Red Moon Rising

by J. T. Brannan

  “Well, I couldn’t get any real details, but it all seemed to revolve around your perception of time, from what I could find out anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my curiosity aroused to fever-pitch.

  “Like your days became muddled up, you thought it was one day but it was really another, that sort of thing.” My heart almost stops in my chest as he talks, the thought that this might not be the first time that this has happened a real, genuine shock. “You went from one doctor to another, but nobody believed you.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Well, there was one apparently, but he was hounded out of the profession by all accounts.”

  “As a result of believing me?”

  Paul nods. “Pretty much, yeah. The best doctors in the country finally decided that you had . . . now, what was it now, what do they call it? . . . ‘acute tachypsychia’? Is that it?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, never having heard of it.

  “Yeah, I think that’s right, acute tachypsychia, it’s something to do with how you perceive time, they thought that there was some sort of imbalance in your brain, that sort of thing. That’s why you got treated in the end, they targeted your brain, zapped it this way and that according to your Mom. You barely remembered any of the details in the end, I guess it’s no surprise you don’t remember any of it now.”

  “How old was I?”

  “Eleven, twelve, that sort of age I think,” Paul says.

  “How long did it last?”

  “I’m not sure, I think a year or two, but I’m not sure.”

  “What was the name of the doctor that treated me, the one who believed me?”

  “The name of the doctor? Come on, I really don’t know, I have no idea.”

  “But he was in Boston?”

  “At the time I guess, yeah.”

  I know I need to find that doctor, to ask him for the details of my case. What really happened? Why did it happen?

  Or maybe it never really happened at all, maybe it’s just a psyche game by Paul; maybe he found out what happened here in Alaska, and has made up all this other bullshit to get me talking to him again, to get me to trust him?

  But what if he is telling the truth?

  “Do you know anything else?” I ask, desperate for more information.

  “Not really, no,” Paul says with a tinge of regret – real or pretend, I can’t say. “Only that your Mom said you used to say something about a red moon, right around the time you’d have what she called an ‘episode’.”

  “What did she say?” I press, trying not to sound too eager but almost certainly failing. “What, exactly?”

  “Well, apparently you’d see this great, big red moon anytime you’d have this weird tachypsychia thing, although nobody else ever saw it. Red moons, or blood moons, are generally associated with lunar eclipses, but none were ever recorded when you claimed you saw them.”

  My heart is beating so hard, so fast in my chest that I think I might pass out. Maybe the red moon that I saw – that I keep seeing – does have some sort of significance?

  But what?

  What?

  Another thought dawns on me then, and it is far from pleasant.

  Is there something wrong with me?

  My parents, and – it seems – most of my doctors, all thought I was making things up, that I was confused, that I had some sort of mental condition that caused me to act out, to imagine things that weren’t really there. Were they all correct? The only people who believed me were my brother – who ended up killing himself – and one single doctor, who was hounded out of the profession as a result, at least by Paul’s account.

  Not for the first time, I wonder if I am crazy. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t caused by the gunshot to my head after all, maybe it goes deeper?

  Is anything real? Or have I imagined everything?

  And yet – despite checking out my history, to help protect his precious career – Paul must have still given me the all-clear. He had proposed to me, after all, had agreed for us to get married, so he must have decided that my mental health wasn’t a liability.

  Unless he loved me so much that he was willing to ignore it?

  I might once have believed that; but, knowing what I know now, I doubt it.

  If I’d been a liability, he would have dropped me like a bad habit.

  I breathe out slowly, trying to get my thoughts together. From what Paul is saying – if he is to be believed – my mysterious, sanity-questioning experiences here in Alaska are not the first things that have happened to me in this way. Apparently I have been “out of time” before, when I was younger; an “illness” for which I was treated.

  I am curious – more than curious – about the details of these earlier experiences. What were these things that I claimed to have seen? What happened when my perception of time changed? Did I manage to change these events, like I am hoping to do now? And what is the red moon, is it just a symbol? Is it a way that my mind tries to make sense of things?

  I wonder, again, if Paul is telling the truth. The detail about the red moon is convincing, but I remind myself that this was in my original comments to Ben, right here in this same kitchen on the night I found the body. Paul might have come across that information, reported somewhere along the way. Then I catch myself – no, I decide, that would be impossible; because I only mentioned the moon the first time I found the body. My current situation is predicated upon the second time I experienced Saturday, the time I only know about from listening to De Nares reading my statement in the police interview room, the version of events when I didn’t go to the party, when I’d found Lynette Hyams on my front porch and not in the fields outside, the version where she’d died right here on the kitchen floor.

  Damn, the whole thing is so confusing, it threatens to overwhelm my all-too-fragile mind.

  But if I didn’t go to the party, I didn’t go outside, I didn’t see the moon, and so Paul couldn’t have heard about it from anybody – and this must lend credence to his story, surely?

  But the only trouble is that the only Saturday I remember is the first one – the one where the ‘I’ that I am now existed, not the secondary ‘I’ who experienced the alterative version of events and made that police report. I don’t actually know what that ‘I’ saw, what that ‘I’ experienced.

  Damn, if my brain didn’t hurt before, then it sure as hell does now.

  What I need to do, I realize, is find that doctor. He will have the details of what happened to me when I was younger.

  When I was younger? I think suddenly of those flashbacks to my father’s friend, Desmond Curtis, the terror I felt as I remembered. Is it connected somehow?

  I shake my head. The doctor, I remind myself. He is the key. He is the answer.

  But how the hell do I even find him?

  “Are you sure that you can’t remember that doctor?” I ask Paul, trying not to appear too desperate. “The one who believed my story?”

  Paul shifts in his chair, and he peers across the table at the dogs. Molly is off in the corner, spread-eagled and minding her own business, but the two guard dogs are doing their job, keeping their wary glare fixed on our uninvited guest.

  “Can you get rid of those guys?” he asks nervously, and I remember that dogs scare him, city boy that he is. “They’re really freaking me out.”

  “That’s their job,” I reply, although even I admit that Luna and Nero might be a bit of overkill – two Italian mastiffs, nearly three hundred pounds of muscle and sinew between them, compared to the sorry shell of a man that sits at my table.

  I relent and nod my head. “You can let them out,” I say, gesturing to the kitchen door.

  “Thanks,” Paul says, and the relief on his face is palpable as he pulls himself to his feet and pads across the kitchen.

  They were meant to protect me from Zebunac’s armed assassins; I think I can handle Paul. After all, we lived with each other for three years.

  Paul opens
the door, but the dogs don’t move. I click my fingers and point, and they reluctantly get to their feet and trot out into the front yard.

  Paul and I both look at Molly, sprawled on the stone flags, and shrug our shoulders at the same time; she’s not moving for anyone. I watch as Paul closes the door, then I turn to the counter and reach for the kettle. “Coffee?” I ask, chastising myself for not asking sooner. Paul may have stung me – to put it lightly – but that’s no reason to be rude to a guest.

  Hey, I think, maybe living in Alaska is already having an effect on me?

  And then the sound of a click confuses me momentarily, before I realize what it is.

  I turn from the kettle and confirm my fears, and my heart sinks even deeper.

  The dogs are outside.

  And Paul has locked the door.

  15

  “What are you doing?” I ask, my mind turning somersaults. I lived with this man for three years, yes; but do I really know him? What do I know? The last few days are making me seriously doubt whether I know anything at all.

  But he didn’t set my danger radar off at all, he didn’t appear dangerous, and – after the New York attack – I’m a bag of nerves when it comes to this sort of thing. If he’s got bad intent, how did he mask it before?

  Maybe it’s just my residual feelings for him, maybe I’ve been duped again into trusting him?

  Dammit, why did I let Nero and Luna leave?

  Molly’s stirring on the floor, but I know she won’t do me much good. But I’m in a kitchen. Plenty of knives. My gun somewhere, too. Damn, where is it? Shit, why don’t I keep it somewhere obvious, why is it locked away in a drawer somewhere?

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “You look nervous,” Paul says, surprise in his voice as he walks slowly across the kitchen toward me. “Why?”

  I back away by instinct; I don’t want to show him that I’m afraid, but I can’t help it.

  “Why did you lock the door?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

  “I told you,” Paul says, glaring at me through those hooded eyes. “I don’t like dogs.”

  I see a change in those eyes then, a lethal change, and I turn, yanking open the nearest drawer and reaching for a knife, a fork, anything to stop Paul from getting to me; I pull out a paring knife and turn back, but it’s too late, he’s there already, hand gripping my wrist, pinning my knife-hand to my side as his other hand goes to my throat, gripping tight; I try and scream, but his fingers close tighter and tighter, and all that comes out is a choked cough.

  “You fucked my life up,” Paul whispers close in my ear, and – beyond his words – I can hear Luna and Nero barking outside, slamming their paws against the thick wooden door, desperate to get back in; even Molly is up, running toward us and, despite the pain, despite the fear, I am appalled when Paul kicks her straight in the chest, the toe of his boot slamming hard into her and sending her flying back across the kitchen with a helpless whimper.

  I convulse with anger, straining to move against Paul’s grip; I am whipping my body up and down, left and right, but it is not enough, Paul’s grip is too tight, his high school and college athleticism still with him; he squeezes my wrist tighter and the knife drops to the floor; I try and hit him with my other hand but the blows are weak, they just bounce off him; my fingers snake out toward his eyes, but he turns his head and squeezes even harder on my throat, and my arm goes slack, without the strength to mount the attack.

  “First you go and get yourself shot,” he spits, “despite your father telling you to drop it. How did that look for my chances at the firm? You think they want a partner with an invalid for a wife? How would that fucking look at all the dinner parties, answer me that, huh? But I still loved you, you bitch, you don’t know how hard it was for me to end it, to take back that ring, to end it all. It almost killed me.” Through my hazy vision, going black as I balanced between consciousness and sleep, I can see his face soften, his grip lighten ever so slightly; I know I should take advantage of it, but I can’t, it’s all I can do to get some oxygen into my lungs, to stay alive. The dogs outside are going crazy, Molly cowers, terrified, in a corner, and I know I’ve made one of the biggest mistakes of my life, maybe my last. But I can breathe again, if only a little, and I know I still have a chance.

  “And then I follow you out here, try and get you back. Stay in a hotel, can’t bring myself to ring you, to call you, to see you, anything, I can’t do anything. Do you know how that made me feel?” He almost cries as he says the word, “Weak. Powerless. A man like me, can you imagine that?” He laughs, a short, ugly bark. “A man like me can’t be weak.” He shakes his head, as if to convince himself. “Can’t be. Not in my position, not in my world. But I call anyway, and you stop me dead, stop me cold. Nothing, just nothing, no chance of us getting back together, no chance of anything.”

  His face is close, I can smell the alcohol on his breath now, can see the way his pupils dilate wildly, and wonder if he’s been on the coke again. He was keeping his eyes away from me before, but now they’re right here in front of mine, and I know he’s been on it, I’m certain. I know he did it when he was younger, he claimed it made him sharper, better at his job. He gave it up for me, but now I can see it’s made a return, and I am scared, scared beyond all reason. A sober, clean Paul might not hurt me seriously, but this Paul? This Paul, I don’t even know.

  “Please . . .” I manage from my burning throat.

  “Please?” Paul whispers, mocking me. “Please? You want to hear about ‘please’? How about I’m only out here in this fucking shit, forsaken wilderness, for you? Fuck ‘please’! I’m here, and I get fucking arrested, brought in for some shit that’s coming out of your sick mind! You’ve ruined my job, you’ve fucking ruined my life! Fuck ‘please’! Fuck you,” he spits, right next to my ear; and then he licks that ear, traces his drink-soaked tongue across my cheek, my lips. “I’m not coming out here for nothing,” he tells me, and I feel him growing hard against my leg, and I try again to break free, to fight against him as it becomes clear what he wants from me – one final conquest, one final abuse, the ability to look at himself and know he got the last word, the last say, to know that he won, that he’s still a winner; and in that instant, I see Paul for what he is. He is not the clean-cut, all-star, straight-A guy that everyone thinks he is, that everyone loves; he is cruel, hard, driven to win at all costs, driven to possess, to control; I suddenly see the college jock that doesn’t take “no” for an answer, the type that doesn’t classify date-rape as a crime, but as a right.

  I see a monster.

  He drops his weight and – with his grip still around my neck – I come crashing down to the kitchen floor, the impact driving the air from my lungs, leaving me winded, out of breath, savage pain wracking me; outside the dogs are barking, and I feel Paul once more hard against my leg; see Molly running toward him, latching her small jaws around his arm; watch as Paul shouts in pain, in anger, and tries desperately to shake her off as Luna and Nero threaten to break the door down behind us; look on in sheer terror as Paul’s hand slips off my neck and reaches for the knife that I dropped on the floor next to us, sure he will use it on her; and then I scream, my throat free now, I scream at the top of my voice, and I hope someone – anyone – will come; and then I remember that Amy is in the house, she will come here, and then I feel guilty, horribly guilty, and stop screaming instantly. No, no, I don’t want her here, I don’t want her to be in danger, I don’t –

  And then there is the sound of a door breaking, being kicked open, and I hear Nero and Luna even louder now, and I also hear boots bounding hard along the floor, see human legs alongside the dogs’; feel as Paul’s body is twisted this way and that as the dogs attack him, hear a voice, somewhere near, somewhere distant, a voice . . .

  “Call them off!” the voice yells, and I can hear it is Ben; I can also hear the screams as Paul is mauled by the animals, and Ben’s words finally register and I click my fingers, click my tongue, use m
y burned throat, my damaged cartilage.

  “Enough,” I manage to gargle, and it is enough, the trained command stopping Luna and Nero in their tracks, mouths thick with blood, Paul a tight, dense ball on the floor next to me, curled into the fetal position, whimpering helplessly as the dogs retreat.

  And then Ben is there, handcuffing Paul, pinning him to the floor as he looks at me, fear on his own face. “Shit,” he breathes, “damn, are you okay?”

  I gag as I try and breathe properly, my dogs surrounding me now, licking me, fussing over me. “Shit,” I say, as an echo of Ben, as I finally allow myself to relax slightly, my limbs spreading out across the floor, looking at the man who saved me. “I am now.”

  But deep inside, I am starting to believe that I might never be okay again.

  16

  Once again, I am in the bed of Ben Taylor – only this time, it is no surprise.

  We are finally back from Palmer Police Precinct, where our statements were taken and Paul now sits in jail, facing charges of battery, attempted rape and – because he grabbed the knife, even though I think he was probably intending to use it on Molly – attempted murder.

  I am exhausted, mentally and physically, and it is no surprise at all. I still can’t quite believe what a day I’ve had, it seems totally overwhelming. The adrenaline I felt when Paul attacked me had started to ebb from my system at the police station – the “parasympathetic backlash”, Ben had called it – and I’d had to ply myself with coffee to stay awake.

  “Do you think it’s him?” I breathe, taking comfort from Ben’s strong arm around me; feminism be damned, it feels good, and I need that comfort now more than ever.

  “You mean the man who killed Lynette?” Ben asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Killed her, or whatever. You know, if he was involved in some way, did it himself, or assisted someone else, that sort of thing.”

  Ben breathes out slowly. “I don’t know,” he says, “I just don’t know. But I guess I don’t buy it, no. No, I don’t. I mean, what are the chances? We’re looking at a potential long-term, deranged, mission-oriented serial killer, right? He wants to rid the world of prostitutes, or something. Maybe. Could be a lust-killer as well, especially with the latest evidence of sexual torture. But either way, we’re looking for someone with a cause, a reason to do this, an organized sort of killer, at least that’s what I think. And I don’t think Paul Southland qualifies, it just doesn’t fit. I mean, what are the chances that he comes to see you in Alaska – about three thousand miles from where he lives, right? – and somehow manages to either kidnap, torture and rape a local citizen, or else hook up with someone else, get in on their game, so to speak?” He sighs again. “It could be, it just could be, but I don’t buy it. Do you?”