by Rick Hautala
“Well,” he said, “I told you I had a brother. That was no secret.” His voice sounded weak and trembling.
“Oh, sure—you told me about him! You told me that he lives ‘somewhere’ in California, and that you never see him—never even write or call! So what’s with this call from Reed Park Hospital? Remember, I used to live in Massachusetts. I know damned right well what Reed Park Hospital is! It’s a mental hospital. A nuthouse!”
“A psychiatric care facility,” Edward said softly. “And—yeah, okay, maybe I didn’t tell you the whole truth about Michael—”
“His name really is Michael? So I can at least believe that much of what you told me, huh?”
Edward nodded. He tried to look her squarely in the eye but found that he couldn’t. Waves of guilt and worse feelings swelled up inside him.
How much can I tell her? How much do I dare to tell her?
“Yes. His name’s Michael—Mikie, we all called him growing up. And yes—he is in a mental hospital … has been for the past—” He took a deep breath and, eyelids fluttering, blinking back the tears, looked up at the ceiling. “For the past thirty years. He—he’s been diagnosed as severely schizophrenic. Really bad off. It’s true that I don’t contact him very much—only once or twice a year at most.”
Dianne nodded, but she was still trembling as she leaned forward, her body tensed.
“He was committed … back when we were kids,” Edward said. He slouched forward with his hands folded down between his knees, staring intently at the floor. A cascade of frightening memories filled his mind. The throbbing sound of his pulse in his ears grew steadily louder until it sounded like an overworked engine.
“You see, back when I was twelve, Mikie was ten, we were out playing in the—in an old building. A couple of my friends were kind of teasing Mikie. You know how kids can be when there’s someone who’s a little bit … different, you know? Anyway, the best everyone can piece it together, they started chasing Mikie through this old building, and Mikie—well, I guess he jumped out from where he was hiding and knocked this kid—Ray Saunders—through a trap door in the floor. The other kid insisted that Mikie pushed him, but I—”
For an instant, his voice caught in his throat and he couldn’t continue. Dianne almost softened toward him, but then she sat back until he could go on.
“Well, he fell and broke his neck. The kid, Ray Saunders, I mean, not Mikie.”
“Did he … die?” Dianne asked, her voice fluttering in her chest.
Edward shook his head dejectedly. “No, he—”
“He … his face got smashed up real bad on the frame of the trapdoor, and when he hit the ground, his back got broken. He was paralyzed from the waist down.”
For the first time since he had sat down on the bed, Edward found the courage to look his wife straight in the eyes. Her face, wired and bandaged as it was, seemed horribly alien to him—a Halloween mask with absolutely no emotion behind it. In some ways she looked a bit like how he remembered Ray looking that day. The memory of his face, with the entire left side peeled back and bleeding into the pile of rotting sawdust, filled him with an icy terror.
“So you see, Ray—well, people around here still call him Sandy—has been in a wheelchair ever since,” Edward continued. “He lives in town here. I stop by to see him once in a while, but I—it’s uncomfortable to see him because of, well, because of all the memories it stirs up and all.”
“Umm, I can imagine,” Dianne said, shaking her head slowly up and down.
“So—you know, everyone blamed Mikie for it, said that he’d done it on purpose and that he was insane and was too—too dangerous to be out loose, that he might try to kill someone else. I remember how, after the accident, Mikie really freaked out. It was like something suddenly snapped in his brain. He was—God! It was horrible! He was kicking and screaming when my mother found him and pulled him out of his hiding place in his bedroom closet. I’ll never forget the way he was crying—howling, like a wounded animal or something. You’ve got to remember, I was only twelve years old at the time, and I was scared out of my mind, thinking that my brother was really insane. He wouldn’t stop shouting and screaming, going on and on about how they were angry and that ‘they’ did it, and now they were going to get even—with Ray, with him, with our mother, with everyone!”
“Good Lord,” Dianne said, and finally she did relent and shifted forward to slide her arms around Edward, hugging him to her as he buried his face into the crook of her shoulder. Deep, wrenching sobs shook his body as he struggled to speak.
“So you see … probably the most horrible thing about all of this is … is all these years, while my brother’s been locked up in the—in the mental hospital, I’ve lived with the fear that I—”
He suddenly jerked away from her and gasped for breath. Tears spilled from his eyes, glistening like quicksilver on his cheeks.
“I’ve been scared that I might have the same thing wrong with me, you know? That I might suddenly just—just snap, like Mikie did, and lose it—lose it completely!”
“No, no, it isn’t like that,” Her breath was warm on his neck as she whispered soothingly in his ear. “It isn’t like that at all.”
“Yeah, I know, I know, but I—”
Again his voice caught, and for a fleeting instant, he felt as though someone was holding him from behind, squeezing the breath out of him. “But for Mikie it’s been … it’s been thirty years that he’s been locked up—thirty years that he’s had to pay for something he never … for what happened to Ray Saunders.”
Dianne was speechless as she nodded and hugged him all the closer. Her voice trembled when she said, “But now he’s gone, right? And they don’t know where he is.”
Edward stiffened as if an electric jolt had passed through him. He sat up straight and looked at her, shaking his head. “Yeah. He disappeared about three or four weeks ago.”
Dianne took a quick sip of breath. “Well, that’s why that phone call frightened me so much. I mean, it came like a bolt out of nowhere. I’m still a little pissed off, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Edward said softly. “I know I should have told you, but I didn’t want you to worry.”
“But they still have no idea where Michael is?”
Edward regarded her with a steady gaze as he ran his teeth over his lower lip. Then he said, “No … I’m afraid they don’t.”
“So why are they calling here? Just to keep you posted?”
Edward scratched the side of his face, and again the thought filled his mind: How much can I tell her? How much do I dare to tell her? Taking her hand in both of his and gripping it tightly, he forced himself to continue.
“Well, you see, after my mother died, I made the mistake of calling Michael to tell him. I’d talked with his doctor about it first, and he thought it was probably a good thing for Mike to know what had happened. Where Mikie’s staying isn’t like maximum security or anything. Then, a few days after I talked to him, Dr. Samuels called, telling me that Mikie had left the facility without notice.”
“So where do they think he is?” Diane asked. “Do they think he might have come back home? Here?”
Edward shrugged. “He probably tried to. That was my first thought, of course. Dr. Samuels suggested that maybe Mikie wasn’t able to handle the idea that his mother was dead, and that he might feel like he had to come back home if only to—I don’t know, to see her grave so he can prove to himself that she’s really dead.”
“But how could he make it all the way back here? He didn’t have any money or clothes or anything, did he?”
Edward shook his head and shrugged. “Not as far as anyone knows. He just took off, but—I dunno … I notified the local police, of course, and the hospital has filed a missing persons report on him, but—at least so far—nothing’s turned up.”
“I don’t see how he could just walk out of there like that and disappear. That’s quite a distance to travel, from south of Boston to here—especially f
or someone who’s—well, who’s not mentally well.”
“It sure is,” Edward replied, his voice sounding hollow and flat. “But you know the state police in Maine, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts aren’t going to make it a priority. It’s not like he’s committed a federal crime or anything, so there hasn’t been any widespread search for him.”
“But the local police—they haven’t gotten anything.”
Edward shook his head. “I’ve kept in touch with Jake Crockett, but he’s overworked, too, so he doesn’t have a whole lot of time to go around looking for him, either. He tells me he keeps asking around for anyone answering a description of Michael, but he hasn’t come up with anything yet.”
“My God!” Dianne said. “Then do you think he—”
Edward knew she was going to ask if he thought Michael was dead. He looked at her, then shifted his gaze to the dark rectangle of night outside the bedroom window. She followed his gaze. They both watched in fascinated silence as the window sheers shifted back and forth with the gentle night breeze. And suddenly—for some unfathomable reason—the night seemed to be alive with menace … for both of them.
Chapter Twelve
The Old Mill
The pleasant sounds of morning birds and insects filled the air, but suddenly the peace of the forest was shattered by the crackling burr of a chainsaw. A haze of blue smoke rose up, catching angled shafts of the morning sun as it wafted through the trees like cigarette smoke at a crowded party. Bright yellow sawdust spewed into the air, sprinkling the ground like snow. Then, with a ripping, splintering of wood, the first tree keeled over. Branches of the falling tree lashed at the limbs of the trees around it as if it were trying to catch itself in its fall.
“All right! First one down!” Edward shouted.
He stood back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The ear protectors he was wearing gave him a funny, panda bear look as he glanced over at Brian, who was standing a safe distance away from the action.
Brian gave his father a halfhearted thumbs-up and watched silently as he stepped over the fallen tree and started cutting into the next one.
Boy, oh boy! Is this ever going to be a ton of fun! Brian thought, rolling his eyes back and forth as he surveyed the dense tangle of trees and brush. He could see three of the four corner posts, tied off with fluorescent pink surveyor’s ribbon. By his estimate, it was going to take at least a couple of days just to cut down all the trees.
His father cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled to him, “Hey! If you came here to help, grab some work gloves out of the truck and give me a hand.”
Resenting having to leave the cool, shady spot he had found underneath a tall maple tree, Brian slowly made his way over to the truck. The temperature was already approaching ninety degrees. He broke out in a sweat just from walking; he could imagine how ripe he was going to smell by lunchtime.
After a bit of a search, he found a battered pair of work gloves underneath the front seat. He also grabbed a pair of ear protectors and slipped them on, then trudged over to where his father was working. He stood to one side, feeling as though he had no idea where to begin.
His father held the chainsaw loosely in his hand, letting it idle as he surveyed the work they had to do.
“I figure this is about the center of what we want cleared. You can start piling up the trees and brush over there so we can burn it tomorrow.”
Brian nodded, wondering if his father really thought they could get that much done in one day. He was still feeling useless as his father revved the chainsaw and got back to work. He directed each tree’s fall so most of them landed pretty much in the pile he was building, like spokes pointing to the hub of the wheel. Brian pulled them closer together, knowing that once his father started working away from the middle, he’d be dragging trees and branches from further and further away.
“Why don’t you just bulldoze them all?” Brian shouted.
At first his father didn’t hear him above the sound of the chainsaw, so he slowed it down again and raised his ear protectors so Brian could repeat his question.
“Why not just bulldoze them?”
“See these trees with the blue ribbons?” his father asked, sweeping the area with his pointed finger.
Brian looked around and for the first time noticed that several large hemlocks and pines had dark blue plastic tape tied around them.
“Well, the people who are building here want me to save all these trees that are marked … if I can.”
Brian nodded his understanding.
His father sniffed with laughter and shook his head. “Gonna be a real pain in the ass trying to work around them, but I told them I’d try.”
“What are you gonna do about the stumps?’” Brian asked.
“The backhoe will take care of them when they come to dig the foundation,” his father replied, and then it was back to work in earnest.
Most of the trees his father felled were saplings. He had explained to Brian that this area of the property had been logged off about twenty years ago, so most of what was here was new growth, easy to cut down. It seemed to Brian as though a different tree was falling just about every minute. The work was hard, but after a while he got into the swing of it. Before long, they had a good-sized area cleared out except for the stumps, which stuck up out of the ground like rotting teeth. Sweat ran in torrents down Brian’s face and back. It sprayed from his face like when a prizefighter catches a haymaker as he flung branches onto the tall, teepee-shaped brush pile. Brian wanted to make sure he was out here when his father touched it off.
They couldn’t talk much as they worked, except for when his father refilled the chainsaw with gasoline and bar oil. When the chainsaw wasn’t running, Brian was amazed by the deep, muffled silence of the forest. Birds and insects were hushed. He no longer thought about the sweat and grime of the job. He was actually enjoying the physical activity, and he realized that even busting his hump like this piling up brush was better than sitting home alone in his room, listening to music and thinking about how much he disliked … her—that wired, bandaged monster sleeping in the next room who had taken the place of his mother in his father’s life.
Lunchtime came before he knew it, and side by side he and his dad settled down to eat the tuna fish sandwiches they had packed this morning. The gallon jug filled with lemonade, which had looked like so much this morning, now didn’t seem to have near enough to quench their thirsts. They chatted small talk as they ate, but all the while Brian felt tensed, waiting for his father to start in on him again about how he should try to show some sympathy and concern for Dianne. Fortunately, he never did. By the time Brian finished off the last of his sandwich, he was feeling exhausted, more ready for a nap than another stint hauling brush,
“I don’t know if I’m even going to be able to stand up,” he said, smiling as he burped loudly and rubbed the bulge of his stomach.
“I know what you mean,” his father said, leaning forward and wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. “But it’s good to work hard like this, don’t you think?”
Brian laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll probably sleep like a log tonight.”
“You know, actually, if you want to take the afternoon off, I can handle the rest of this by myself.”
Brian wondered if his father honestly wanted him to take a break or if he was trying to get him out of the way. Hadn’t he been doing a good enough job? He cleared his throat, then said, “Yeah—well, I wouldn’t mind heading home and taking a shower.” Stifling a yawn, he stretched his arms over his head and flexed.
“Whatever,” his father said. He drained his cup of lemonade, crumpled up his paper trash, and stood up. “We were working like the dickens there for a while, and I think I’ll slow things down a bit. It’s not like we have to have it all done today. Go ahead. Take the rest of the day off. It’s not that much of a walk back home.”
Brian considered for a moment, then nodded and stood up. “Well … if you’re
sure you won’t need me this afternoon.”
“You’ve been working like a dog. I mean it. Take the rest of the day for yourself. Thanks for the help, though. I really appreciate it.”
“Hey, no sweat,” Brian said; then he chuckled and, sniffing under his armpit, said, “Actually, quite a bit of sweat.”
He took care of his trash, tossed his work gloves back under the truck seat, then started for the road. Before he was very far, though, his father called out, “Hey! Wait a second.” Brian looked back at him.
“You know, there’s a path right through the woods here that will take you straight to the house.” He indicated with a wave of his hand the wall of trees on the far side of the area they had been clearing.
A cold knot suddenly twisted in Brian’s stomach as he glanced at the woods. Without warning, the memory of what had happened that day when the red croquet ball had disappeared into the woods popped into his mind. These were the same woods. What if that person was still out there, still watching him and waiting to catch him alone?
What if he followed that path, and as soon as he was out of sight, he ran into that same person?
“It’ll get you home in half the time,” his father said, apparently not noticing his hesitation. “Plus, it’s shady. It’ll be hotter than hell out there on the road.”
Brian almost said he would just as soon take the long way home, but he didn’t want to appear scared or nervous in front of his father.
Yeah, nervous, he told himself. Not scared—just nervous … cautious.
“The path is easy to follow. You can’t possibly lose it,” his father added. Without waiting for a reply, he flipped the starter switch and pulled the cord. Brian stood there a moment, watching his father, unable to take a single step toward the woods. The saw sputtered on the first few pulls, then kicked into life with a crackling roar that filled the woods. Brian realized he was breathing too fast and consciously slowed himself.
