Remember Me

by Rainwater, Priscilla Poole

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  Dark clouds hovered over the grounds of Windgate Hospital as a steady sprinkle of rain, mixed with occasional rumbles of thunder, set a grim and bleak stage for the events unfolding. Overhead, a local news helicopter took aerial footage while over thirty law enforcement officials worked the scene, doing their best to understand the true scope of horrors Brett Parker had perpetrated.

  Nora Timms, a young, attractive, tall brunette who was a news reporter for one of the local television stations, stood in the worn, pothole-filled parking lot, microphone in hand, excited that she had beat the competition to the scene, thanks to an inside tipster she had in the local police department. She didn't have to be a seasoned veteran to realize this story had the potential of going national, and if she was really lucky, perhaps it would be picked up by international news agencies as well. It was her first, and best, shot thus far at making it into the big leagues, and she considered her offer of an intimate night with the officer who had tipped her off a small price to pay for such a huge scoop. Brett Parker, it seemed, would be her springboard to the majors.

  “Nora, you're on in...five…four...three…two....one.” the cameraman said, then gave her a thumbs-up.

  Putting on the most grave, sympathetic demeanor she could muster, she looked into the camera. “Good evening, I'm Nora Timms, reporting from Nottaway County. I'm standing outside of what once was Windgate Hospital, a one-time private mental health facility that was once known for treating patients of the state's wealthy and famous, from the early nineteen-hundreds, to the early nineteen-fifties. But today, this once high profile facility, which was shut down in December of 1953 from what I've been told, is quickly becoming well-known again, but for far more sinister reasons than in the days of yesteryear. Today it is the scene of a modern day horror story. Although information is sketchy at this point, what is known is that approximately two hours ago state police investigator Detective Paul Marshall received an anonymous phone call informing him that billionaire Granger Mortensen, and his wife Cassandra, were being held captive here by Doctor Brett Parker, former physician of Mrs. Mortensen. Doctor Parker was already wanted by police in connection with the deaths of Detective Jeanine Rhodes, and private investigator Buddy Martin. The doctor, along with his cousin Martina Shephard, who is still at large as well, is also wanted in connection of the assault and kidnapping of Cassandra Mortensen three years ago.”

  With a huge grin on his face, the cameraman gave her an ever so slight nod of his head in the direction of an open-air tent that had been erected in the bleak parking lot, off to their right.

  Turning and pointing, Nora continued as the camera panned the scene, showing local, state, and federal law enforcement officials milling about, most of them sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups and looking over blueprints of the building and maps of the grounds. “The anonymous caller informed Detective Marshall that Mr. Mortensen and another unidentified man was in need of immediate medical attention. The extent of their injuries are unknown at this point, but I can tell you they were both flown out by helicopter to Lonesome Pine Hospital, which is roughly twenty miles north of here.” Turning to face the camera again, a gust of wind blew some of her long hair across her face, which she brushed away with her free hand. “I've learned from local police, who were the first to arrive on scene, that Doctor Parker had apparently fled on foot before they arrived, and why the man fled on foot remains a mystery. As you can clearly see behind me...” she said as she turned around and pointed at the large white Dodge van parked in front of the entrance, ”..his rented white Dodge van was left behind, and police can only speculate that the man panicked at the sounds of sirens approaching, and fled on foot into the nearby woods. Sheriff’s Deputies are scouring the surrounding area with K-9 units as we speak. At the moment, Doctor Parker's whereabouts are still unknown. In an even more grisly twist, the anonymous tipster also informed Detective Marshall there was a strong possibility there could be bodies buried elsewhere on these grounds. I must stress that thus far no bodies have been found, but of course this investigation is still in the early stages of development. We'll be here on scene giving you all the latest developments as they unfold. I'm Nora Timms reporting live, Channel Five Action news.”

  Giving her the signal they were off the air, the cameraman gave her a wink, then chuckled as he watched her pump her fist in the air three times, then rush over to meet him. Hoisting the camera off his shoulder, he rewound the tape, then studied her in silence as she watched the footage from the tiny, pop-out LCD screen.

  “I can feel it, Brad, this story is gonna' be my ticket to the big time! Today, rinky-dink newsroom in these god awful coalfields, and tomorrow, CNN Newsroom in Atlanta! No more 4-H Club bake sales or lame-ass Railroad Days for me.” she gushed, then giggled excitedly.

  “Just don't forget to take me along for the ride, darlin'.” he replied.

  Looking at him speculatively, Nora wondered for the hundredth time why he chose to dress and groom himself the way he did. Brad was a good looking guy, six feet tall, with an athletic build, and well educated. But he chose to wear his dark, silky hair slicked back, fifties style, with some sort of oily looking hair gel, and he wore those damn nerdy looking horn-rimmed glasses that made him look like Clark Kent in the old Superman comics. But she also recognized the hungry, predatory gleam in his eyes, and knew they were kindred spirits. Neither would ever settle for some hick town news reporting, they both knew that violence, sex, and death were what sells. And he WAS a damn good cameraman. Licking her lips, she gave him a meaningful look and said, “Stick with me, babe, and I'll take you all the way to the top with me. And as long as you keep making me look as good as you're making me look today, I'll always see to it you never want for anything.”

  Grinning wolfishly at her, he replied, “You really mean it?”

  “Oh yes, anything.” she murmured, already planning his fashion and grooming makeover in her mind, and at the same time, already regretting her promise of an intimate night with the policeman who she had received the tip from. All this excitement had revved her sexual engine, and tonight she would much prefer to screw this handsome young man's brains out rather than some fat, balding Sergeant who always reeked of onions, garlic, and a host of other offensive body odors. But alas, it was a man's world, and such was the price most women had to pay to reach the top.

  “Alright! I'm gonna' go grab myself a cup of joe and a smoke, alright? Be back in five.” Brad muttered.

  “Ok, but make it quick, like you said.” she replied, and watched as he headed for the temporary command center.

  With an effort, she finally tore her hungry gaze from her handsome co-worker and turned her attention elsewhere. Spotting Paul Marshall walking away from the command center, she sprinted in his direction, panting as she finally caught up and stepped in front of him. “Detective! Anything new? We're being kept in the dark here. Is it true there are bodies of dead children on the hospital grounds? Did Doctor Parker kill those children? Is it true Doctor Parker raped Mrs. Mortensen?” she panted, terrified that a rival local news agency would arrive on scene at any moment and try to steal her thunder. “Listen, I would be sooooo grateful if someone could tell me exactly what's going on. You just don't know how grateful I would be.” she finished in a breathy voice.

  Giving the woman a look of utter disgust and disdain, Paul ignored the questions and stepped past her. Making his way inside the nearby wooded area, he was soon lost from sight.

  After fifteen minutes of searching the thick woods, he suddenly stumbled on a small clearing, and his heart sank at the sight that greeted him. The clearing was circular in shape, and in the middle was a statue of an angel kneeling, with its face cast downwards, as if in mourning. But the statue wasn't what made his heart sink, it was the twenty or so earthen mounds, obviously graves, that surrounded the statue, forming a perfect circular pattern themselves. So, this was Brett Parker's trophy area. He kept all of them here, in his sick li
ttle garden, never letting them rest! he thought, suddenly sick to his stomach at the prospect of having to tell these victim's families that their daughters would never be returning home alive.

  Kneeling in front of the nearest mound, he closed his eyes and thought of the young girl in the first DVD he had viewed. “Don't you worry sweetheart, don't you worry, any of you, I'm not leaving here tonight. I'm not leaving until we get each and every one of you home, and you can rest in peace.” he said in a choked voice as a tear trickled down one cheek.

  Thank you.....a voice whispered, seemingly directly in his ear.

  Startled, he leaped to his feet and looked around wildly, but just as suddenly as the voice had whispered in his ear, a peaceful calm enveloped him, a feeling of serenity so complete it nearly brought him to his knees again, only involuntary this time. “I'm taking all of you home.” he whispered, then reached for his two-way radio.

  Chapter 43

  Lonesome Pine Hospital, 12:49 pm

  Cassandra paced the waiting room, still in a state of utter disbelief and shock. Glancing down at her blood stained clothing, blood from both Granger and Zeke, she shivered. After the mysterious woman had left, dragging Brett with her, she had done her best to care for her husband and the man who had nearly died trying to save them. It had seemed like several lifetimes before the police and two ambulances had finally arrived.

  After examining Zeke, then Granger, in turn, the EMTs had called for a chopper to airlift them to the hospital, and that had terrified her almost as much as Brett's earlier rampage. There hadn't been room for her on the chopper, and she had had to ride to the hospital in a state police cruiser.

  After arriving at the hospital, it wasn't bad enough she had been kept in the dark about Granger (or Zeke's) condition, but she had had to endure several hours of questioning by local, state, and federal investigators. For the safety of her family, and Zeke's, she had heeded the stranger's warning, and stuck to the story the woman had told her to tell.

  “Cassandra!” a distraught voice cried out.

  Turning, she saw her tearful mother being held steady by Tate Redford, with Malcolm behind them, entering the room as quickly as her mother's unsteady legs would carry her.

  Breaking down for what felt like the hundredth time in one day, Cassandra sobbed and hurled herself into the comforting embrace of her mother's arms. “Brett, he tried to kill Granger! Zeke too! Zeke, he tried to help, but Brett shot him!”

  Cooing in a soft voice, Jocelyn finally managed to calm her, then led her to a row of chairs nearby and helped her sit. “It's over now baby. The police will find that evil monster, he won't hurt you or Granger ever again.”

  Rubbing her back, Tate spoke in a soft, fatherly tone. “You're safe now sweetheart.”

  Kneeling down in front of her, Malcolm said, “Cassandra, listen to me. Like Tate and your mother said, nothing, or no one is going to harm you now, we're all going to be on you, Granger, and Regan like your own shadows. And I'm personally going to fire those two incompetent boobs who were hired to watch over you.”

  Looking up at him with wide eyes, she pleaded, “Malcolm, please don't fire them, it wasn't their fault! I asked them to stay in the limo so I could have some privacy, but they kept me in sight the whole time! I pretended to have to go to the bathroom, and I slipped out back. I was gone in two minutes flat, I had unexpected help. Plus, Brett told me to come alone or he would kill Granger!”

  “Well, I suppose you may be right.” he grumbled, not quite placated, but knowing in his heart she was right, that the two men really weren't incompetent at all, far from it, as a matter of fact.

  Remembering her husband's battered body, she looked at her mother again. “They won’t tell me anything about Granger's status!”

  Patting her hand reassuringly, her mother replied, “Now now, don't you worry, they're just busy doing everything they can for him right now. Besides, that man loves you so much he would fight the Devil himself to get back to you.” Glancing at Tate, she asked, “Tate, would you be a dear and go see if you can find out anything about his condition? And that other brave man, too?”

  Nodding, he gave Cassandra's shoulder on last gentle squeeze, then left.

  Looking at Malcolm, Jocelyn said, “You call home, I don't want the media sneaking inside the estate somehow and blindsiding the staff, Regan, or even Grace with this.”

  Nodding, he stood and pulled his cell phone from his pocket as he left the waiting area.

  That taken care of, she turned her full attention back to her daughter. “Everything is gonna’ be just fine, you wait and see.” she murmured as she pulled her into her warm embrace again. “I'm sure the good Lord didn't see all of you through this for no reason. Just have faith, baby.”

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  The following morning, 8:20 am

  Doctor Charles Quentin, aka Box Charlie, collapsed heavily into the chair behind his desk, feeling as if a vampire had sucked all the vitality from his body, and his very spirit, as well. The previous day he had heard on his police scanner that Brett Parker had escaped punishment yet again.

  Wondering what his next move should be, he glanced at the photographs on his bulletin board, faces of the young women whose lives had been cut tragically short. Brett Parker's victims. Today the smiling faces seemed to be staring at him, begging for, nay, DEMANDING, justice. “I don't know what else to do, or where to even start. He's gone, on the run, and I'll never find him now.” he mumbled. Unable to look at the photos any longer, he averted his gaze, then, in a sudden rage, swept everything off his desk top, including the computer monitor, sending it all crashing to the floor.

  Leaping to his feet so suddenly his chair went crashing backwards onto the floor, he screamed, I SHOULD HAVE KILLED YOU WHILE I HAD THE CHANCE YOU SON OF A BITCH! Whirling around, he ran to the bulletin board and ripped the photo of Brett down, spit on it, then crumpled it and hurled it across the room.

  Looking up at the ceiling, he sobbed, “And what about YOU, huh? Why do you allow people like him to do the things they do, WHY? Why did you turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to their cries for help? People call you a loving God, yet you know good and well what he did to those innocent girls, and you allowed it to happen. WHAT KIND OF A GOD ARE YOU ANYWAY!?” he finished with a scream.

  Feeling even more drained than he had moments earlier, he found himself clutching the edge of the desk with both hands to support himself just as an insistent buzzing captured his attention. Someone was ringing the front door to the warehouse. Mystified and suddenly tense, he muttered, “Who could that be? Only Raidon Bishop knows about this warehouse, and he's out of town. And I could have swore I locked the front gate.” Reaching down and opening the top drawer of his desk, he removed a semi-automatic Beretta, then slid it carefully inside the right pocket of his jacket.

  Making his way downstairs, he opened the door cautiously, tensed and ready for anything, and was surprised to see a young woman dressed in a FedEx uniform standing there, her truck parked only a few feet away.

  “Good morning sir, package for Doctor Charles Quentin.” the woman smiled.

  “Young lady, how did you get in here?” he asked.

  “Sir?” she stammered, in obvious confusion.

  “The gate, it was locked, wasn't it?”

  “No sir, it wasn't. Uhhhh, look, are you Doctor Quentin or not? I'm in a bit of a hurry, I had a flat tire, and I'm running a bit behind schedule.”

  “Sorry.” he mumbled. Signing for the package, he thanked her, then shut the door and made his way back upstairs.

  Placing the small brown box on the desk warily, he studied it for a moment. There was no name or return address for whomever had sent it, only his name, and the long-vacant address to this warehouse written in smooth, beautiful cursive handwriting. With a heavy sigh, he hesitated a moment longer, then ripped the top of the box open and reached inside. Plucking the two items out and placing them on the desk, he muttered “What the hell?” a
s he gazed at what looked like a small digital image viewer, and a generic, prepaid cell phone.

  Picking up the digital viewer, he turned it from side to side, then looked at the back. There was just one button on the device, a tiny, silver power button. Pressing it, he turned the unit back to face him and stared at the tiny LCD screen. Several seconds later an image appeared, and he gasped in shock and outrage as the face of Brett Parker came into clear view. “What the fuck?” his voice rose in outrage, then trailed off as another image materialized on the tiny screen. It was another picture of Brett Parker, but this one showed his face bloodied and bruised. As he stared in fascination and confusion, a steady procession of images followed, about thirty seconds apart, and all of them had the same simple inscription at the bottom, in bold font: 'Brett Parker' and each successive photograph was worse than the last. A close-up of shattered teeth and a broken nose. Two bruised, swollen eyes. Two bloodied, shattered kneecaps, which he knew from experience were from gunshots. Both hands, covered with blood, all the fingers on both hands missing the fingernails. The last photograph showed Brett's face contorted forever into a rictus of horror unlike anything he had ever seen in all his years practicing medicine, a look of horror so complete it even made HIM cringe. The tiny caption at the bottom of the last photograph read: 'Even you don't want to know what caused this'