Cruel Minds

by Malcolm Richards

  “I was just thinking the worst. It might not happen,” she said, trying to sound convincing.

  “Nobody will want to come here anymore. That’s what you said, isn’t it? Well, I’ll still want to come here. Even if what you say about Oscar is true. But what if you are right? What if Meadow Pines does shut down for good? Where will I go then?”

  Emily stared at the water. Above the lake, the sunset seared the sky. “There are other places, Melody.”

  “But I don’t want other places. And what about Pamela and Marcia? This is their home. Where are they supposed to go?”

  “They’ll find somewhere new.”

  Emily leaned forwards. Something was floating in the water, bobbing up and down a few metres in front of the jetty.

  “What’s that?” She squinted, trying to make out the object in the half-light. It was small and black. She was surprised she’d noticed it at all.

  “I don’t see anything,” Melody said.

  It moved closer, carried along by the current. Jumping to her feet, Emily jogged down the jetty. She returned a minute later with a long, thin branch. She searched the water for the object. It had floated to the left and was now just two metres away. Sinking to her knees, Emily leaned over the water and reached out with the branch.

  Melody watched with mounting curiosity. Emily lunged forwards. The branch hit the object and dragged it under the water. It resurfaced a second later, bouncing up and down. Her second attempt went wide. She lunged for a third time, snagging the object on the end of the branch.

  “What is it?” asked Melody. She pulled up her feet and watched as Emily freed the object and held it between finger and thumb. Water rained down onto the planks.

  “It’s a wallet.”

  Brushing pondweed and grit from the black leather, Emily unfolded it. There was no money inside, no coins weighing it down. But there were cards. Emily pulled one out from a pocket. It was a credit card. As her eyes moved down, examining the cardholder’s name, adrenaline shot through her veins.

  “This is Oscar’s wallet,” she said.

  She handed the card to Melody, who reacted as if she’d just been given a spider to hold. The card dropped from her hand and landed face up on the jetty. Emily studied the rest of the wallet’s contents. A card holder with a clear plastic face sat in the centre. She cleaned off the dirt. Oscar’s face stared back at her. At first, Emily thought it was a driver’s license. Then, as she inspected it closer, she drew in a sharp breath. Above Oscar’s picture were the words: Oscar Jansen, Private Investigations.

  Voices filled the air. Jerome and Helen stepped out from the trees on the west side of the lake.

  “Come on,” Emily said. Folding the wallet, she got to her feet. Together they walked the length of the jetty, back onto land.

  Jerome smiled a quick, nervous smile as they came closer. Emily could sense something was wrong.

  “No sign of Sam either?” he said. Beside him, Helen’s skin was pale against the orange light.

  “No, but we did find this.” Emily opened Oscar’s wallet and fished out the card. “It was floating in the lake.”

  Jerome held it up to his face. The failing light made it difficult to read. Helen snatched it from him.

  “Oscar’s a private investigator? Why would a P.I. be here at Meadow Pines?”

  Emily took the card back and replaced it in the wallet.

  “We found something too,” said Jerome, his voice faltering.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s best you come and see for yourself.”

  Emily stared at him, at his hardening expression.

  “What is it?” she repeated.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Land Rover was parked beneath the thick, gnarled branches of an ancient yew tree, which curled and twisted liked the tentacles of a Lovecraftian beast. The driver door was open, its window shattered. Shards of glass carpeted the earth. Emily stared through the open door. Splashes of blood dotted the steering wheel. A partial bloody handprint was pressed into the windscreen. Her throat drying, she turned and examined the ground. Blades of grass beneath the tree were flat, as if something had been dragged through. Stooping, she ran her hand through the blades, then recoiled when her fingertips came away wet and dark.

  “I don’t believe any of this,” Melody said, her voice shattering the silence. She was crying. “Sam is a good person. He would never hurt anyone. Especially not Marcia. He loves Marcia.”

  Emily stood and wiped her fingers against her jeans. “Hold on now, Melody. No one said anything about Sam being responsible. And we have no idea what happened here. Let’s not jump to conclusions, okay?”

  “You don’t need to say anything! I can see it on all of your faces. But you’re wrong. Sam is good and kind.” She turned on Emily. “You think he killed Oscar, don’t you? That he’s run away. He doesn’t even know Oscar!”

  “You need to calm yourself down. Get a grip,” Helen said, clearly lacking any degree of patience.

  Emily stared at her. With the discovery of Oscar’s wallet and now the blood-covered Land Rover, it was not the time for more ill-feeling.

  “Someone’s taken the picture from Oscar’s body,” she said. “I need to know if it was you.”

  “Me?” Helen pressed her hand against her chest. Her wounded façade lasted for about three seconds. “Look, I agree I may have overstepped the mark a little today, and that I can sometimes be a little forthcoming with my opinions, but one thing I don’t do is lie. And I’m telling you that I have not been back to Oscar’s body since we left it.”

  Emily nodded. “I believe you.”

  She did. There was an honesty in Helen’s eyes that could not be faked. It didn’t mean she was about to become friends with the woman, though. Or even polite acquaintances. She glanced over at Jerome, who had remained silent since bringing them to the Land Rover. He stood, watching the trees, his eyes darting back and forth.

  “I have a theory,” Emily said, returning her attention to Helen.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Jerome moved in closer. Melody had stopped crying and was now crouched over with her back turned to them.

  Emily cleared her throat. “Oscar was a private investigator. Let’s suppose the reason he’s carrying a picture of that man is because he’s been hired to look for him.”

  Helen chewed her lip. “Sounds reasonable. Often, families of missing relatives will turn to private investigators once the police have drawn a blank.”

  “So if Oscar’s search brought him here, it can only mean one thing. The man from the picture must have visited Meadow Pines.” She paused, catching Jerome’s eye. “There’s something else. Oscar’s room is next to mine. Last night, I heard raised voices. He was arguing with someone. With a woman.”

  Melody turned to find Helen staring at her.

  “It wasn’t me! I didn’t even know him!” she cried, threatening to dissolve into hysterics one again.

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t me, either. So that leaves Janelle, Sylvia, Pamela, or Marcia.”

  The bloody handprint on the Land Rover windscreen caught Emily’s eye. A sliver of ice slipped between her shoulder blades.

  “Marcia wasn’t here. I saw her walking in with Sam this morning. She’d spent the night at his place in Lyndhurst.”

  “Perhaps it was Sylvia,” Jerome suggested. “After all, she and Ben robbed us. Perhaps they killed Oscar too.”

  Melody stood up, freshly-picked bluebells in her hands.

  “It crossed my mind. But that doesn’t explain what’s happened to Marcia. Or to Sam,” Emily said.

  They were quiet for a minute. Above them, a breeze rustled the canopies. It would be dark soon.

  “I think we should go back to the house,” Jerome said. He looked tired, Emily thought. Tired and afraid. “Pamela needs to know what we’ve found.”

  Everyone agreed.

  As they turned to leave, Melody placed the bluebells on the front of the Land R
over, then caught up with the others.

  They moved quickly, negotiating their way through the forest. All around them, shadows lengthened and merged. As they reached the house, dusk snuffed out the last embers of sunset.

  “Why don’t you go ahead,” Helen said, stopping in front of the garden gate. “There’s something I want to check out.”

  Emily shook her head. It was a bad idea. “In another half an hour you won’t be able to see your hands in front of your face.”

  “Jerome and I found something. A shed.”

  “You mean we found a shed with a big padlock on the door,” Jerome corrected.

  “And who knows what inside. I’m going with my instincts on this one and they’re telling me that shed could be important.”

  “Your instincts or your ego?” Jerome said. “We have no idea what’s going on here. People are missing and dead. It’s not worth the risk, Helen.”

  “So you won’t come with me? It could be research for that slasher movie role.”

  Jerome dug his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry but Emily’s right. It’s almost dark and we need to be inside.”

  “That’s disappointing,” Helen said. She turned and tapped Melody on the shoulder. “You’ll do. Let’s go find a torch.”

  Before Melody could refuse, Helen snatched up her hand and pulled her through the gate.

  Looking over her shoulder, she said, “I’ll be quick. We’ll be safe.”

  The garden closed in on Emily.

  “I can’t decide if I really hate that woman or admire her tenacity.”

  “I’d say sixty-forty,” Jerome said. His expression soured as he stared at the house, then up at the sky.

  Clouds were rolling in fast, their edges stained black like mould.

  Emily squeezed his hand. She took in a breath, pushing down the anxiety blocking her throat.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll do the talking,” she said.

  Together, they walked towards the house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Pamela was waiting for them in her living room. She showed them to the couch, then perched on the edge of the armchair. Her skin had been drained of its vitality and was now the colour of spoiled milk. Her fingertips dug into her knees as Emily spoke.

  “We’ve looked all over Meadow Pines but we can’t find Sam. Perhaps Helen is right. Perhaps he did head off to go looking for...”

  The words dried up in Emily’s throat. She glanced sideways at Jerome, who was staring intensely at the rug.

  “Where are Melody and Helen?” Pamela’s voice trembled with panic.

  “They’re ... doing another quick sweep before it gets dark.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on. How could Sam just disappear? Why would he go off without telling me? It’s so irresponsible.” Pamela brought her hands together and entwined her fingers.

  “There’s something else,” Emily began. A mild wave of nausea washed over her as she struggled to assemble the right words. How did you share awful news? Did you soften it with kind words? Did you build a safety net of it’s going to be alright and I’m sure your daughter will come out of this alive? Or did you plunge in headfirst? Rip out the heart, tear the last strands of hope like hair from the scalp? No matter which way you chose to tell it, the end result would always be the same. Emily chose the quickest route.

  “We found the Land Rover,” she said, forcing the words out of her mouth. As she described the broken window and the blood inside, she watched Pamela’s face grow impossibly white. She left out the drag marks she’d found in the grass—the image it conjured was worse than that of the blood.

  Pamela grew very still.

  “There’s more,” Emily said, hating herself as she pulled Oscar’s wallet from her pocket. But it had to be done. Meadow Pines felt unsafe now. Dangerous. If Pamela was holding something back, then everyone needed to know about it.

  She held up the card. “Oscar was a private investigator. We think he was here looking for the man in the photograph, the one I described to you. Someone’s taken that photograph, Pamela. It’s gone.”

  Pamela sagged, the strength that had been keeping her upright suddenly spent.

  Emily leaned closer. “Who is he Pamela? Who is the man from the picture? Why was Oscar looking for him?”

  Now slumped in the armchair, Pamela rested her chin on her chest. She lifted her hands and covered her face. She remained like that for the longest time, unmoving apart from the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Then, without speaking, she pulled herself out of the chair. She stood still for a moment, swaying from side to side. Then, crossing the room, she slipped through a door in the far wall.

  Emily exchanged worried glances with Jerome.

  “Do you think we should check on her?” he asked.

  “Give her a minute.”

  Emily felt wretched. She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to conjure up Kirsten Dewar’s soothing tones. Imagine you are in a calm place. Somewhere you feel safe. She almost laughed. Meadow Pines should have been that place. Drawing in a calming breath, Emily held it for a few seconds, then exhaled.

  She opened her eyes and found herself staring at Pamela’s bookcase. She reached out and squeezed Jerome’s arm.

  He frowned. “What are you doing?”

  Emily was off the sofa and in front of the shelves in a second.

  “The Happiness Hall of Fame,” she whispered.

  She pulled the photograph album from the second shelf and brought it to the coffee table. Sinking to the floor, she opened it up and turned to the first page. Jerome scooted forwards.

  “What have you found?”

  “Melody told me that at the end of every weekend, Pamela takes a photograph of her guests as a kind of record of the happiness they find at Meadow Pines.”

  Emily scanned the photographs in front of her. Each one showed a different group of people. Some stood in the garden while others assembled in the dining hall. All had wide smiles, relaxed shoulders, and bright eyes.

  Jerome looked up from the album to the door.

  “She’ll be back soon,” he said. “Let’s not tip her over the edge.”

  Emily turned a few pages, then stopped. “Look.”

  The group shot at the top had been taken on the back porch. Melody stood at the centre of the back row, her face beaming. Dates were handwritten beneath the photograph: 8-10 August, 2013.

  Emily continued to flip the pages, the memories of each weekend reflecting in her eyes. Then, she froze. Her lips pressed together until they were almost white.

  He was standing on the edge of the front row, a few, noticeable inches separating him from the rest of the group. Where his fellow guests flashed their teeth at the camera, his lips remained flat and still beneath unreadable, dark eyes. And although the picture was slightly grainy, the scar above his left eyebrow was still visible.

  Emily caught her breath. “It’s him. It’s the man from Oscar’s picture.”

  “His name is Franklyn Hobbes.”

  She and Jerome looked up in unison to see Pamela standing in the doorway, a wad of tissues in her hand. She’d been crying and had done a poor job of covering up the fact. For a few seconds, she hovered in the door, swaying back and forth. Then, she drifted into the room and seated herself on the other side of the table. She took the photograph album and turned it to face her, pointing to the picture with a trembling finger.

  “It was December 2014,” she said. “We usually close for three months during winter. It’s hard to heat this old house. Costly too. But we were having such a mild start to the season that I decided to keep Meadow Pines open for an extra month. Marcia wasn’t particularly happy about it. Winter is our only real time off. But we’d had an unusually quiet summer and so any extra income was a blessing. That may sound very materialistic of me, but as much as I view Meadow Pines as a sanctuary, I have no illusions about it also being a business. Without money, Meadow Pines falls by the wayside. It’s a sad fact but such is the
way of the world—even on its peripheries.”

  Emily stared at the man’s picture, transfixed by his eyes. They were black and lifeless like doll’s eyes.

  “Back then, Meadow Pines was a different place,” Pamela continued. “How much do you know about Vipassanā?”

  Emily and Jerome shook their heads.

  “Buddha discovered that we can remove suffering from our lives by understanding our true nature. Vipassanā means exactly that—to see things as they are. It helps us to step back from the situations we experience, to observe them unfolding rather than to react or attach to them. Because all forms of attachment, whether good or bad, lead to craving. And craving leads to misery. Just think about your reluctance to hand over your phone, Jerome. Your attachment to it left you feeling threatened. Its removal left you feeling miserable because its presence brings you a perceived kind of happiness.

  “Yeah, and then its theft left me feeling pissed off,” Jerome muttered.

  Emily waited as Pamela considered her next words.

  “A Vipassanā retreat isn’t easy: ten days of Noble silence in which you cannot speak to or make eye contact with other participants; deep meditation sessions that begin at four-thirty in the morning and end at nine at night. There can be periods of intense highs, followed by intense lows. But it’s all part of the path to the realisation of the true nature of things.”

  “And what is the true nature of things?” Emily asked.

  “To truly understand the answer in its purest form, you must take the journey to awakening yourself. In its simplest form, the answer is this: Nothing is permanent. Our minds, our bodies, everyone and everything around us are in constant change. All of our cravings, our aversions, our addictions are birthed from basing our happiness on things that change. You buy the latest TV and you feel great. Then a newer model comes along and suddenly your TV isn’t good enough. Or you meet someone and you fall in love. You put your faith in the idea that you’ll spend the rest of your lives together. But then the relationship suddenly ends, and it takes your happiness along with it—not because of the love you shared but because of the attachment you developed to the idea of permanence.”