Deranged

by Lonni Lees

  It was all her fault.

  He needed to tell Lucy…he needed to know…he needed to—what?

  “What…?” Charlie whispered.

  He had to hurry. He had a job to do. He had waited for this day, the most important day of his life. Today she would be rescued and everything would finally be right. This time there could be no complications. No screw ups. He could not let her down.

  This time he had to save her.

  He had the chloroform in his pocket, although he doubted he would need it. She would be happy to see him, but just in case…just in case she didn’t know him, like last time—and the time before that. He got into the car and checked the paper bag on the seat. There was a small rag smeared with motor oil, duct tape, surgical gloves. His heart thumped in anticipation as he turned the key in the ignition. He lit a cigarette and the ash glowed menacingly as he inhaled, exciting him. He snickered, then began to hum, his mind dancing to a nursery rhyme. The melody was off-key and the lyrics were his own:

  “And if that lit-tle bird don’t sing,

  Charlie’ll tear off its fucking wing,

  And if that lit-tle duck don’t float,

  And if that…and if that….”

  Nervous laughter escaped his throat, gurgling like a backed up septic tank.

  He took a deep breath—gunned the motor—slid into reverse.

  No more rehearsals.

  It was time for the show to begin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sabrina Stinson shoved the clothes into her bright red suitcase and snapped the latches shut. She wondered why her mother hadn’t told her sooner that she had a real grandmother. “Oh, Betty, I almost forgot!” she said as she ran to the living room. “I’ve gotta say goodbye to Miss Cooney.”

  Betty looked at her watch. “We’re leaving in half an hour. There’s no time.”

  “I’ll run,” she said as she flew out the door.

  Sabrina sprinted up the street toward the Convalescent Home, making a quick stop at the liquor store for four Oh Henry®s to tide her friend over until she returned from her trip.

  In Hidden Meadows, Amy and her father sat at the kitchen nook. She wasn’t improving so he’d taken her to see the doctor. Unable to diagnose the cause of her fatigue, he’d sent them home with multi-vitamins, iron tablets that gave her a tummy ache, and pamphlets on proper nutrition. They sat at the table, sipping hot cocoa and watching birds play outside the window. Despite the sunshine, Amy felt restless, overcome by a sense of foreboding that wouldn’t go away.

  Betty paced uneasily as she waited for Sabrina to return. They’d have to leave for the airport in ten minutes or she would never catch her flight and Sabrina still wasn’t back. Betty sucked the perfumed center from a Twinkie, tore it open with her thumbs, and finished the job with her tongue. “Almost as good as sex, if memory serves me right,” she said aloud. She looked at Meg’s sketches on the fridge, then paced some more.

  She thought she heard a car pull into the driveway. She walked across the room and looked out the side window.

  Charlie Blackhawk steered the Nova up the driveway, coming to a halt behind an old Cutlass. The presence of the other car didn’t alarm him. He figured it belonged to the slug. Betty, was that her name? Betty, Betty. Yes, that was it. He turned off the car, leaving the key in the ignition, and one at a time, with great difficulty, pulled on the tight surgical gloves. He felt in his pocket, reassuring himself the bottle was still there. Sometimes he forgot things, he knew, but not today. Today was important. He shoved the oily rag into the same pocket as the chloroform, then got out of the car and walked purposefully along the driveway and up the back steps.

  He knocked on the door.

  Waited.

  The door opened. Betty stood there, confused. “Charles Black,” she finally said. “I thought you’d gone back to New Mexico. I didn’t recognize the car….”

  “I came for the girl.”

  “You what ?” She bristled.

  “Meg said I could take her to the airport. I came for the girl.”

  “You’re not making sense,” she said. She tried to slam the door, but his boot blocked her effort. He pushed hard, forced his way inside, shoved her bulky form against the kitchen wall. She was big but she was weak, out of shape, already panting. He easily blocked her fist as she tried to hit him.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “She’s not here!”

  “You’re lying,” he said, pushing Betty aside, and running frantically to check the other rooms. “Where is she? I know she’s here.”

  Betty reached for the wall phone, her hands trembling, her heart in her throat. She picked up the receiver….

  “…Has to be here,” she heard him babbling from the other room….

  …Began to dial, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking…mis-dialed, clicked frantically at the receiver, dialed again. Pain shot through her head as he hit her with something from behind. He tore the phone from her hand, slammed it back onto its cradle, threw her against the wall. Betty regained her balance and stomped her foot down, hard, onto Charlie’s boot.

  “Sumbitch!” he wailed and slapped her face, raising thick welts. “Where is she?”

  “Crazy bastard!” Betty turned, opened the drawer, her hand searching frantically until she found it. She grabbed the butcher knife mid-blade, its sharp edge cutting into her flesh, drawing blood. God, the pain—

  Spun around, knife in hand, to face her adversary.

  “The girl!” he was yelling. His eyes were maniacal, unseeing. She lunged forward, found her mark, cut him.

  She stepped back, realizing that she’d only grazed his shoulder. Her breathing was shallow, sporadic. Don’t come back, Sabrina, she thought. Oh God, baby, please don’t come back.

  She had to protect Sabrina. She put up a brave but futile fight as Charlie grabbed her by the wrist and twisted.

  Twisted.

  Oh, the pain.

  He squeezed until, unable to hold it tight any longer, she dropped the knife and it clattered to the floor. Charlie lunged for the knife. Betty turned to the kitchen door, grabbed the knob, tried to pull.

  White hot needles of pain shot through her back, then subsided, numbed. She turned, shocked, and stood face to face with Charlie. She raised both hands—slowly—as if they were moving through water, and aimed for his eyes. She’d scratch the crazy bastard’s eyes out. Her arms rose up, slowly, so slowly. (Why wouldn’t they move faster, she thought.)

  “Slug,” Charlie was chanting. “Slug, ugly old slug,” and he was laughing and his eyes were still crazy and he was holding the bloody knife and…. (Where had the blood come from and why couldn’t she move faster?)

  Betty watched, as if through a soft-focus lens. The edges of her reality were gauzy, fuzzing over. He was raising the arm which held the knife—higher, higher. Slowly, her thumbs aimed for his eyes—had to make those crazy eyes go away. Don’t come home, baby, don’t…oh God, the knife, the knife….

  …plunging deep into her chest. Then,

  …the darkness.

  Sabrina opened the front door. “I’m on time, see?” The room seemed oddly dark, felt empty. “Betty?” Then in a whisper: “Betty, are you there?” She shut the door softly behind her. “Betty?”

  She saw his tall, ominous form step forward from the shadows. “I’ve come for you, Lucy Mae,” he was saying. There was gentleness in the words, but his expression was frightening, sinister. A sense of dread snapped like the sharp teeth of a steel-jawed trap. He was coming toward her.

  “Charles Black.”

  “Charlie, honey, remember? It’s me—it’s your Charlie.” His arms were outstretched and as he moved closer and closer, tears welled in his eyes.

  Gripped by fear, Sabrina ran toward the kitchen. “Betty,” she said, but he grabbed her from behind, stopping her in her tracks. He held firmly as she struggled to escape. “She’s not here, Lucy,” he was saying, “I’ve come to take you home.”

  “I’m
not Lucy, I’m Sabrina and I AM home. Now let go of me, you creep. Let go!” She continued to fight, frantically kicking backwards at the man who held her. He spun her around so that she faced him, never loosening his hold.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. His expression was confused, bewildered. “Something’s not right. You’re supposed to be happy now. I came to make you safe.”

  “Let go of me, you fucking creep!”

  “I know what it is,” he said calmly. “I know what’s wrong.” He held her by one arm and dragged her to the bedroom. She fought hard, grabbing futilely at the doorjamb as he shoved her through the door, but he pried her fingers loose, then he lifted her and threw her onto the bed.

  Sabrina froze. He’s going to rape me, she thought. Rape me and kill me and oh God, he wasn’t after Meg, he was after me…and he’s going to rape me. Too big—too strong—but I have to fight him, somehow outsmart him, fight him….

  “You have to change your clothes now,” he was saying, “so we can go.”

  “What?” It was all so frightening, so confusing, so…crazy.

  “Put on your Girl Scout uniform and the pretty green sweater and then everything will be okay and then we can go.”

  Slowly, cautiously, Sabrina rose from the bed. “You’re right…, Charlie,” she whispered. “I have to change now so we can go.”

  His shoulders relaxed, relieved that she finally understood. “The uniform,” he repeated.

  “Yes, Charlie, I have to put on the uniform.” Her heart pounded. He just stood there looking at her, not moving. “You have to leave the room now, Charlie.”

  “I can’t leave you, Lucy.” Then, tentatively, “You’re trying to trick me, aren’t you?”

  “No Charlie, I want to go with you, really I do, but I can’t change in front of you. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  His eyes darted nervously around the room. “I can’t do that. You might trick me.”

  “You have to go so I can change.”

  He looked at her with suspicion. “All right, but I’m right outside the door, so don’t try any funny stuff.”

  “I won’t Charlie, I promise.”

  The door shut. Sabrina was alone. What am I going to do? She thought. Calm down, first you have to calm down. Be cool. She crossed the room to the open closet, pulled the uniform from its hanger and threw it onto the bed. She opened a drawer and tossed over her sweater. Just be cool. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she loosened the velcro straps on her shoes and pulled them off. They hit the floor with a thud.

  The door flew open.

  “What’s going on?” Charlie asked.

  “Damn it, I told you I need my privacy!”

  “I thought….”

  “Well you thought wrong,” she snapped, “so get out of here.” She regretted having yelled at him, anything could set him off, she was certain of that—but he had startled her. She held her breath, waiting for the consequences.

  “I’m sorry, Lucy Mae,” he said with a sheepish grin as he walked out and shut the door. She thought she heard sobs, then giggles from the other room. Oh shit, he’s stark-raving, crazy mad, she thought. Crazy as a bedbug, that’s what old Miss Cooney would say, crazy as a bedbug. I’ve got to get out of this—somehow—what would Bronson do? Or Rambo…or Chuck Norris? She was frantic. She couldn’t think straight. She removed her clothing with trembling hands and slipped into the uniform and sweater, then remembered—something.

  It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  She rifled through the sock drawer, took out her Girl Scout knife, slipped it into her pocket. Not much of a weapon—no machete or Uzi or even a reliable old Luger, but it was something and that was better than nothing at all. She put on the Chinese slippers over thick, orange socks. For luck. They were from her friend and they’d bring her luck, wouldn’t they? Luck, she repeated in her mind. That was crazy, crazy as a bedbug, crazy like Charlie. And where were Betty, Meg, and Buddy when she needed them? Her thoughts were racing—anxious, senseless, disconnected.

  “Hurry up,” the voice said from outside the door.

  “I’ll be right there,” she answered. “Stop rushing me!”

  And then, from outside the window, she saw old Mr. Owens shuffling slowly down the driveway which separated their two houses, stringy hair falling forward from his bowed head. She ran to the window—tried to open it. It was stuck. “Mr. Owens,” she yelled, banging her fists against the cracked pane. “Mr. Owens!” But the old man did not look up. “Oh shit, for once in your life turn up your hearing aid. Mr. Owens, help me!” She continued pounding on the glass. Maybe if she could shatter it he would hear her…tears of frustration burned her eyes.

  The door flew open with a crash.

  Sabrina turned.

  Charlie stood in the doorway, enraged. “You tried to trick me,” he said, lunging toward her.

  “Don’t touch me, you dirty cretin.” she said, dodging him. What WOULD Chuck Norris do? Charlie grabbed at her again, this time barely missing his mark. As hard as she could, with every bit of strength she could muster, Sabrina let loose with a sideways kick. “ROBOSCOUT!” she yelled, “Don’t mess with Roboscout!” and her foot found its target, landing heel-first into Charlie’s groin with a hard thud. She smiled triumphantly as she heard him gasp, then scrambled to the door, turning to look back. He was grinning at her, like he’d enjoyed it, like she’d just given him a winning lottery ticket or something.

  Sabrina ran toward the front door, tripped, regained her footing, and reached the door. If she could just get outside she could run for help. But he grabbed her from behind and held her in a chokehold, was holding some sort of cloth over her face.

  “Nobody fucks with Charlie Blackhawk,” he said.

  The cloth felt rough against her skin and it stunk.

  “It’s okay, we’re going home now,” he said.

  She felt light-headed. Gas stations—all she could think of were gas stations. Gas stations.

  She saw row after row of gas stations as far as the eye could see….

  Then everything turned black.

  Amy Hamill bolted upright from where she sat at the nook in her kitchen and looked out the window. “Owns, owns, owns,” she chanted, hitting the glass with her fists, frightening away the birds. She turned and stared at her father, then ran to the center of the kitchen, turned and looked at him again.

  “Dirty croutons!” she screamed at her father. “Croutons, croutons, cretins, cretins, cretins.” Then she wrinkled her nose, as if smelling something terrible, and, before her father could reach her she collapsed and fell to the floor.

  Five blocks from Sabrina’s house, Charlie pulled the old Nova into an alley and changed back the license plates. He then drove up the Santa Monica Boulevard on-ramp onto the Hollywood freeway and headed toward downtown Los Angeles. He turned, looking into the back seat where the girl slept under a blanket. She was breathing. That was good. At the interchange he picked up the San Bernardino Freeway and headed toward the distant mountains.

  In less than two hours he’d be in Pine Lake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  There were no customers in the General Store, so Jan Smith turned up the radio. Heavy Metal blasted at eardrum-splitting decibels as she danced wildly across the floor, stomping her feet angrily on the floor boards, her yells echoing and bouncing off the walls and down the empty aisles. Printed across the front of her black t-shirt was Ozzie Osborne—The No More Tours Tour. She was bored. This place is lobotomized, she thought. It sucks. She dreamed of a faceless city devoid of prying eyes. A place where she’d be free to boogie—or pierce her nose—or spray her hair purple if she wanted.

  Distant lightning illuminated the afternoon sky. Cumulonimbus clouds scudded across the heavens, threatening rain—or worse. A tumultuous flash bolted across the darkening sky. Then another. And another. Good show, Jan thought as she turned off the music. She listened as the sound of far-off thunder drum-rolled across the sky, then another—c
loser—until finally she felt the floor shudder beneath her feet. “Fuckin’ A!!!” she yelled. The storm cracked, sizzled, vibrated. Jan was impressed. It was like having a front row seat at a Zeppelin concert. Maybe even better. She tugged at her short black hair, trying to lift the spikes. The lights flickered, hesitated. She shook her head wildly, then danced and stomped across the room like a frisky colt to the rhythmic drumbeat of the thunderstorm.

  Bright electrical flares flashed across the blackening sky.

  She stopped dancing and watched the rain pelt against the window, and when the lightning flashed again, it illuminated the outline of the beat up Chevy Nova as it turned up the old dirt road.

  Things were starting to look up.

  HAWK was back.

  Sabrina Stinson was dreaming. Nonsensical, disconnected pictures on a torn movie screen. There were gas stations, hundreds of them, and they were crawling with bedbugs. Vile, wiggling things clung to the structures and spilled onto the blacktop. They held tightly to the gas pumps like dark, breathing tendrils of ivy. And there was the aroma of pine beneath the stench of gasoline. Suddenly Buddy was there, her make-believe friend, holding a bottle of Pine-Sol® in one tiny hand and a coarse rag in the other. She began to scrub away the bugs—and they crawled up her arms and onto her face, but she kept on scrubbing. There were sounds like cannon blasts or Uzi fire, but as the images faded, the effluvium of gasoline and Pine-Sol® lingered.

  Sabrina’s head ached. It was difficult to breathe through her nose but her mouth was covered. With what? The atmosphere felt cold and damp and foreboding. Where was she? Her body ached even worse than her head as she tried to turn onto her side but found she could not move.

  Something was holding her.

  She was bound with ropes.

  She opened her eyes to a room that was small and musty and dark.

  She heard wind and rain and thunder.