Red Moon Rising

by J. T. Brannan

No, I think as I look out across my fields, the fields where Lynette still might die in just a few short days, the mission wasn’t about saving the girl.

  It was – it is – about finding the killers.

  And something I saw, or heard, something that happened during my time with those bastards, I know that it is this that holds the key.

  But I don’t want to think about it, don’t want to consider what it might be, because that would mean remembering what happened to me, giving a voice to my worst experiences, my darkest fears.

  No, I don’t want that.

  But at the same time, I know that time is running out.

  I am back here, on this particular day, for a reason; and if I don’t act on it, I might never get out of this nightmare.

  I sigh loudly, put one hand on the head of Luna, the other on Nero, using them for support – physical, mental, and emotional.

  I know that there is no getting around it.

  There is something in my mind that will help me find those killers, help me put an end to this for good.

  All I have to do is face my fears once more.

  2

  I stare at the house of Arthur Jenkins, terror in my heart.

  I know I shouldn’t be here, know that it is a mistake; but at the same time, I know there is no other option, no other way out.

  But I have the gun this time, have at last remembered to unlock it from the cabinet in the kitchen.

  I hope I don’t have to use it.

  I’ve been here before, of course; maybe more than once.

  The first time was the party, to be held next Saturday; I meet his brother, chat in the bedroom to Larraine, then leave, and find Lynette running across the fields toward me.

  The second time – if there was a second time – was much, much worse.

  I don’t have a lot to go on, although I spent long agonizing minutes analyzing my experiences, only able to get through it by imagining that it was somebody else it was happening to.

  Details are sparse – I was in a cold, damp room which had the feel of a basement, was almost certainly below-ground; there was more than one person, and although I could not tell from the voices if they were male or female, from my experiences I know that at least one of them was a man. Or a boy – and although I am outside Arthur Jenkins’ house, I still cannot rule out Mike Latimer’s involvement.

  But I feel drawn to this place, feel that it is at the center of it all.

  I first saw Lynette running across the fields toward my house, and I understand that this might cross Jenkins’ (I can no longer think of it as “Artie’s”) house off the list. But the position of the homes within the valley means that she could have been running from anywhere; she could have been running from this place, just gone a different route to me.

  Of course, it could have been from any of the others too – Larraine’s, the Latimer’s, Judge Judd’s, the Eberle’s, the Townsend’s. It could even have been from Douglas Mender’s, high up in the hills.

  But I don’t think it was.

  I think she was running from here, from right here, the very place where we were all partying, drinking and having fun.

  It was the clock that did it, the one piece of “evidence” I had.

  I remember it vividly even now, the ticking of the clock, the countdown to the next period of abuse, of rape, of torture.

  The same sound that I heard from the clock in the bedroom in Jenkins’ house, when Larraine and I had talked, upstairs at the party.

  I knew that there was something, something I was missing, and that was it.

  The clock.

  I can’t get the sound out of my mind, it is imprinted there, scorched into the circuits of my brain for eternity – the ticking, the tocking, the ringing of the alarm bell, the arrival of my tormentors . . . the pain . . .

  I use all of my discipline to cut off those thoughts, to concentrate on my plan.

  It is simple, really – I am going to break into Jenkins’ house and find that clock. I’m going to set the alarm, listen to its ring; it is a sound I will never forget, and will be all the proof I need.

  If it is the same clock, if I have found the right place, I will search for that basement, search for the hidden chambers which I know will have to be there; and if I can’t find anything, I will call in a tip for the police, naming Arthur Jenkins as a suspect in the disappearance of local teenagers, prostitutes and runaways, link him to the Chugach bodies, tell them he has a torture chamber in his basement, hope that maybe they can find something.

  I know that all of the houses in the valley were searched by the cops, by the ABI; but I also know that the owners had early warning. If one of them was the killer, they would have had the chance to get rid of any evidence, clear things up.

  And if they find nothing?

  I shake my head; I’ll cross that bridge if I come to it.

  I know that Jenkins’ isn’t in; I’ve already called the shelter, made sure he’s at work. I’ve checked up on the Latimers too, verified that they’re in school; the last thing I need is any nasty surprises. I’ve even checked in Seattle, made sure that Patrick Jenkins isn’t up here yet.

  Everything seems all-clear, and I know I have to make my move.

  And yet my feet remain rooted to the spot, unable to propel me forward.

  I am too scared.

  I have no marks on my body, but the marks on my mind will never leave me.

  Why am I going back into the lion’s den, the worst place in the world?

  Because you have to, or else the nightmare will never end.

  Yes, I decide, I have to.

  Steeling myself, gun in my pocket, I approach the door.

  3

  Alaskans, I have learned, are trusting sorts, especially around here. After ringing the doorbell, to make sure that nobody is inside, I try and open the door. I half-expect it to be unlocked, but I’m not that lucky – it is bolted tight. My own door is rarely locked, does that mean he has something to hide?

  But I have two guard dogs living inside my house, whereas Jenkins doesn’t even have a cat; no alarm system either, I see with relief.

  Despite the locked door, there is an open window by the kitchen though, and I spend several moments levering myself up, glad that this side of the house can’t be seen by anyone, not even by Douglas Menders with his telescope.

  The thought of Menders gives me pause, though; what if he was watching me approach the house, watched as I disappeared around the side? What would he think? Who would he call? Or would he do nothing, content to sit back and watch, reluctant voyeur that he is?

  I shake the thoughts out of my head, determined to concentrate only on the mission at hand – gaining access to the house, finding that clock, finding proof – to me, at least – that I am on the right track.

  I pull myself in through the narrow window-space, slowly dropping down to the sink unit on the other side. I take a moment, gather myself, and climb down to the kitchen floor.

  I wonder how to get to the basement – wonder if I even want to go there, know that I don’t, but will if I have to – and then ignore the thought. First things first – find the bedroom, find the clock.

  I leave the kitchen, pad down the hallway to the stairs. The house looks gigantic now that it is not full of people, and I realize that – despite my interest in this case, my suspicions about Jenkins – I have no real idea about the man’s life. Who is he? Why does a man who lives alone need a house this size? I know his wife died, and he might want to keep her memory alive by living here, but it was a long time ago. It is a hell of a lot of house to take care of, and most people I know would have downsized years ago.

  I reach the staircase and move slowly, carefully, upwards, pistol in my hand now; I might have checked the whereabouts of everyone that I can, but what about people I can’t check up on? I have no idea where Paul is, still don’t know if he’s a part of this thing. Could he be here, in this house, right now? My grip tightens on the gun as I thin
k about it.

  Could he have been one of my attackers, in the basement dungeon?

  I grit my teeth, knowing the answer.

  He could.

  Anybody could.

  But Arthur Jenkins knew the girl, she had already been to his shelter, he might have known she was coming back; hell, he might have known her for a while. And his brother might have known her too, from back in Seattle.

  Why didn’t I ask her, when I had the chance?

  But I knew the reason – I thought I no longer had to solve the crime, to find those responsible, if I removed the victim from the equation.

  But I’d forgotten about all the other victims, the ones that had been killed before, the ones who would be killed in the future.

  I’d forgotten them, but I have been reminded, and now I will never forget.

  I shake the thoughts from my mind again, angry with myself for constantly allowing my mind to drift away from the task at hand.

  You can’t blame yourself, a voice tells me. Not after what you’ve been through. Remember how –

  No! Now is not the time, I can’t remember, I won’t remember, damn it!

  And then, suddenly, I am in the upstairs hallway, just a short walk down to the room that holds the clock, the room that holds my proof.

  I edge nervously down the hall, ready to move the gun at any moment toward any of the doors, if one of them should suddenly open.

  But then I am at the end of the hallway, at the door to the bedroom where Larraine and I had – will have, might have – our little chat.

  My hand goes tentatively to the handle, touches it, pulls back like it’s had an electric shock; the fear is so great, so acute, that it actually makes me go weak at the knees, causes me to stumble.

  What is beyond the door? my mind screams, as visions of blood and death flash before me – Doug Menders, head smashed wide open; Paul attacking me in my kitchen, eyes wild, feral; Dennis Hobson, eyeballs on fire in a face of sloughed, mushy flesh; Lynette Hyams, broken body dead in my arms; shadows through a blindfold as I am raped and tortured, as I bite my own tongue off to end my suffering.

  And then I wipe the thoughts away, remove them from my mind completely, and reach forward, grab the handle, and rip the door wide open.

  It is time to see what is inside.

  4

  My heart stops as I look at the dresser.

  The clock isn’t there.

  Other than the absence of the clock, the room is exactly as I remember it (and if I remember it, I must have been here, I must be right about that, at least).

  So where the hell is it?

  I pause a moment, listening. The damn thing is so loud, if it’s anywhere in this room, I’ll hear it.

  But there is nothing; just the silence of an empty house.

  Am I wrong about this whole thing? Did I imagine the clock? Did I imagine everything?

  (you did, you imagined it all, you’re crazy, insane, just like everyone thinks, accept it, accept it . . .)

  No, damn it, I didn’t imagine anything!

  That clock was here, and it was the same damn clock I heard down in that fucking basement!

  Now where the hell is it?

  There’s dust on the dresser, I notice, and it has been there a long time; there is no clean space where a clock might have been.

  Was it ever there?

  And then I think, will it ever be there? Because I’ve seen it in the future, not in the past; maybe it’s somewhere else in the house right now, and Jenkins only moves it to this room at some stage between now and the party? Maybe he moves it out of the way because he knows the sound will drive his guests crazy.

  Yes, I think, grasping hold of the idea like a drowning person who’s been thrown a life jacket. It must be.

  And then I turn into a ball of pure energy, propelled by fear, propelled by anger – I no longer care if there’s anyone in the house, couldn’t care less if I’m found, if I’m discovered, I am beyond that now, I am beyond worrying about it, the only thing that matters is finding that clock – and I race around the house, tearing the place apart as I look for it.

  Every room, every space, every cupboard, every cabinet, every corner, every crevice, I search it all, I search it all until I am dirty with dust, damp with sweat.

  It is getting dark now, the sun low in the sky, and I have no idea how long I have been searching.

  But still, I have found nothing.

  I have found nothing incriminating of any kind, of any kind at all.

  But now I am at a doorway by the staircase, the only doorway I still have to go through, the only one I haven’t checked; a doorway I know must lead to the basement beneath the house.

  I steel myself, jaw clenched tight. The clock is downstairs, surely it is downstairs.

  Don’t do it! my mind screams.

  But I ignore my mind, raise the pistol, and turn the handle.

  5

  A sound makes me turn suddenly, before I am even on the first step; the sound of a door being unlocked.

  A door being . . .

  Realization dawns, and I leap back, swing the basement door shut, look left and right for somewhere to hide, can’t seem to think in time, to act in time, can only stand there petrified, rooted to the stop as the door opens and Arthur Jenkins looks at me, an expression of surprise on his face.

  I realize I still have the gun in my hand, wonder what to do with it; see that he is not alone, that both Mike and Victoria Latimer are by his side, wonder if they are all in on it together, wonder about just pulling the trigger and shooting them all; if that was them down in the dungeon, the things they did to me, the things they were going to do to me, they deserve to die, they all deserve to die, die, die . . .

  My finger almost presses the trigger, almost sends them all to Hell, but something stays my hand, makes me stop, makes me drop the pistol to my thigh.

  What if you’re wrong? my mind argues with me. What if they’re not the ones? What if they’re innocent?

  But what if they’re not? another voice fires straight back, and I do not know which one to listen to, which to believe, which to trust.

  “Jess,” Jenkins says, brow heavily furrowed, “what’s going on?”

  Shoot him! Fucking shoot the son of a bitch!

  No!

  Do it now! Before it’s too late! Fucking do it! Do it!

  I can’t!

  You want him to do it again? You want to be down in that basement again?

  I . . . I . . .

  “I heard some noises,” I say, ignoring the voices fighting in my head. “I thought someone was breaking in, I thought . . . I don’t know, I grabbed my gun and raced right over here.”

  The three of them are moving toward me, and I feel penned in, unsafe, and I think again about just shooting them, shooting all of them.

  They look through doorways, taking in the sight of the ransacked rooms; it definitely looks as if there has been a burglary, anyway. My search for that clock was crazed, frenzied, and left quite a mess.

  “Damn,” Victoria says to Jenkins, “it looks like you have been robbed.”

  “Shit,” Mike says, “did you see anyone? Have you called the police?”

  “Yeah,” I lie, wanting them to think they police are on their way, to stop them from doing anything to me. “They’re on their way.”

  Jenkins and his two friends – what the hell are they doing here together, anyway? – are looking into each room, and I see my space, my opportunity, and I start moving for the open front door.

  “Jess,” Jenkins says sharply, and I freeze.

  (you still have the gun, you still have the gun)

  “Yeah?” I say, turning to him.

  “The door was locked,” he says. “How come?”

  Shit.

  What now?

  Shoot him, shoot him now!

  (shoot that sonofabitch, shoot them all, shoot them all)

  No! I can’t!

  Do it!

  “I was sc
ared,” I say, not caring if I make sense anymore, only a few feet left until I am out of the door. “I locked myself in.”

  “But you don’t have a key,” Jenkins says, eyes suspicious, and I see the other two rounding toward me, attention focusing on me. “How –”

  Shoot them!

  “I think Larraine is at home,” I say, at the doorway now, fresh air filling my lungs, hinting at safety beyond. “Maybe she saw something, I’ll go and check. Wait here for the police, they’ll be here soon.”

  And then I am gone, running for the safety of Larraine’s house, hoping that they will not chase me.

  Hoping that – despite the voices – I will not have to shoot them.

  6

  “You think what?” Larraine Harrigan asks in near-stunned disbelief.

  We are in her kitchen, not – as far as I am concerned, at least – for the first time, and she has replaced the pot of tea with a glass of whisky. I’d hidden the gun by the time I arrived at the door, but it was clear that I was distressed, and the alcohol is welcome.

  The kids are at home, but when Larraine saw the state of me, she sent them straight upstairs, and I don’t blame her; my appearance must be enough to frighten anyone.

  I take a deep breath, finish the brandy, and pour myself another from the bottle that Larraine has left on the table, before I respond.

  “I think that Arthur Jenkins is involved in something,” I tell her again, “something bad. Something to do with the girls that have been going missing.”

  “Girls from Anchorage?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “a lot of them were last seen at the shelter.”

  “What do you think is happening?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly, “I really don’t know, but I think he has somewhere he takes them, I . . . oh, I don’t know, why am I even telling you this?”

  Why am I telling her this? When I came around here, I was convinced I was going to keep the charade going, to ask her if she’d seen anything strange happening at the house, any sign of burglars breaking in; but when she brought me inside and sat me down at the table, all of my well-crafted lies went right out of the window. And instead, I started telling the truth, at least as I understand it.