good and please her husband, but never let motherhood interfere with her charity work or her public campaigning.
No, Jack was my friend, the only person from my family I ever really connected with. At least up until the moment he killed himself.
The thought of death hits me like a bucket of cold water over the head. How could I have forgotten? Lying in bed in a dazed stupor, one half of me still in the dream-world, I had forgotten about last night. About what’s lying out on my front lawn.
I hazily remember needing to get to an appointment at ten o’clock. Alaska Bureau of Investigation, using Ben’s offices at the Palmer PD.
I roll over, check the time on my cell phone.
I gasp, shudder, leap out of bed, panic rushing through me.
It’s already half past nine. How long have I been asleep?
Too long. I’ve not been up later than seven since I moved here.
Damn.
I start pulling on a pair of pants, hopping on one foot as I grab the cell-phone, dialing Alaska Equine Rescue. I’m half-way through buttoning a blouse when it’s picked up.
“AER, how can I help you?”
“Dawn, is that you?” I barely wait for her to confirm before ploughing on. “Look, I’m really sorry, is there any way you can send someone over to look after the horses today? I need to visit the police department in Palmer and I just don’t know how long I’ll be. I’m already late.”
I move over to the window as I’m talking, pulling back the curtains slowly. It seems quiet out there, but surely the media must have got wind of it by now. Young girl tortured, dying as she escapes across the farmlands of Alaska. No member of the press would ignore a story like that. They’re probably waiting out there right now, quietly waiting until they see me, primed for the photo op.
I pause, hand on the curtain as Dawn speaks. “Oh no, what’s wrong, is everything okay?”
I peel the curtain back, peer outside. Pull it back all the way, not believing my eyes.
There’s nothing out there.
No dead body – not even an outline, no police, no medical personnel, no crime scene investigators, no ABI, no police cordon, no tape, no nosy neighbors trying to get a look, and no press. Nobody at all.
Maybe the ABI decided to clean it all up overnight, to avoid the inevitable sensation? But I know things don’t work that way. Unless Alaska is different. I pause to consider. It might be, I suppose. It just might be.
The fact that there is no press presence out there makes me wonder if it’s been reported at all. Surely one of the people from the party must have spilled to someone? But maybe the ABI is keeping a tight lid on it; maybe the case is bigger than the single bod
y, they don’t want anyone to get alarmed. Or maybe they have a suspect, don’t want to get them spooked?
“Jess?” Dawn asks, concerned. “You okay?”
“Sorry Dawn,” I reply finally, still wondering where everyone’s gone, deciding not to tell her the truth, just in case the ABI is keeping a lid on it. “I’m fine, really. Please, don’t worry. I just need to go in and make a report, but they’ve asked me not to say anything to anyone, I hope you understand.”
I was already half-running downstairs, stopping by the door to slip into my sneakers. No time for fancy shoes today. No need.
I spot the dogs and let them out, pouring food into their bowls as I get my purse and car keys.
“Hey,” Dawn says, “that’s okay, no problem, just so long as you’re okay. Of course, I’ll send somebody over.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” I say as I pull my jacket on. I let the dogs back in and they race over to their food, starting to devour it.
I leave through the front, leaving the door unlocked behind me. I say my thanks and goodbyes to Dawn, ignoring the accusatory glare of my horses as I get into my car, start the engine.
I pull forwards, checking the fields as I drive past. I was right. There is nothing here.
I check the clock on my dashboard. It reads 9:42. I should still make it on time.
Maybe they’ll have some answers for me there.
I arrive with a couple of minutes to spare, frustrated by the radio show playing on the way over. No mention of any death, just the same damn songs they always seem to play. Can’t they get any new ones?
I push through the glass doors, the reception space bright and cheery. I see officers working at desks through the glass partitions beyond. They’re all working, but there’s no urgency here, no hint that something terrible has happened.
Maybe the ABI has set up their investigation somewhere else?
“May I help you?” the woman behind the desk asks, red perm atop a bulbous head. The smile makes up for it.
“Hi, my name is Jessica Hudson, I have an appointment to meet . . . “
I realize I don’t know the officer’s name. He gave me a card though, I remember that, and I look uselessly through my pants pockets, my jacket pockets.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally, “I can’t remember his name, but he’s with the Bureau of Investigation, he’s dealing with the death that occurred last night.”
Concern clouds the receptionist’s large features. “Death?” she says, turning to the notes on her desk, leafing through papers. All the while, shaking her head. She looks up apologetically. “I’m sorry Ms. Hudson, I don’t have any record of a death occurring last night.”
I know she must be mistaken. “What time did you come on this morning?”
“Eight o’clock,” she says, “but the Chief didn’t make any mention of a death at the morning briefing, and there’s nothing in the overnight paperwork.” She shrugs, and I stand there, confused.
“It’s being dealt with by the State Troopers,” I say eventually. “It happened at Little Creek Farm, outside the city limits. The ABI are taking the lead, but they asked if they could use the precinct here as a temporary base, for depositions and interviews.”
Again, the receptionist shakes her head. “No,” she says with certainty, “I’m afraid not, Ms. Hudson.”
I believe her, and it suddenly dawns on me what’s going on. Politics. Either they know who the victim is, or they know who did those terrible things to her, and someone important wants it covering up. Maybe the girl is the daughter of a politician, and they want to use the tragedy for maximum public sympathy. Or else maybe the kidnapper or kidnappers are high-profile, and their gilt-edged lawyers have slapped a privacy suit on the whole thing.
Whatever’s going on, my years in the “trade” tell me it’s a cover-up, and my famed prosecutor’s moral indignation flares violently. A young girl is dead – in my arms – after being held captive and tortured, and the authorities are sweeping it under the carpet?
“I want to see Chief Taylor.” It is not a question but a demand.
“He’s in a meeting at the moment.”
“I need to see him, right now.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Ms. Hudson. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll find out when he can see you.”
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough. This is urgent. I want you to go and interrupt his meeting and tell him that Jessica Hudson is here to speak to him about the young girl who died last night.” I don’t say murdered; at the moment, there is no evidence that she was purposefully killed. She had been hideously abused of course, but she might have died of shock, illness, exposure, any number of things which wouldn’t necessarily lead to a charge of homicide. But the case felt like murder nevertheless.
The receptionist looks at me, sees the resolution in my eyes, and nods her head. She levers her heavy frame out of the chair, smiles nervously, and pushes through the glass doors behind her, leaving behind a fog of candy and deodorant.
I take a seat, my foot nervously tapping out a beat on the tiled floor. I look around; still no activity, no sign of a major crime having occurred in the area. What the hell is going on? I know Palmer is not New York, but I’m still surprised with how this whole thing is being dealt with.
I check my pockets again for the ABI agent’s card, and again my hands come up empty. What the hell have I done with it?
The door opens behind the reception desk, Ben Taylor standing there, a look of curiosity plastered over his rough features.
“Good morning Ms. Hudson,” he says warily. “Livy says you want to speak to me about a murder that happened last night?”
I stand, shaking my head, moving towards him. “If it’s a murder, that must have been established after I went to bed,” I say.
Ben looks at me quizzically, hands on his hips. “I think you’d better come to my office,” he says finally.
I take in the office as I wait for Ben to sit down; modern glass and chrome, a desk with two chairs on a shiny, tiled floor; a black leather couch in the corner under white bookshelves lined with procedural manuals; diplomas on the walls, the smell of disinfectant lingering in the air.
Ben finally sits, pushing across a mug of coffee as he takes a sip from his own. “Have you found out who she is yet?” I ask first, not giving Ben a chance to start the conversation.
My question surprises me; I had planned on demanding answers regarding the investigation, the cover-up. But I realize that it is the question of the poor girl’s identity which is really uppermost on my mind. Above all else at the moment, I need to know the girl’s name; I need to know who she was, in life. I felt her last breath, and I still don’t know who she was.
The concern on Ben’s face is disturbing. “Ms. Hudson,” he begins innocently, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I try hard to control my anger. “You know damn well what I’m talking about,” I say. “I’m talking about that young girl who died in my arms last night, after staggering across the fields onto my farm. You remember, the girl who was naked, cuts all over her skin, burns, bite marks, chunks of hair torn out and who the hell knows what else. You examined her body, said ‘Ah, shit’, told me not to look. It’s about the ABI investigation which doesn’t seem to be happening. It’s about why this thing is being covered up. It’s about you being honest and levelling with me.” I hold my gaze on him, piercing.
Ben holds up his hands; his surprise seems genuine. But I remind myself that he hasn’t always lived out here; he was a detective with the San Francisco PD, and obfuscation is a way of life for big-city cops.
“Okay Ms. Hudson, I’ll be honest with you.” He levels his gaze at me. “There have been no reports of any deaths last night, in Palmer or anywhere else around here, not even in Anchorage according to the APD bulletin. You can check the paperwork yourself, we’ve got records of all activity logged overnight.” He sips from his coffee mug, slurping; turns his ey
es back to me. “But what you say concerns me a great deal. I know where you’ve been, where you’ve come from, what happened to you. I think maybe this is something related to your prior head injuries.”
His face is serious, but I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You think I imagined it?” I ask, my body convulsing in anger, coffee spilled across the desk. I ignore the dark stains running freely across the glass. “Are you insane? I just imagined a girl dying, you showing up, the EMTs, the State Troopers, the ABI, my fields, my house turned into a damn crime scene?” I’m on my feet now, stabbing an accusatory finger towards him. “You’re covering it up,” I say, knowing it must be true. “And I’ll tell you this now, I’m not going to rest until I get to the bottom of it.”
I turn to leave, Ben still sitting in a state of bewilderment behind me. As I reach the door, I hear his voice, reaching out to me. I see the precinct’s other officers staring through the glass at us, attention drawn by my raised voice.
“Okay Ms. Hudson, okay,” he says, and I turn back round to him, sensing a certain level of acquiescence in his deep voice. “Come back to the table and tell me what you saw.” I come back, sit down; pick up the mug, try to wipe the spilled coffee away. “Leave it,” he says, clicking on a mini tape recorder. “Start at the beginning.”
I nod my head. Ben already has my statement, but at least we’re talking; that’s the first stage, something I can build on.
“I was walking home from the party, as you know. Artie’s brother Pat had spoilt the mood, you were busy calming people down, and everyone was starting to drift out.” I see the look of confusion reappear on Ben’s face, but ignore it. “Larraine Harrigan offered me a lift home, but I decided to walk. When I got near the house – “
Ben held up his hand, interrupting me. “Ms. Hudson,” he says, grey eyes watching me warily, “which party was this?”
Red Moon Rising Page 4
