Ashes Beneath Her: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel

by Erickson, J. R.

  She glared at the pages.

  “He was weak,” she hissed. “If he’d have been stronger, stronger like Spencer was…”

  The detective stared at her.

  “Are you telling me you did these things to your second son as well?”

  “Where’s Byron?” she demanded, ashing her cigarette on the table and ignoring the ash tray.

  “I was about to ask you that, Mrs. Crow. He was last seen at the asylum earlier today. His vehicle is still there, but no one knows where he’s gone. We have an eyewitness who saw Doctor Crow being escorted into a dark van by several men.”

  She frowned.

  “Tell me about the brotherhood, Mrs. Crow.”

  Abe watched the woman lift her eyebrow.

  “What brotherhood is that?”

  Detective Hansen sighed and slipped off his blazer, hanging it over the back of his chair.

  “Ben Stoops, the young man who has lived with Byron Crow for nearly two decades, spoke of a brotherhood at the Northern Michigan Asylum.”

  Virginia rolled her eyes.

  “The young man comes from schizophrenics. You can’t believe a word out of his mouth.”

  Abe’s head had begun to ache, and perspiration coated his face.

  He turned to Waller.

  “What did you find at the property?”

  Waller studied him.

  “You look rough, Abe. Let me walk you to your car.”

  As they left the building, Waller answered Abe’s question.

  “The kiln was filled with bones. The forensics team has assembled six bodies, including the body of a small child.”

  Abe shuddered, remembering Orla hiding in the kiln that was actually a crypt.

  “Susan Miner?” he asked.

  Waller nodded.

  “No confirmed victim identities, but we found a treasure trove of keepsakes beneath a floorboard in Spencer’s cabin. Liz Miner identified Susan’s clothes. There appears to be items from every missing girl you reported on.”

  Abe leaned against his car. His head swam and he closed his eyes. The head injury coupled with the horror of the findings overwhelmed him.

  “How can I help, Abe? Do you need a lift home?”

  Abe shook his head and patted the hood of his car. After he’d dropped Orla off, he’d driven directly to the police station despite hospital orders he go home and rest.

  “You solved this,” Waller told him. “Moore’s off the case. He’ll be lucky to work another homicide. On behalf of the entire department, I want to say thank you, Abe.”

  “I gave you the wrong guy,” Abe muttered.

  “No, you didn’t,” Waller disagreed. “That guy sang like a canary once Hansen put the pressure on him. He led us to you guys.”

  “Did he know about Spencer? And the murders?”

  Waller shook his head.

  “I don’t think so. He was shocked when he learned what transpired after he left Orla at the cabin. Guilt-ridden, from the looks of him.”

  “And Spencer? The detective said he’s in the hospital.”

  Waller nodded.

  “Yep, we found him blubbering like a baby out in those woods. He was in the kiln, bleeding mightily from a wound to the back of his head. Looked like somebody nailed him with his own hammer, though Orla and Amber denied it.”

  Abe shook his head, tried to imagine it, and realized he didn’t want to.

  “Do you think he’ll confess?” Abe asked.

  “Already has - chicken-hearted to his core. Not a signed confession yet, but man, he talked and cried something fierce the entire drive back from the Peninsula. He told us he feigned a broken arm at Fountain Park to get Amber Hill to his car. He asked her to help him load some wood in his trunk. He’s a clever scoundrel, I’ll give him that.”

  “That’s why we never found anything,” Abe muttered. “He talked them into helping him. I should have figured as much. I was all wrong about Ben. I had it all mixed up.”

  Waller put a hand on his shoulder.

  “That story had so many twists and turns, we likely won’t ever know the full truth. How you got this close blows my mind. You did good, Abe. Go home, take a long nap, and when you get up, tell your dad to take you out to dinner. You deserve it.”

  * * *

  Orla

  Orla wanted to hug Ben, to pull him aside and thank him, but her dad held her close as four police officers and Detective Hansen waited for Ben’s directions.

  Ben led the group from the asylum into the forest.

  Orla shook, and her father petted her head and murmured little words of encouragement.

  “You can do this,” he whispered.

  She didn’t respond. It was not bravery she lacked in that moment. A disconcerting sense that someone, or something, watched them surrounded her.

  Ben paused, pointing at a tall Willow tree, and started down the hill that led to the chamber.

  Orla saw Ben’s eyes darting anxiously, and she wondered if he felt it too.

  Blanched trees, bare of their leaves, grew out from the earth and lay tangled in a heap across the prickly summer vegetation.

  Ben walked to a wall of brush and gestured at it.

  “The door’s in there,” he murmured.

  Detective Hansen stepped forward and reached into the foliage. He moved sideways, pushing his arms into the brush up to his shoulders. He searched for several minutes.

  “There’s nothing in there.”

  Ben frowned and stepped forward.

  He reached into the brush.

  After a moment, Orla broke away from her father.

  Ben looked at her puzzled.

  Orla, her hands protected by gloves, pulled at the twisted bushes, ripping and clawing. She created an opening in the overgrowth, but only more forest lay beyond it.

  “Are we at the wrong place?” Hansen asked.

  Ben shook his head.

  “This is it,” Orla insisted, continuing to tear at the branches. “I remember that willow. This has to be it.”

  “It is,” Ben nodded. “There isn't another place in the forest like this.”

  But they backtracked and searched for another willow. After two hours, sweaty, scratched, and exhausted, they returned to the asylum grounds.

  Ben hung his head, but Orla took his hand.

  “I’ll send out more men tomorrow,” Hansen told them. “If there’s a hovel in that forest, we’re going to find out.”

  Orla looked at Ben and she saw her own doubt reflected in his face.

  The police would never find the chamber. Not if the chamber didn’t want to be found.

  52

  Orla

  “Did you find these?” Ben asked Orla, looking at the photos in astonishment.

  The first photo depicted a young woman posing in front of an aspen tree on the asylum grounds. A blanket-wrapped bundle rested in her arms, a tiny face peeking out.

  Orla shook her head. “I wish I could take credit for it, but it was all Abe.”

  “I figured it was the least I could do, since I got you arrested,” Abe told him. “Your records were in the garage at Misty Lane. Byron Crow was vile, but at least he kept detailed records.”

  Ben stared down at the photo, and then shuffled to the second and third.

  “Your mom’s name was Marilyn Stoops,” Abe said. “She gave birth to you in the asylum on May 7th, 1951. Her siblings,” Abe gestured at the second photo, which revealed Marilyn as a young woman, arms linked with her two sisters and one brother, “never knew about you. You lived in the nursery for two years, several of the nurses shared you, and your mom saw you every day. Then she contracted tuberculosis and died. When you were three, Dr. Crow started to take you home.”

  “There’s no record that he ever did experiments on you, Ben,” Orla told him. “And your aunts and uncle are dying to meet you. It devastated them when Marilyn went into the asylum.”

  “Why did she?” Ben asked shyly.

  “Because she was pregna
nt out of wedlock,” Abe scowled.

  “It’s sickening,” Orla murmured, “and unbelievably sad.”

  “There’s a bit of good news, though,” Abe said, handing Ben a folder.

  Ben opened the folder and looked up, confused.

  “It’s a deed, Ben. Byron Crow put his house in your name three years ago. He was being investigated for tax fraud. The house on Misty Lane and his part of the property are yours.”

  Ben wrinkled his brow and shook his head.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “To prevent the government from seizing his property if they decided he’d committed fraud. They never did, but he also never transferred the property back.”

  “It’s yours, Ben,” Orla said, taking his hand. “You have a home.”

  Ben looked ready to cry.

  “I don’t want it. I never want to go back there again,” he whispered.

  “You don’t have to,” Abe told him. “The police are still searching the house, but once they’ve released it, you’re free to sell it. Buy a new house. You’ll get a pretty penny out of that house and property. You’ll be set for a long time.”

  “What if he comes back?” Ben murmured.

  “Do you think he will?” Orla asked.

  “No, I think he’s probably dead. I think the brotherhood killed him,” Ben admitted.

  “Man, I want to know more about this brotherhood,” Abe muttered, “I searched Crow’s files, and didn’t find so much as hint of this group.”

  “In the meantime,” Orla cut in. “Our roommate, Jayne, is moving to Australia. We’ve got a vacancy in the house, and I thought you might like to stay with us for a while.”

  Ben looked away. When he spoke, his lower lip quivered.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “I’m way more than that.” Orla smiled.

  * * *

  Hazel

  Calvin had set up a long table in Hazel’s garden. A silver and pink tablecloth, sewed by Orla, lay over the top. From the flowering trees, Hazel had hung white string lights.

  Everyone brought a dish to pass. Liz supplied garlic rolls. Fiona had made a shepherd’s pie and brown bread. Abe brought freshly baked pies from Grady’s Diner. Even Orla, the guest of honor, made zucchini potato pancakes.

  Hazel had set the table with her mother’s Aynsley Wilton bone china, piped in blue and gold. Her mother had cherished the dinnerware. Every Friday night, in the year before her mother’s death, Hazel served she and her mother dinner on the set. In her final days, weak and ravaged by the cancer, Hazel’s mom had dropped one of the saucers and shattered it. Her mother had sobbed for hours. Hazel had wrapped and boxed the dinnerware, and had not taken it out again until just this morning, when she realized her mother would want nothing more than to see Hazel’s friends laughing and eating from her beautiful plates.

  As the sun set, her guests arrived.

  “Not the head of the table,” Orla said, when Hazel pulled out a chair. “Please.”

  Hazel saw the trepidation in her friend’s eyes and pulled her close.

  “I didn’t think, I’m sorry,” Hazel whispered, kissing her on the cheek.

  Orla leaned her head on Hazel’s shoulder and sighed.

  “That’s not true at all,” Orla told her. “Look at all this. You dreamed it, and here we are.”

  Orla sat in a chair next to Abe. He leaned over and kissed her cheek, and Hazel watched them, the way their eyes lingered on one another’s.

  Liz and Jerry took chairs near Pat and Fiona. Liz complimented Fiona on her lovely green dress, which she’d sewn herself. Orla, too, wore the beautiful red and orange dress she’d made just days before her abduction. The backless dress revealed a large yellowish bruise fading from her right shoulder.

  When Ben, the shy, dark-haired man who’d freed Orla from the asylum, appeared, Orla jumped from her chair and ran across the lawn. She threw her arms around him, and they toppled over backwards. He blushed red, but Hazel saw he was pleased.

  When he stepped to the table, he held up a bag of cherries.

  “I stopped at a fruit stand. I don’t have a kitchen and I don’t really know how to cook…” He trailed off, and Orla took the cherries, opening the bag and inhaling.

  “I love cherries,” she told him. “And when you move in, you can do all the cooking you want. Let me grab a bowl.” She disappeared into the house.

  Ben started to sit next to Calvin, but Patrick stood and pulled him roughly away from the table. Hazel cringed, thinking Pat might hit the young man. Instead, he gave him a hug, patting Ben’s back.

  “Thank you. We haven’t had a chance to tell you, but thank you for saving our daughter.”

  Ben nodded, letting his hair fall over his face, and sat quickly down.

  They ate, drank wine, and shed more than a few tears. Hazel started to clear the plates from the table as Calvin sliced the pies.

  As she stepped onto the porch, she glanced toward the road and saw an ethereal woman, with long blonde hair, walking up the driveway. Hazel’s mouth fell open and she froze, wondering if she stared at a ghost, but as the woman drew closer, Hazel recognized her.

  “Hattie,” she whispered.

  The woman saw her and smiled. She wore a long, crocheted white dress, her hair flowing behind her.

  “Hi,” Hazel said breathlessly as she met her in the driveway.

  Hattie gazed at the table of people.

  “What a beautiful party,” Hattie murmured.

  “Thank you,” Hazel told her, wondering why the woman had come.

  “I’ve had a visitor the last few nights,” Hattie said, gazing deeply into Hazel’s eyes. “She would like to say goodbye to her mother.”

  Hazel stared at her, puzzled, and then awareness took hold.

  “Susan?” she whispered.

  Hattie nodded.

  “May I borrow Liz Miner?”

  Hazel nodded and walked back to the table.

  She rested a hand on Liz’s shoulder and leaned down.

  “Liz, there’s someone here to see you.”

  Liz looked up, confused, and followed Hazel’s gaze to the woman in the driveway.

  Without asking, she stood and followed Hazel to Hattie.

  “Liz,” Hattie said, taking Liz’s hand and holding it for a long moment. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “You have?” Liz cast a surprised glance at Hazel.

  “Walk with me,” Hattie said, moving off down the driveway.

  Hazel nodded at Liz, who turned and followed Hattie into the dark street.

  * * *

  Liz

  Liz watched the woman who moved with such lightness, she appeared to float.

  “How do you know me?” Liz asked.

  Hattie stopped, tilted her head and nodded.

  “This way,” she told Liz, gesturing to a white archway that opened into a small park. Liz followed the woman, who stopped near a flowering apple tree.

  “I’ll give you a few minutes,” Hattie said.

  Liz started to argue and then froze, when another voice emerged from a shadow behind the tree.

  “Mom.” Susie’s voice drifted from the darkness. She sounded far away, as if she called from the bottom of a well.

  As Liz gazed into the purple twilight, her daughter materialized behind the white blossoms.

  For a few terrible, wonderful seconds, Susan stood before her, solid and real, glowing as if she basked in the midday sun.

  “Susan,” Liz gasped, stepping forward, but her daughter faded.

  For an instant the shadow was only darkness, and then her child, her green-eyed beauty, appeared once more.

  “I’ll be waiting for you, Mom. It’s time to live again.” Susan’s voice emerged from her trembling shape. “I love you.”

  And then, Susan Miner disappeared for the last time.

  Epilogue

  Six Months Later

  Abe

  Abe’s mom stood in the baggage claim of the
Spokane International Airport, waving excitedly when she spotted him. She wore an eye-popping yellow turtleneck beneath a red sweater vest and matching red pants. Her hair, long the last time Abe had seen her years earlier, was now cropped above her ears.

  “Abraham,” she gushed, grabbing and hugging him, pulling away to look into his face and then crushing him against her.

  “My God, you’re all grown up. You look just like your father,” she cried, fat tears rolling from beneath her round spectacles.

  “Mom, I was grown up when I left Washington.”

  “But you didn’t have this beard, and these clothes…” She touched his shirt, and then stopped as if remembering Orla, who stood next to him, smiling. “You’re Orla?” she asked, wiping at her face and smiling.

  Before Orla could answer, his mother embraced her, crying into her shoulder. “Abraham, she looks just like Cher from Sonny and Cher. My goodness, you are lovely. Look at her, Abe.”

  Abe smiled apologetically at Orla.

  “I’ve seen her, Mom,” he assured his mother. “You are lovely, though.” He lifted Orla’s hand and kissed her palm.

  His mother beamed at them, her gray eyes enormous and shining.

  “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Levett.”

  “Call me Bernice,” his mother insisted, grabbing Orla’s arm and steering her toward the door.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Abe called after them. “I’ve got the bags.”

  “I’m making my legendary beef burgundy,” Abe’s mother announced. “Has Abraham told you all about it? I made it every year for his birthday, until he left, of course. You’re not vegetarian, are you?”

  Oral laughed and winked at Abe.

  “No, I’m a meat-eater, and Abe has mentioned your legendary beef burgundy. Sounds amazing, Bernice. I can’t wait to see your home. Abe tells me you raise miniature Schnauzers.”

  “Oh, I do, Orla. I do. They are the most precious things. I have six pups right now, three weeks from adoption, bless their little hearts.”