Freeney

by Clay Zimmerman

  “Wow!”

  “Let me get some of those Lemonheads. Yeah. It got so bad, her dad eventually baited him into the house and held him down until the cops got there.”

  “Jeez.” Maddy allowed the allegory to sink in for a moment. “Well, I guess we should go there. What else can we do?”

  “I don’t think you truly appreciate the gravity of the situation, Detective Rosicky.”

  Martin was staying awake. He really was. He was standing with his hand in his pocket, straining crappy coffee through his bushy moustache out of a small Styrofoam cup, listening to Dr. Kovac lecture him. Amazing how people act like they’re extending state of the art hospitality when they wheel out a generic cup of Joe, delivered by Sysco, out of an ancient coffee maker and throw some non-dairy creamer into the concoction like they’re powdering a baby’s diaper. No. He was a cop. He knew what coffee was supposed to taste like. Personally, would never offer it without an accompanying pastry. He didn’t care how stereotypical it was. In his mind, it was one of the main perks of protecting the populous.

  “Mr. Simon is an unusual case. His body seems to take no effect from the medication we prescribe and I can assure you we have ordered the maximum dosages allowable by the state. He hasn’t slept in two weeks. He is physically fit and athletic. He displays a remarkable disdain for society.”

  “OK, so who dropped the ball? How did this happen? What’s really going on here?”

  Dr. Pedrag Kovac swept a piece of lint from the collar of his woolen jacket. With his trimmed beard and vest, tie and even pocket watch, he was no stretch for the Freud role. Rosicky half expected him to produce a wooden pipe and stoke the tobacco from the flame of a match. Was everything at this hospital cliché? Wait till you see the office, a staff member could’ve said.

  “In the interest of transparency, I’m not completely sure. The unit is under twenty four hour video surveillance. The playback has revealed nothing. The patient can be seen entering his cell after being escorted back from the showers. The computer log recorded that his door was properly secured and it was checked hourly since that time elapsed. His door was subsequently not opened between then and now and there is absolutely no chance of escape from inside the secure room. I suspect some kind of assistance from an individual amongst our staff but still, questions remain. If someone had deemed fit to escort a decoy patient to Simon’s cell, where then is the afore mentioned decoy?”

  “Sounds like a good ol fashioned cluster fuck.”

  He could tell the foreign born doctor was unfamiliar with the euphemism, though his demeanor betrayed no evidence of discontent. Detective Rosicky turned his attention to the manila folder containing Gary Simon’s information. Thirty six years old. 5’11”, 176 lbs. Black hair, brown eyes. There was the standard issue scar under his left eye, seemingly from a knife wound. No tattoos. No Children. Never married. No known family members still living. His profile picture carried a gaze of focused anger coupled with a well-worn, disgruntled frown. Who was Gary Simon? How had he found his way to this cesspit of madness he’d somehow managed to escape? Hmmm. Aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. Had been declared ‘not guilty by reason of insanity’ and the subsequent spiral of confusion had cost him the last five years of his unenviable life. Four institutions later, here he was. In a cage with a bunch of others deemed to be too dangerous for society, though technically none of them were facing criminal charges. People tend to forget these people even exist as they usually are subjected to a smorgasbord of psychotropic medications until there aren’t enough brain cells in their Swiss cheese like noggins to further justify their existence in a maximum security unit and they are shipped off to a regular care mental health facility or group home where they live out their days in front of the unbiased glow of the television amid an unending deluge of processed meals and state certified supervision. According to the file, Gary tended to have long, drawn out conversations with himself. Whenever they’d entered his room to clean it, a number of symbols were discovered to have been carved into various places under the bed and desk.

  Rosicky closed the file and handed an empty Styrofoam cup to a scrupulous Mr. Hudgens.

  “I’m going to put out an A.P.B. for this man. In the meantime, keep the cell exactly how it was at the time of absconding. I’m going to send somebody over here to analyze how he might’ve escaped and collect some evidence.”

  Chapter 7

  Challista hopped down from the counter and looked for something to cover herself with, settled on her hands. Crouching in an awkward position, she was essentially bare from the waist down. Her horror was truly reality now. Like one of those ultra-humiliating dreams in which one becomes aware that they are exposed before an audience of their peers, to embarrass herself in front of the one person she respected most was especially devastating. My God, what was he thinking about her right now? How was he going to handle this? The pastor’s wife just doesn’t do things like that. What about the church? If word of this got out, it could ruin them financially. Would he even be able to tolerate being seen in public with her? Everyone knows how news travels in small towns.

  Coleman’s eyes were bulging with fury. It looked like he wanted to say, or shout, a lot more but he may have been too angry to speak even. He hadn’t truly been this upset in twenty five years, when they’d had their first miscarriage. And even then, he hadn’t directed any of his rage toward her. He knew it wasn’t her fault.

  Now his fists were balled. Actually, she couldn’t remember seeing him this angry before at any time. Ever. He had gotten in a couple of fist fights in high school, though she hadn’t actually witnessed them herself. When they settled down, he’d developed into more of the strong, silent type. Then, of course, once he’d discovered his faith, his affect became even more serene. The comfort and contentedness of someone who feels no sense of uncertainty, it is profoundly tranquilizing. Thus, he was just the type of guy no one gave a hard time. Not that there was the perception that he would do anything if someone did, per say. People simply did not view him as a threat.

  Now Barry came over to her, his face was all scrunched up in disbelief. He mechanically took off his jacket and stooped down to cover her up. She was sobbing hysterically. He wanted to say something, sound off with a bevy of questions but she was clearly too distraught to expect any cogent reply. Could my wife be having some kind of midlife crisis? Is she having a psychotic break? What kind of person, let alone the wife of a congregation’s shepherd, juxtaposes herself on the kitchen counter, the same counter the children’s cupcakes are prepared on for Christ sakes, and begins masturbating like a Goddam animal or something?

  Barry kept replaying the images seared into his mind’s eye when he had first happened upon her in the activity hall area, trying to make sense of it all. But it just didn’t add up. The more he analyzed the situation, he began to realize how strange it really was. He’d instinctively followed the shrieks and screams he’d heard reverberating down the hallway to discover a familiarity in the woman’s voice to his dismay, reality dawning on him with every fateful step as he clung desperately to the futile comfort of denial. Maybe he was just imagining things. No. Maybe it was some other woman. Perhaps some other clergy member or congregation couple had succumbed to their lusts when they thought no one was around. Maybe some high school kids or party people, exploring their most baseless and tawdry whims. Who knows? Maybe even a couple of transients, intoxicated on a cocktail of assorted street drugs had settled on the church as a love nest no one would suspect them to be on a Thursday night. No. It was Challista. But who could she be with? Who would betray him so brazenly? In his own church. With her husband so reprehensibly close by. He’d never elicited those kinds of primal outcries from her before during their bedroom escapades. Could she be fulfilling a level of carnal pleasures he could never have hoped to provide her? As he crept closer, his grief turned to concern as the satisfaction in her intonations transitioned into agony.

  Forcing himself to confront his
fears, his anger changed to confusion when he finally turned the corner and let his eyes fall upon his dear wife locked in a passionate tryst, only her assailant was nowhere to be seen. Her body continued to flex and gyrate in a seemingly bestial type of convulsion however, she was very much alone and her hands were nowhere near her private regions. Further adding to the puzzlement, there could be no denying she was clearly being violated, only by some kind of invisible object. Her labias splayed unnaturally wide, collapsing and exploding in simulation of physique altering intercourse. What kind of bedevilment was this? Yes. She was clearly engaged in coitus but no one else was in the room.

  Coleman wore a wounded expression. His untrusting eyes darted around the room as he tried to console her.

  “Who was it? Where is he?” He demanded.

  Was she cheating or was he looking for a rapist? It didn’t matter now. The normally docile Coleman was on vacation.

  He reached for his cell phone, started to dial 911 then thought better of it. With all these children and parishioners set to arrive within the hour, if he was going to fill the parking lot with blue and red flashing lights, he’d better be sure about it.

  “OK, Challista. I’m going to need you to tell me something. What was happening here?”

  She was still pouring water, her make up a sticky mess. “Oh, Barry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Are you sure? This doesn’t make any sense. Look, I’m your husband of thirty years. I deserve the truth. Are you seeing someone?”

  “No! No, I swear I’m not.”

  “Then what the hell was happening? Was someone attacking you?”

  “No! I don’t know!”

  She brought her head up from her hands and gazed into his eyes, searching for mercy. She was very convincing in her desperate plea for salvation.

  Something caught his eye as she crouched. At first, amidst the chaos, his mind had subconsciously grouped together some of the items in the room and thought it was most likely some chocolate cake batter that had possibly spilt onto the Formica surface. But now he could see: she was dripping into a pool of blood.

  “Oh, Lord! You’re bleeding!”

  He’d been surreptitiously hoping there could be some way, some chance, they could maybe sweep this whole thing under the rug, just for the time being at least, and put a happy face on for the lock-in until the kids had finally gone home in the morning but now her livelihood was at stake. Lord! Had she truly been impaled so violently as to have caused massive hemorrhaging? Barry winced with pain at the suggestion. Surely, there was far more to this than he could be expected to comprehend and it was all too much. The children would have to wait.

  “Come on. Let’s go to the hospital.”

  Chapter 8

  By now the foursome had made their way down two whole avenues and reached the park separating the two neighborhoods. It was a fairly large park containing a formidable duck pond and sprawling thicket, replete with hike and bike trail. Their route would require them to traverse a noteworthy meadow through which a foot path had been worn. In recent times, the neighborhood association had succumbed to pedestrian traffic and allowed gravel to be laid down. The barrier between middle and lower class had always been inconvenient at best by car, despite the proximity, due to the odd layout of the city. Now, those on foot and bicycle could travel back and forth within a roughly ten minute interval.

  In spite of the usual degree of humidity cultivating Allenville’s infamous mist, the wind had allowed for a mostly visible night. The stars were out in full force and a waxing gibbous moon shown big and bright in the crisp Autumn sky.

  Jimmy was beaming with pride at his production and would pause every so often to shuffle through his bag of assorted sweets and empty wrappers (Maddy wouldn’t allow him to discard them on the ground). Once they had reached the midway point near the duck pond, Rory produced a cigarette and a lighter from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Wanna smoke a square?” He addressed the group.

  “Where did you get that?” Madison scowled.

  “From my dad, when he wasn’t looking.”

  No one jumped at the opportunity but they didn’t offer any protests either to their friend lighting up. They knew it was gross but it was cool too. Had to be eighteen to get one so they still owed some semblance of respect to the one who could make such an acquisition.

  They formed a semicircle around their friend as he wrestled with the cheap corner store lighter. Probably brand new, still full with butane but too shoddily constructed to offer workability to a fourteen year old trying to spark it, into the wind at that. He flicked it repeatedly without success.

  “Here, let me see it. Cup your hands.” Patrick snatched it from his grasps and began struggling with it himself. Hmm, ‘made in Thailand”. Come a long way just to misfire.

  “Turn this away. Your facing right into the wind, dumbass.”

  Rory adjusted until the wind was at his back as Patrick hobbled around him to resume his position. This time he flicked it on with the first try, illuminating Rory’s face.

  “There. Got it.”

  Rory dragged on the stogie and predictably coughed out the smoke, extinguishing the flame. As he struggled to regain his breath, his face red, their attention was averted to the night sky for a hideous screech had pierced the air, ducking everyone’s head down and raising their shoulders with discomfort.

  SCREEEEEEE

  SCREEEEEEE

  They turned their attention to the direction the sound had emanated, towards the moon. It had the characteristics of an eagle or hawk, some kind of bird of prey, a raptor to say the least. Even more like the velociraptor depicted in Jurassic Park, intensifying as it echoed throughout the valley.

  The kids looked at each other with bewilderment. Jimmy clutched the leg of his big sister.

  “What was that?”

  “I don’t know.” Patrick observed. “But it sounded angry.”

  He had the sensation of a field mouse caught out in the middle of a massive meadow, wandering where he shouldn’t, underneath the unforgiving exposure of a full moon, it dawning on him he was vulnerable like an all you can eat Golden Coral buffet to any owl or hawk that was worth half it’s feathers.

  “I’ve never heard anything like that before.” Rory remarked. “And I’ve been coming to this park my whole life.”

  The group passed around a set of worried looks.

  “Let’s get moving.” Somebody said. “It’s getting late.”

  It really wasn’t. Or maybe it was but that wasn’t why they said it.

  The path brought them beyond the duck pond and emptied out into the guard rail of a dead end road.

  “We’re almost there.” Spoke Patrick, the team’s designated leader.

  No one had briefed Rory or Jimmy about where they were headed but they had deduced that there was an actual destination to their travels and they were thankful for it now.

  Alma Rodriguez’s house was the third one on the left from the dead end. An immigrant herself, apparently her son had found some success in the Air Force and paid off her long time homestead in the working class side of Allenville. The abode rested on a somewhat steep hill at the top of a set of steps closer in resemblance to a ladder.

  “OK, this is it.” Whispered Patrick as he rested his hand on the aluminum gate to find it squeak open invitingly with little encouragement.

  Maddy tilted her head back to take in the full scope of the dwelling. It looked about as hospitable as the Amityville manor.

  “Whoa, man. I am not going up there and neither is Jimmy. There aren’t even any lights on. I don’t think anyone’s home.”

  Patrick gestured with his eyes back towards the park where they had heard that spooky noise but it wasn’t registering with Madison. She’d probably written it off as some random, nocturnal outcry. Amazing how one’s mind contorts and acquiesces to convenience.

  “I’ll go.” An easy opportunity for Rory to de
monstrate his bravery.

  “OK, come on. Are you sure you guys want to wait here? At least come inside the gate.”

  The boys made their way up the steps supported by a flimsy hand rail. Alma probably took full advantage of this. Plenty of natural pitfalls to keep nosey unwanteds and pesky solicitors away from her sanctuary. I bet she doesn’t even order a pizza, Patrick thought. Old hermit ladies like her probably made their own from scratch. He wasn’t old enough to know that that was usually a better alternative.

  Once the duo reached the rickety porch of the one story flat, they could sense that something was wrong. No lights were on, not even the flicker of a TV screen. The door was wide open and the normally tidy screen was barely hanging off of it’s hinges as though someone had forced their way through.

  “Uh, hello? Ms. Alma? Mrs. Rodriguez?” Patrick knocked on the old wooden door panel.

  That’s when the foul stench became obnoxiously apparent. They curled their face in disgust and brought a hand to their noses. Rory brought his shirt over the bridge of his nose like a bandana and they started hacking.

  “Ew, what is that?”

  “I don’t know. Her dog must’ve died under the porch or something and she hasn’t smelled it from inside.

  Ms. Alma! Are you OK?”

  The longer they stayed, the more wrong the situation was becoming. Normally there would be a barrage of cats from all directions. Where were they?

  Patrick went to knock on the door…..wide open.

  “Ms. Alma!” He called out into the black. “We’re coming in to check on you.”