Deranged

by Lonni Lees

  The minutes stretched as slowly as thick rubber bands, then snapped.

  A door slammed, jerking his attention to his right and the source of the commotion. The noise had rattled him. He scowled as two strangers entered the room—a stocky woman with acned skin and an imitation leather briefcase noisily cleared her throat, then chugged with single-minded purpose across the room. A young policeman followed in her wake. They avoided eye contact with Jerry as the cop knocked on Mrs. Petroff’s door.

  They both went inside.

  “What the…?” Jerry began.

  “We will get to you shortly,” Mrs. Petroff said, slamming the door with finality.

  Jerry heard the lock tumble into place.

  Something was very wrong. He stood up, ran to the closed door and pressed his ear against it, listening for snatches of conversation. But the sounds were too muffled, the voices too low. This was absurd. Five slow minutes passed. Then—“No.” It was Amy’s voice. “No!” He banged his fists on the door and pulled at the knob.

  “What the hell is going on in there?” He kicked at the door. His hands shook. He felt hot tears on his face. The blood rushed and pounded at his temples. These strangers had made him helpless and he did not know why.

  Why had a policeman been called?

  “No!” Amy’s voice was nearer—more panicked.

  The door flew open and slammed against the wall. The policeman came out first, using his arm to block Jerry from reaching his daughter. The cop’s features were soft, but his eyes darted nervously with the explosive potential of the situation. Jerry never thought he would see a cop as the enemy. Until now. It was all happening too fast and made no sense. The short woman came through the door next, holding Amy’s arm tightly as the girl tried to free herself from her grip.

  “You’re hurting me,” Amy said. “Daddy, she’s hurting me.”

  Jerry tried to lunge toward Amy but the officer held firm.

  “Everything will be fine,” the woman was saying to Amy. “It will be safe now.”

  Amy stared back at the woman with the eyes of a terrorized rabbit.

  As Amy tried to reach for her father, the woman dragged her across the room and opened the door to the parking lot. Dust swirled in threads of late afternoon sun. Jerry blinked, adjusting his eyes to the sudden assault of daylight. He saw a second policeman beyond the door, older and stockier than the one who held him. This one scooped up Amy and carried her to the nearer of two parked squad cars. Amy’s protestations filled the space between her father and herself—a space that lengthened like the murky afternoon shadows.

  “I can’t believe this!” Jerry said, attempting to push past the first officer. The policeman held him by the shoulders as Jerry tried to push his weight through the young man. It didn’t work.

  “Just calm down,” the cop said, resisting the temptation to pull his revolver, knowing it would only escalate the situation. “Please, let’s not make this more difficult than it has to be.”

  From through the open door Jerry saw the woman open the rear door of the squad car and get in. The second policeman placed Amy in the woman’s lap. The door slammed shut. The cop walked briskly to the driver’s side, opened the door, then got behind the wheel.

  The car door slammed.

  The engine started.

  The cop threw the car into reverse, jerked it into first, hit the gas, and peeled out.

  Amy was gone.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Jerry directed his words to Mrs. Petroff, who had maintained a stoic silence through it all. “For God’s sake, we came here for help and you’ve given us chaos. What the hell are you doing?”

  “Protecting that child.”

  “Protecting her from what? You have no right to do this.”

  “I am quite within my rights, Mr. Hamill,” she said calmly. “My obligation is the welfare of that poor child.”

  Jerry felt light-headed but pulled away from the policeman’s loosened grip. “What exactly are you implying?” He asked, but sensed the answer before the words completed forming on his lips. The policeman finally released his hold but kept his eyes on Jerry.

  “I have every reason to believe,” Petroff began, “every indication that Amy is the victim of abuse.”

  His thoughts ran faster than he could catch them, but “That’s just crazy,” was all he could manage.

  “Is it? That is precisely what we intend to find out. She has been released to the custody of Social Services.”

  “She needs my protection, not yours. She needs my strength. Her mother’s gone and—damn you, I’m all that she has. You can’t do this….”

  “Oh, yes we can. We protect the child, not the offending parent. A medical examination will….”

  “No….”

  “…determine if our suspicions are correct.”

  “You are so wrong!”

  “I sincerely hope so.”

  “But I’m guilty until proven innocent, is that it? In her desperation to be strong, she agreed to come to you. It was an act of courage on her part, but instead of helping all you did was frighten her even more. You did that, not me. As her father I have rights.”

  “Just calm down,” said the policeman.

  “When abuse is suspected you forfeit those rights,” Mrs. Petroff said. “You’re a lawyer—you most certainly should know the law.”

  “This is bullshit!” He spun around, paced the length of the room. Perspiration burned his eyes. The room was stifling. His dress shirt clung to his back as he raised his arm to wipe his eyes with his shirt sleeve.

  “We are done,” she said with finality. “The Department of Social Services will contact you once their investigation is completed.”

  “And then?”

  “Either she will be returned to you or she will not. If she is not it will be for good reason and you will face charges of child molestation and abuse. That’s the law—live with it.”

  “Let’s go,” the officer said.

  Jerry walked toward the open door, then turned. “I did nothing,” he said. “Sometimes the system is wrong. I would never hurt my little girl. They’re not protecting her—they’re making it worse. She’ll feel abandoned. Again.”

  He exited to where he had parked his car, opened the door and slid in. He stared ahead, trying to regain his composure, to clear his head. How, he wondered, could one little woman have wreaked such havoc so swiftly? He composed his thoughts as the shadows of tall eucalyptus trees stretched across the empty parking lot.

  His world had grown dark.

  Hating Mrs. Petroff served no purpose. Her mind was made up. Probably before they had ever arrived.

  The Social Worker was just doing her job.

  The cops were doing their jobs.

  I’ll go to the office and clear up this mess before the sun sets, he told himself, and Amy will be home where she belongs, asleep in her own bed.

  Safe.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jan Smith looked out the window. From where she sat at her favorite booth at the Wagon Wheel she could see the General Store. The dreary day had depressed her. Silver frost shimmered on the heavy branch-tips of the pines and the landscape was shrouded in thick fog. She was eager for summer and her “sunshine strangers”, as she called them. Summer visitors who would show her a good time and move on—no strings, no gossip.

  That was as high as expectations got at Pine Lake.

  The chill air pushed through the window causing her nipples to stand at attention. (Itty-bitty-titty, that was what some local jerk-off had called her.) Damn, she could sure use somebody more sophisticated than these yokels—even if it was just for play time. She reached for her sweater where it lay in the booth next to her. She leaned toward the window as she pulled on a sleeve—and spotted the car.

  Pushing her arm through the other sleeve, she watched as the old Chevy Nova, license plate HAWK, exited the side road and turned onto the main drag. She smiled, remembering that he had laid in a week’s
worth of groceries. She would catch him when he came back up the hill.

  After all, “Sunshine strangers” were as scarce as freckles on grizzly bears this time of year.

  Charlie Blackhawk descended the mountain, leaving the fog at higher altitudes. A layer of ochre-tinged pollution hovered over San Bernardino and Redlands. San Bernardino—San Berdoo—Berdoo—The Flats…Mountain folk’s names for the city. Charlie drove right through Berdoo. He was on his way to Hollywood—to the watching games—and he was in a hurry.

  Charlie awoke parked on the shoulder of a desert road, disoriented. Two beef jerky wrappers sat on the seat. He didn’t remember pulling over and was momentarily confused. He blinked his eyes, then remembered where he was headed. He got out of the car to stretch his legs before continuing on his journey.

  “Hoo-wee!” he yelled into the emptiness.

  Charlie Blackhawk stood as still as the desert yuccas—tall and foreboding and evil. The desert possessed a particular warmth for Charlie as he surveyed its vastness. His heart lifted to near-elation as he gazed upon the last splashes of orange-purple hues that whispered through the darkness. He felt utter joy as silent lizards scurried across the desert floor.

  He was remembering….

  …twisted metal,

  …and a child’s limp body lying in a back seat.

  Charlie laughed aloud at a speeding roadrunner. He heard the psalms of airborne angels on the lonely wind, and the unforgiving sands made his heart rejoice.

  (The woman’s neck had made a scrunching sound when he’d broken it.)

  “Hoo-wee!”

  He felt in control again.

  Jerry Hamill had succeeded. For now. Being an attorney with an important law firm had its advantages. And knowing a few judges never hurt. The right papers got signed and Amy was returned to his custody. It was not the end of the matter, by a long shot, but at least she was home where she belonged instead of scared to death in some foster home.

  Amy sat on the floor of her room. A Monopoly board sat between her and Freddy, with most of the money on his side. As usual.

  “Are you sure you want to keep playing?” he said.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “But you always lose.”

  “Maybe I’ll win this time,” she said. Freddy shifted his weight from one plump hip to the other then pushed up his glasses as they slid down the bridge of his nose. Her friend read her thoughts.

  “Don’t let it bother you so much, Amy. Adults screw up lots of stuff. Sometimes they just aren’t as smart as they want us to think.”

  Charlie Blackhawk found his way back to the main road and headed toward Hollywood. He lit a Camel, coughing as he inhaled. He turned the radio full blast.

  Dolly Parton sang in her sweet, lilting twang.

  “Slut!” Charlie screamed. (Stay away from those harlots, his mother’s voice whispered, stay away.) Charlie slammed his fist against the radio knob. The car was silent. “I’m invisible, invisible, invisible,” he muttered. “Can’t find me here.”

  HIDDEN MEADOWS NEXT EXIT, the sign read.

  And Charlie drove on into the night.

  From through the upstairs window of a house on the street named Avenida Larkspur, in the community of Hidden Meadows, came a little girl’s scream.

  She screamed and screamed, and her terror filled the darkness.

  In the small house in Hollywood, Meg Stinson handed a drink to her agent. Jason Mittleman sat, knees tightly locked, in an uncomfortable kitchen chair as Meg paced the room.

  “You sent me on three interviews today and I was hit on twice. If you want to be my agent, I expect you to protect me. I’ve had enough of those vultures.” She was getting increasingly fed up with the whole business.

  “Take my advise,” Jason said. “You’re sexy—hit them over the head with it.”

  “I will not sleep with them!”

  “I’m not telling you to sleep with them. Stop being so damn defensive. Just tease them, let them feel they might get lucky. Play your assets and you’ll have them eating out of your hand. You’re are a big girl now, Meg. You know how to say no, just stop being so paranoid.”

  Meg twisted a finger through her blonde hair. “Do I sound paranoid?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Well, they really are after me.” She laughed.

  “So who wouldn’t be?”

  Betty sat in her bed, pillows propped behind her large body. She was trying to read but was also straining to hear the conversation between Meg and Jason in the other room. She rooted for her friend’s success but worried about losing her in the process. Both Meg and Sabrina were more to her than people who shared a space. They had become her friends. Her family. She sighed, turned the page of her romance novel, and read on.

  Charlie Blackhawk swerved the Nova to the right, exiting at Highland Avenue. The Hollywood Bowl was unlit. He drove past Hollywood Boulevard and made a turn onto Melrose Avenue. It was late and Charlie was anxious. His hands trembled against the steering wheel as a lunatic giggle escaped from through his clenched teeth.

  Sabrina Stinson sat at Miss Cooney’s bedside. Her auburn hair fell forward as she reached for the old woman’s hand, cupping it in her own. Miss Cooney opened her lids, delicate as Japanese rice paper, and smiled. The corners of her mouth quivered and a milky haze covered her eyes. Without surgery, she would soon be blind. And an eighty-eight year old woman was a poor candidate for any kind of surgery.

  She would miss Sabrina’s animated face.

  “I should go,” said Sabrina. “It’s getting late.”

  “Did you bring the merchandise?” said Miss Cooney, feigning a sinister air. Her eyes twinkled mischievously, even through the cataracts.

  Sabrina stood, looked around the room, then reached into her pocket. She pulled out the Oh Henry® and placed it in the old woman’s hand.

  “Mission accomplished,” Sabrina winked.

  A gaudy, neon sign flickered: STARLET MOTEL. Charlie Blackhawk pulled into the parking lot and checked in. As he walked through the shadows toward his room, reflections from the sign washed across his grinning face, painting it in the hues of darkest blue and in reds the color of blood.

  Later that night, in the neon-splashed darkness, Charlie Blackhawk walked alone. The streets of Hollywood reeked of corruption and he inhaled the fetid essence with glee. He felt like a child in a candy store as he walked the length of Hollywood Boulevard, studying the vacant eyes of the night dwellers. Young girls, painted like sad Pierrots, wore tight shorts and wobbled as awkwardly as newborn colts as they attempted to strut in high heeled shoes.

  They excited Charlie. He would look at their skinny, child’s legs—imagine spreading them—dream of his ensuing punishments.

  He walked alone and dreamed of the wrath of someone else’s god—his mother’s god. He thought of the price he would inflict upon himself for tonight’s sins. He dreamed of knives and razor blades and hot, burning embers and as his fantasies crescendoed his erection grew stiff beneath his Levis.

  That same night Amy Hamill had a nightmare. In it a man knelt before a young girl and a woman in a leather mask. The man was crying and begging the woman to punish him. She beat him with a belt, raising welts across his back and legs as he cowered naked at her feet. Blood trickled down his thighs.

  The young girl sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly, as if nothing were wrong.

  “It’s time for the watching game,” the man said in a child’s voice as he rose to sit next to the girl on the bed. He lit a cigarette. He inhaled the smoke deeply and lowered the hot cigarette to his nakedness. He was smiling.

  The girl and the woman watched in silence as the man laughed and sobbed.

  Amy was horrified by the vision. It was obscene and frightening. Then the man looked up and she saw his eyes.

  She woke up screaming.

  She screamed and screamed. She screamed until her voice grew tight and she could scream no more.

  Over and over again, she mutte
red the same word: “Danger, danger, danger,” in a mindless, babbling chant.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sabrina Stinson and her mother, Meg, unloaded the cartons of Girl Scout Cookies from the back of the old Volkswagen. Sabrina waved to three other girls who were already set up in front of the Safeway. Today was their last-ditch effort to sell the remainder of their inventory. Lemon Pastry Cremes—Caramel Delights—Shortbread Cookies. The favorite flavors had already sold out. And Sabrina, Meg, and Betty had finished the last three boxes of Chocolate Chip themselves. “Let’s eat up the profits,” Betty had squealed, and they had gobbled them down guiltlessly the night before while watching The Best of Johnny Carson.

  The occasional ray of sunshine tore hesitantly through the clouded, unforgiving sky. The early morning chill would soon give way to a warmer day. Then people would come in droves to do their weekend shopping. Better to catch them on their way into the store while they still had money in their pockets, Sabrina thought. Hardly anyone said yes on the way out. Once their carts were filled and their pockets were running on empty they pretended they didn’t see you standing there—or they mumbled something about dieting even as packs of Oreos peeked out from the tops of their filled to bursting grocery bags.

  Standing out here peddling cookies was not her idea of a fun-filled Saturday, but it had been her idea, after all. Only the three other girls and their mothers had shown up and Sabrina had hoped for a better turn out. This was her chance to show off Meggie. It was the selling part she didn’t like—having to outsmart people all the time—it was annoying. But it was another game and Sabrina was good at games. Adults could be such liars, even to little kids. Well, she wasn’t little any more, but still. The grown-ups would either buy or feed her bullshit, in which case Sabrina would hustle them all the way to their cars. Nothing to lose—either she sold a box or they lost their cool. It was very uncool to yell at a Girl Scout, at which point she would look down sadly and likely end up with a guilt sale.