Enter Evil

by Linda Ladd

  “What’s he do now?”

  “He’s a mechanic in the Shell station back home.”

  “Well, la di freakin’ da, a mechanic. Bet they never asked him to go on the Jay Leno show, did they?”

  Buddy laughed. “No. He sings karaoke at the Fifth Street bar sometimes, but he sucks at it. He likes to sing “Born to Be Wild.” He didn’t even have the money to send me here. Grandma had to pay.”

  “See what I mean? Nobody’s gonna remember him anymore, but take a real good musician like you, you can get a job lots of places and make a big name for yourself. People will pay to come in and see you play the drums.”

  “Yeah, that’s my dream, all right.”

  “Tell you what, kid, I’ll help you. My dad’s got some connections here and there. Maybe I can get you a gig with a reallive band when you get a little older.”

  “You think you could do that, really?”

  “Sure I could. Just stick with me, Buddy, and we’ll go places together. Once we blow this place, we can hang out, have some fun.”

  Buddy popped another chocolate-covered cherry into his mouth. He chewed on it pretty good, but he was smiling so much that some cream filling oozed out his mouth and rolled down his chin. He licked it up with his tongue, still grinning.

  Yep, the son thought, if everybody in this place was this much of a pushover, he was really gonna love it here.

  A couple of hours later, the new roommates walked down a long carpeted hallway together.

  “Is this therapy stuff pretty bad?” he asked Buddy.

  Buddy said, “Nah, not really. The doctors watch you like you’re a ticking time bomb, but nothin’ much ever happens around here.”

  “Like you’re a lit cherry bomb at Fourth of July, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s exactly the way they look at us. I just look away when they do that and don’t say nothin’. I don’t trust ’em. I know they’re gonna tell my dad stuff I say.”

  “Maybe you should talk. You know, say whatever comes into your mind. Maybe it’d make you feel better. I think that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  “I don’t like to talk in front of people.” Buddy stopped in front of a dark green door. He knocked on it instead of going right in. Inside, a voice called out, “Enter.”

  The son thought that was a pretty funny thing for somebody to yell out, instead of just saying come on in or jumping up and answering the door. Buddy held it open for him and let him walk inside first. The entire therapy group was already there, sitting around in a circle in black metal folding chairs. When he did a quick head count, he saw there were twelve kids there, eight girls and four boys. He immediately scoped out the girls for the prettiest ones.

  “Oh, there you are, boys. I guess Buddy’s showed you around the place a little,” the doctor in charge said to him, standing up. He was a lot younger than the son had expected, much younger than the shrinks in the hospital who had ordered him out here. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and wore some large black sunglasses. He looked like an older guy who was trying to look cool with the younger kids. He didn’t fool the son for one single second. He introduced himself to the son, and then introduced the son to the rest of the group.

  “Go ahead and sit down, fellas. We’re just getting ready to go around the circle and tell everybody how we felt today when we woke up. You know, the first thing we thought about, and how we felt. Just for fun, you know.”

  Yeah, right, thought the son, just for fun. What did this guy take us for, morons? He sat down beside a good-looking Asian girl, the best-looking one by far, and who was just the littlest bittiest thing imaginable. He thought she looked hot and like somebody he’d like to have sex with. He wondered if she was a virgin and how easy it would be to get into her pants. He smiled at her, slightly turned on, just thinking about it.

  She had the longest black hair, and she had it tucked behind her ears. She kept her eyes downcast but watched him sidelong out from underneath some real long black lashes. She wore white shorts that came just above her knees and he liked the color of her legs. She had on some white sandals, too, with shiny silver trim, and her toenails were painted black. So were her fingernails.

  Around the circle they went, with most of the kids just saying they felt nothing at all when they woke up. Some of them said they were too sleepy to think about anything. He almost laughed at what a failure this little shrink exercise was turning out to be, or therapy, if that was what the hell it was. It wasn’t working for Mr. Cool, that was for damn sure. So he decided to liven things up a bit.

  When it was his turn, the doctor looked at him in kindly fashion, even put his hand on his shoulder to make him feel welcome and comfortable. “So what about you? And by the way, nobody here is forced to go by their real name, if they prefer not to. It’s completely up to you. We protect our patients’ privacy in every possible way. Of course, you can give it to us, if you want to. Or you can make up something for us to call you that you feel comfortable with. It’s your decision.”

  “Well, then okay. My name is Trouble. Always has been. But everybody can call me Tee for short.”

  Complete silence. He thought that would get him a couple of laughs. Nobody even smiled. God, what a bunch of dumb losers.

  The doctor said, “Then Trouble it is. Tee, for short. Hope you don’t live up to it, though.”

  No response. The group did not think the doc was funny, either.

  “What did you feel, Tee, when you first opened your eyes this morning?”

  If they wanted something to react to, he’d give it to them, by God. “Well, Doc, when I woke up this morning, the first thing I saw was the way my mom’s head looked all busted up on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. Just like a muskmelon tossed off a truck on the Interstate.”

  Dead silence.

  Doc crossed his legs. “Indeed,” he said without missing a beat. “That must have been a very painful thought for you so early in the day.”

  “Oh, yeah, it was painful. It even made me want to commit suicide again. So see, I have this little pocketknife, see, and I got it out and opened it up and put the blade against my wrist right here.” He showed them with his forefinger. “See, it’s still not healed from last time. But my dad came in and stopped me in time. Too bad, or I’d be in the morgue right now, instead of here chewing the fat with you guys.”

  Nobody said anything for a moment, and then a big, gangly boy who had on a T-shirt with Good Charlotte on the front said, “Bullshit. You’re just trying to get attention with that stupid-ass story.”

  “Yeah,” said the hot Asian girl beside him. “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you?”

  Tee said, “Is there any other kind?”

  That brought a few chuckles from around the circle. He grinned. He was getting to some of them, but surprise, surprise, this little episode at the psycho clinic was gonna be more of a challenge than he had expected. There might actually be some kids with brains stuck in here with him. Hell, that’s probably why they were in here. They were too smart to want to do the same old things everybody else did, like go to proms and drive around in cars and go to the movies, and all that crap. Maybe he would even like one of them. That would be a first. But maybe psychos made the best friends. He’d soon see.

  Doc said, “Does anyone else wish to comment on Tee’s remarks? Please be sure and identify yourself so Tee can remember you better.”

  “Sure,” said one kid who was dressed like a real dork in a white dress shirt with a button-down collar and black dress pants. He looked like he’d just gotten home from a wake and taken off his jacket. “My name’s Moses, and I think Tee needs to find the Lord and he won’t have to try to impress us with his silly, immature lies.”

  Tee looked at Moses and said, “What’re you in here for? Parting the baptism water?”

  Everybody laughed at that, and the dork aka Moses said, “That’s not the least bit funny. It’s sacrilegious.” Moses looked around for nods of agreement but didn’t get a
ny. All the other kids just stared at Tee. But they looked interested. This was probably the most excitement this group had seen in months.

  “Anybody like to play basketball around here?” Tee asked, looking around at his fellow patients.

  “I play,” said the little tiny China doll beside him. Several others indicated that they played, too.

  “You’re too short to be good,” Tee said to her.

  “Ever heard of three-pointers?” she said to him.

  “I was leading scorer on every team I ever played on.”

  “Me, too.”

  Tee eyed her with new respect. Yeah, he was gonna bang her, all right. If she didn’t want to, he’d make her. He was big and strong enough to do her, even if she fought back.

  “You know, Tee, that’s not a bad idea. Maybe we could form a little league, of sorts,” said Doc. “Just for the fun of it. The gym’s open every night. It’ll be good exercise for the group.”

  “You’re dead meat, Mr. T,” said the girl.

  He didn’t like the Mr. T crack; he’d seen reruns of The A-Team, but he rather liked the sassy girl. “You’re too pretty to be a basketball player,” he said to her and gave her his most charming grin.

  “You’re lame and retarded,” said the girl, and gave him her most scathing sneer.

  “You sayin’ something’s wrong with that?”

  “You’re so done for. Please don’t sit by me again. You make me sick.”

  The doctor said, “Lotus, be nice. Tee’s new to our group. We should welcome him and try to make him feel comfortable.”

  “Yeah? Maybe I’ll give him a bigger, sharper knife as a welcome-to-the-nuthouse gift.”

  Tee was really beginning to like her. A lot. He couldn’t wait to hold her down and force himself on her.

  SEVEN

  “Well, lookee here, Claire, seems our man, Murphy, lives in the second friggin’ White House.”

  I had to agree with Bud’s assessment of the Murphy estate, or mansion, if you preferred maid speak. We followed the governor’s big black limousine through an ornate, spiked wrought-iron gate that had to be opened from the house or with remote controls carried by family members, and drove up the sweeping curve of the blacktopped driveway. Far away and up to our left, atop a hill with jade-green, manicured lawns, stood the Murphy abode aka Palace of Versailles. Oh, yeah, old Joseph and his clan were rolling in money, no doubt about it.

  Bud said, “Think they’ll let us in without puttin’ on a friggin’ tuxedo?” Then he said, “This joint looks like something Nick Black might live in.”

  “He’s rich, but he’s not this obnoxious about it. Anyway, his digs are mostly the penthouses in his hotels.”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s only got penthouses, poor guy.”

  Bud was teasing me, and I knew it, so I let it go.

  I said, “Doesn’t look to me like the kind of family that would produce a suicidal son who’d broil his girlfriend.”

  My remark hung in the air between us. Neither of us cracked a smile. Hell, I could still smell the roasting flesh, and I tried to clear that memory out of my head. Once more, I decided I’d never cook a roast again, not of any kind, not that I ever had. Once more, I asked myself what kind of whack job could possibly do something so inhumane? Or was it a horrible accident? The poor girl climbs into an oven in a drugged-out daze for some unknown reason, and uh oh, somebody accidentally left the timer on. Sorry, that just didn’t pass the sniff test with me, uh uh, no way Jose. But why the hell would she climb inside that oven? She had to be so strung out that she didn’t know what she was doing. That’s the only explanation I had been able to come up with. Except for Black’s hypnotism theory, which seemed a little screwy, too.

  The buffed-up doozy of a shiny limousine slowed to a stop in front of the house under a massive pillared portico. The huge house, oops, I mean mother of all mansions, was quite the sight to behold. Red brick with pristine white trim. Colonial architecture that looked straight off Boston Commons. There was a glassed atrium on the south end, a screened porch on the north, and maybe fifty windows facing the giant fountain in a circular drive heralding the great big double front doors.

  Across the rolling fields of grass I could see the muddy Missouri River meandering and gurgling its path to its eventual rendezvous with the mighty Mississippi. This guy might actually give Black a run for his money in a giant moneybags marathon.

  We watched the uniformed driver jump out and hurry around to open the backseat door. Murphy slumped out and glanced back at us, where we still sat in my Explorer behind the limousine.

  I said, “Well, Bud, I can tell you one thing, I would rather drink acid than walk inside that house.”

  Bud said, “Ditto, double time.” He glanced at a deer that suddenly appeared at the edge of the woods to one side of us. I hoped it didn’t charge out and attack us. That would top off our morning.

  Bud said, “You think it’s weird he wants us to come along and help him tell his wife?”

  “Yeah, the thought occurred to me.”

  “You’d think he’d want to do it himself in private, locked up in their bedroom or somewhere, maybe, you know, give her some time to deal with it a minute or two before she faces the police.”

  “Yeah, but everybody’s different. He’s not strong emotionally, that’s pretty evident, but he’s not faking it, either. He’s devastated about his son, definitely, without a single doubt. C’mon, let’s get him inside, he’s not going anywhere near that front door without us.”

  Reluctantly, we climbed out of the Explorer as the guv’s limousine sped off with a quiet, expensive purr and ever-glinting wax job. Joseph Murphy stood on his doorstep like a lost waif, his facial muscles lax and morose, his eyes bloodshot, his life over. He said nothing when we reached him, just turned and started up the semicircular bricked steps to the front door. We followed, also silent. Over the front door was a gigantic fanlight made of cut glass that probably came from Tiffany’s a hundred years ago and was transported to Missouri from Tara, or another plantation like it. In other words, it was worth plenty. Painted scarlet, my dear, the door was unlocked so the master of the manse ignored the huge brass door knocker shaped like a crown and walked right in, his two police escorts skirting in his wake.

  Once inside, we were met by complete and utter silence. Mausoleum size foyer, by the way, if not larger. I bet I could yodel like Heidi’s grandpa and get some super good vibrations off the giant crystal chandelier. No uppity butlers hanging around. No snotty maids, either; probably off somewhere on the telephone offending callers. But there were lots of large beautifully decorated Chinese vases and gilded baroque mirrors. A few burgundy velvet chairs and a matching tufted settee were positioned at the base of a long curving flight of stairs. Not bad for our little old Show-Me State. Black would want to buy it, no question. However, it seemed as cold as ice, deserted and lonely. Maybe Murphy just wanted us here for the company and some human warmth.

  “Mary Fern’s probably in the family room. She feels more comfortable in there.”

  Murphy was speaking in a low monotone now. Saying as little as he could get by with. We followed him some more. Down a couple of halls with double doors opening into great big grandiose rooms on either side. Nobody said anything, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard in the house, except for our echoing footsteps. It could’ve been “The Night Before Christmas,” sans the mouse.

  At the extreme rear of the mansion we entered a huge room that actually looked lived-in. At least there was a frosted glass sitting on the top of a glass cocktail table, making a ring, even, God forbid. But it was a fancy goblet and it was made of Waterford crystal, so there you go. I know it’s Waterford, because Black has some in his penthouse. Trust me, I do not. I use empty jelly jars at my house. Disney World ones. Once I got one that had grapes on it because it was Smucker’s Concord Grape and that’s my favorite.

  Lo and behold, a woman was sitting alone at a beige marble bar with mirrors behind it. Down an adj
acent wide hardwood-floored hallway, I could see glimpses of an equally giant chrome and black kitchen. The floors were all shiny polished dark wood that was almost black. I was beginning to believe Shaq and his team lived here, just for the headspace alone.

  The three of us stood by the door and said more nothing. Murphy looked at me like a helpless little kid who had lost his way, and he was. He was mute, to boot. Bud was looking at me, too, so I guess that’s my cue to get this show on the road. I said, “Mrs. Murphy?”

  The woman jerked around quickly and looked at us, rather unnecessarily startled. She was middle-aged, late thirties, early forties, but slender and tanned and pretty in her black and white striped capris and spotless white sleeveless blouse made of fine linen, if I was any judge of expensive garments, and I wasn’t. She stood up immediately and walked slowly toward us. She was a graceful woman. Her hair was highlighted with ash blond and expertly done. Inside she was probably giving him hell for toting home uninvited company wearing Tshirts and jeans.

  “I’m sorry, Joseph, I didn’t hear you come in.” She looked me and Bud over pretty good with undisguised curiosity, then focused her attention on her husband, her expression faintly quizzical. “Honey, you’re home awful early. Is everything all right?”

  Joseph Murphy stared at her with a horrible look on his face, then he started to weep. Presto, that brought his wife alive quick enough.

  She went to him and put her hand on his arm. “What? Tell me. Are you sick?”

  Joseph grabbed her by the upper arms, held her back, and stared down into her shocked face, then lost his nerve and lay his head on her shoulder, sobbing. Confounded, she looked at us for help. She kept saying, “What’s wrong, Joseph? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  I didn’t want to break the news, either, but I finally said the usual, “I’m afraid we’ve got some very bad news, Mrs. Murphy. I think you should sit down.”

  “Oh, my God, what is it? Is it one of the children?”

  I nodded and said gently, “I’m afraid so, ma’am. Please, sit down here on the sofa and let us tell you what happened.”