Deranged

by Lonni Lees

  “But now I’m back,” she said.

  “I missed you, Lucy.”

  Were those tears in his eyes? she wondered. Was this monster really capable of crying?

  “I missed you too, Charlie.” Her pulse was throbbing in her ears. She wanted to be sick. She had a headache and her back still hurt.

  She needed Buddy.

  She said a prayer, begging God to save her from the madman.

  In Hidden Meadows, Amy Hamill knelt on the floor beside her bed. She was still wearing her flannel nightie and smelled of Ivory Soap. Her hands were clasped together, her head bowed.

  “…I pray the Lord my soul to take….” She stopped, shuddered. “The madman,” she said, “and save me from the madman. Amen.”

  Her father stood in the doorway, listening to his daughter’s midday prayer. He looked in puzzlement at the marks on her wrists, and the fresh abrasions on her ankles.

  Jerry Hamill’s heart was pounding.

  Charlie Blackhawk sat in the cabin’s darkness, listening to the voices that played like a never ending tape inside his head. The voices that told him what to do. The voices that haunted him.

  “But Momma, Lucy’s still sick.”

  (“Ain’t nothin’ but a cold.”)

  “But Momma!”

  (“Stop yer naggin’ on me!”)

  “But she needs a doctor, Momma. My Lucy is all rattley like.”

  (“Don’t you dare question your Momma.” She took a drink from the whiskey bottle as she glared at her son. “She’ll be just fine. You wanna take her to a doctor so’s he can see you been messin’ with her? Is that what you want Mr. Smarty-pants?”)

  “No, Momma.”

  “Don’t gotta listen!”

  Charlie’s words echoed through the cabin.

  Jason Mittleman stood in the center of the living room flailing his arms and pacing. “You have to snap out of it,” he said to Meg.

  “My best friend was murdered and my daughter is missing and you’re fucking telling me to snap out of it?”

  “I’m only trying to help. I loved Sabrina too.” He pulled the bottle of champagne from her grip and threw it across the room adding it to the empty bottles strewn around the floor. This was a side of her he hadn’t seen before. He sure as hell didn’t need some drunk showing up on interviews slurring her words and blowing his potential commissions.

  “Loved? Loved?! You sound like you already have her dead and buried. She’s alive and I’m going to be right here when she comes back.”

  “You’ve probably got the part. Focus on that. There’s nothing you can do…”

  “I have to be here in case the phone rings and it’s Sabrina!”

  Jason said nothing.

  “My daughter is missing. Why? And Betty is dead. Who could have done that to her? Why? Why? Why? She was such a wonderful person. And they zipped her up in a body-bag, Jason. Then they carried her out of here like she was nothing but yesterday’s garbage. She was my best friend, for God’s sake! They didn’t even…I had to clean up the blood. I had to wash my best friend from the kitchen floor—and the walls. Do you have any idea what that was like? I scrubbed and scrubbed….”

  “I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say.

  “Then I spent the rest of the night making a flyer. With Sabrina’s photo. Maybe somebody saw something. Maybe they will call me. First thing this morning I took it to the newspaper and convinced them to insert it into tomorrow’s edition. It cost me every dime I have and I don’t care. The police are too damn slow and minutes count.”

  “Why not just let the cops do their job?”

  “I don’t trust them to do their job!”

  “At least let me do mine.”

  “You’d make a lousy fucking actor, Jason. You wouldn’t make a cent off of yourself. Insincerity reeks from your every pore. Money, that’s all you care about. I’m your ticket to your ten percent. You’re as bad as the rest of them in this shithole town. You know what, Jason? Pretty blondes are common as dirt in Hollywood—why don’t you just go and find another one? Fuck you. Fuck this business. Fuck it all. I’m done!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Sabrina walked into the kitchen, shoulders drooping like an old woman, her pretty blue Chinese slippers shuffling across the floor. The slippers had come to symbolize her other world. It was important to remember that other place. Betty, Buddy, her mother, Miss Cooney. Even the Magic Man was better than this. But they were far away and unreal—except for Buddy. In this forsaken place, Buddy was the only one who seemed real. Make-believe Buddy. Nonsense, she told herself, I’m getting as bugshit as Charlie.

  She felt weary as she stood at the sink and looked out the window. A cloud drifted past the sun, cutting the light to a haze as gray as Charlie’s eyes. He followed her into the room and sat down. At least he trusted her more now. He would untie her, but he never stop watching. His shadow clung to her like a death shroud. She felt as if she was in a dark well trying to grab hold of the light, to pull herself from the darkness.

  Her uniform stunk. She hadn’t showered. She was afraid to.

  There was no lock.

  And the kitchen smelled.

  “We need food,” she said. It didn’t bother him—he rarely ate. He just drank beer and lost track of time. So did she. It was all blurred, like the time she’d gone to the Chuck Norris film festival and tried to watch five movies in a row. Charlie made her feel like that as he replayed the same scenario over and over again. It paralyzed her. It was strange, as if he needed to rehearse something again and again until he got it right. Got what right? He would touch her, pull away, laugh, cry, scream, argue with Momma (that was the worst of all), until he’d slip into his catatonia.

  He needed her to be Lucy Mae, she knew that much. But she could not imagine that in some small corner of his jumbled brain he didn’t know the truth. She’d pretend until she almost believed it herself. It was important. He needed some kind of validation from her, but her instincts told her that as long as she withheld her approval the game would go on and she’d be safe. It was a strange game and she hoped she was playing it right.

  “It smells awful in here. Don’t you ever clean up?” She stood at the counter, looking for something edible. A cardboard carton sat on the countertop. Chinese food, she thought, not caring how old it might be. She removed the lid. Nightcrawlers squirmed in dark mulch. How disgusting, she thought, shaking the carton and watching them wiggle. Worms. Why worms?

  “Charlie,” she asked sweetly, “are we by water?”

  No answer.

  “Are we by a lake?”

  “’Member when we used to creek fish?”

  “Sure. It was fun, wasn’t it Charlie? Can we do it again?”

  He looked at her with suspicion. “Are you tricking me?”

  (Nobody fucks with Charlie Blackhawk.)

  “I just want to be outside sometimes. And I’d really like us to go fishing…like we used to.”

  “I’ll think on it.”

  You’re a smart one Charlie Blackhawk, she thought, but I’m smarter.

  She turned to the window and spotted the Mason jar sitting on the counter and picked it up. It appeared to be stuffed with tissue. She unscrewed the lid and the stench of decomposition escaped. She saw long teeth protruding from a tiny mouth frozen in a scream, and empty sockets sunken into matted fur. The jar crashed into the sink and shattered. She vomited onto the jar and onto the dead rat-thing. Every time she gasped for breath she inhaled the death smell and vomited again. She vomited until there was nothing left in her but dry heaves. She’d underestimated him. Charlie enjoyed killing things.

  He followed her back to the bed, bound her, then sat in the chair staring at the wall.

  Sabrina could be Sabrina now.

  She tugged at the ropes but they were unyielding . If I could figure out the knots, she thought. Knots, what was it about knots that kept gnawing at her? Then she remembered. She’d been concentrating on knots on one of the nigh
ts she’d floated above her body. That had happened to her twice now. Focusing on knots and badges and more knots. That had been the beginning. I’ll do it again, she told herself. She concentrated with all her might but nothing happened. Breathe deep. Relax. It was hard with Charlie across the room. But that’s why she had to. Think of knots. And Buddy. And home. Finally she felt her body tingle as if a million butterfly wings were caressing her, then she quivered. She felt as if she were floating high in the clouds. She opened her eyes and realized she was hovering near the ceiling. She looked down upon her own form where it rested on the mattress—and at Charlie Blackhawk as he stared through the emptiness.

  It scared her, but there was no time for fear. She had to act. The other time she had wished herself into Betty’s room. This time she thought of freedom and in that same instant found herself outside the cabin. Her ethereal self hovered in one spot, like a hummingbird unsure of which way to fly. She was free, floating above the tall Ponderosa pine, pregnant with fist-sized cones, and more trees, and fallen logs that lay like severed limbs upon the ground. She ascended higher, looking for clues as to her location—and wondered if she could escape like this. Just float away—or would her other body die back inside the cabin—leaving her drifting for eternity? Was this what death was like? If so, wasn’t it better than dying at the hands of Charlie Blackhawk? The choice was easy. She soared upward, toward the light and away from the darkness.

  Then—thud.

  She was back in the cabin, tied hand and foot, lying in the bed.

  “If thy hand offend thee!” He screamed. He was standing by the fireplace as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. He laughed as he unwrapped it, then held it above his head, his arm stretched high, as though making an offering to his demon god.

  He was grinning.

  A spark of sunlight glinted across the object. It was a razor blade.

  Sabrina held her breath, knowing she was about to die.

  “If thy hand….” Charlie laughed. His upheld arm plunged downward in a swift, slashing motion, slicing through the back of his other hand, again and again and again and he laughed and he cried and he kept repeating, “If thy hand, if thy hand, if thy hand,” in his nightmarish chant.

  “Stop!” Sabrina yelled, but he didn’t hear her. He was in his other world.

  “Look Momma, it’s time for the watching games!” Again the razor found its mark. “See? See? See?”

  “Stop Charlie, stop it! Momma’s not here, Charlie stop.” She sobbed, relieved that the razor wasn’t meant for her, in horror of the self-mutilation playing out before her eyes. “Stop!”

  His hand froze in mid-air. He blinked—looked at her—at the razorblade—at the blood. Charlie Blackhawk dropped the blade and sat down, staring at his own blood, mouth twitching. He didn’t move as he watched the blood spurting from the open wounds. He seemed hypnotized by it. He was—smiling.

  Sabrina’s mind reeled. What horrible things had this mother done to drive her child mad? It was impossible for her to picture such atrocities, but she imagined as far as her twelve-year-old mind was willing to take her. She found herself thinking of puppies. Warm, furry puppies. Kids were like puppies, she thought, innocent and full of love. But if their rewards were kicks and beatings and abuse, then what?

  (Charlie was bleeding to death.)

  A tortured puppy grows into a mad dog, and a mad dog is dangerous and must be destroyed.

  Charlie was whimpering.

  Like a puppy?

  (He will die and then I’ll be free.)

  Rambo would just blow it away with a grenade. There was no choice. All that remained was rage and wanting to be put out of its misery.

  (He will die and I’ll be free.)

  Roboscout can do it, she told herself.

  (And I’ll be free.)

  But this wasn’t a movie.

  And Charlie kept whining and giggling…and whimpering.

  Something deep inside of Sabrina could not watch him die.

  “Charlie!” He did not respond. “Damn you, snap out of it! Get the dishtowel. Do it now, Charlie.”

  Bewildered, he obeyed this new voice that was screaming somewhere in his head.

  When he returned with the dishtowel she ordered him to untie her. He shook his head in distrust. “Let me stop the blood,” she said calmly. “Or you will die.”

  Charlie fumbled with the ropes. It was difficult as he had little use of his wounded left hand. He untied her wrists, then her ankles. Sabrina rubbed away the pain, then took the towel from him and stood up. Her back ached, low and deep. She led him to the bathroom sink. (No more kitchens and dead things.) As she ran cold water over the ribbons of flesh, the sink filled with blood. She turned off the water and held the towel tightly over the wound, then applied pressure until the bleeding had subsided.

  “Sit down on the toilet,” she said. “Hold the towel in place and elevate your arm.” He just looked at her. “Raise your damn arm and shut your eyes!” He did not understand but he did as she commanded. Quickly, she removed her slip and bound it tightly around his wrist.

  He opened his eyes and spoke: “You still love me, don’t you Lucy Mae?”

  “I’m tired, Charlie. I don’t want to play games right now. Just keep holding your arm up and be quiet.”

  “Momma can’t make me hurt you, see?” he said proudly, indicating his injured hand as though it offered proof.

  Oh yes she can, Sabrina thought with despair. She looked at his crazy eyes and at that moment she wished with all her heart that she had let Charlie Blackhawk die.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Amy Hamill rested on the couch, propped up by big pillows. She relaxed as best she could. Her stomach was in a permanent knot and she was edgy. Afraid of the dreams. Ms. Flores was nice, but Amy feared that if she picked away too much at her insides that Flores would find out she was really crazy and they’d take her away again. Only this time they’d put her away in a place for crazy kids and she would never get out. She wondered if they had pink straight-jackets for little girls. And what did they do with the children when they got old? And did they let fathers visit? They didn’t in the other place. So, she talked to Ms. Flores about safer things. It worked. Ms. Flores was pleased with her progress.

  Amy was learning to keep things inside—but her stomach knotted and it was hard to keep her food down. She didn’t want her father to know. She’d excuse herself from the table, run upstairs, vomit, brush her teeth, and come back down. She was losing more weight and felt like a melting ice cube, afraid that she’d soon disappear entirely.

  Amy looked out the window and saw Freddy coming up the walk. She threw off the comforter and beat him to the door. He huffed and puffed his way up the front steps, smiling all the way. He held his school books under one arm and clutched the newspaper he’d picked up from the driveway. His face glowed from exertion and the joy of seeing his friend.

  “Come on in.”

  “I miss you at school,” he said, coming through the door and dropping his books in the entry. “I brought in your Dad’s paper. Jeez Amy, you look aweful.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “Are you up for Monopoly?”

  “You bet! Daddy’s in his study. C’mon, we’ll go ask him, but I’m sure it’s okay.”

  Jerry smiled when they entered the room, glad to see his daughter’s only friend.

  “I brought your paper, Mr. Hamill. Can Amy play Monopoly?”

  Jerry nodded, taking the paper from Freddy. He set the paper aside as he listened to the children climb the stairs. He picked up the paper, leaned back in his chair, and began reading. An insert fell to the floor, unnoticed.

  Amy and Freddy sat on the floor of her bedroom, Monopoly board between them. Freddy was arranging stacks of money as Amy lined up the cards. They each rolled the dice.

  “When are you coming back to school?” He asked. “It’s no fun when you’re not there.”

  Amy shifted her weight and
took her turn. “Daddy says when I feel better. But Freddy, I don’t think I’m ever going to feel better. Sometimes I feel like,” she sighed, “like I’m dying.”

  Freddy didn’t know what to say. His glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them up, nervously. “Don’t ever say stuff like that. You’re gonna get better.”

  She showed him the marks on her wrists. “I don’t even remember how it happened—that’s crazy, isn’t it? And I can’t stop dreaming about dead things—and the bad man—and the pretty girl. I’m crazy,” she said with finality.

  Freddy took his turn, landing on Park Place without buying it.

  She knew he was letting her win.

  It was nearly dark when Freddy left. Amy had won the game. It didn’t bother her that he’d cheated in her favor. He didn’t know how else to make her feel better. It meant that he cared. She walked down the hallway thinking about how much she’d miss Freddy when she died.

  She entered her father’s study. He looked worried. She would miss him too. As she neared him, she noticed the piece of paper that had fallen from the newspaper to the floor. She gazed at it, frozen, then looked at her father with astonishment. It was the insert that Meg Stinson had paid to have included in today’s edition regarding her missing daughter.

  Pointing at the photograph, she said, “That’s the girl in my dreams, Daddy. She’s real!”

  The following morning Sabrina awoke to the rustling sounds of Charlie moving around in the cabin. He had removed her bonds. He no longer needed to keep her tied for he no longer slept. He just kept watching her. But the absence of ropes provided no sense of freedom for her. His eyes had become her prison. Her night had been restless. The aching deep in her back kept waking her, as did Charlie’s muttering—and the memories of the razor blade and the madness.

  There was no food and Sabrina felt weak. She rolled onto her side and moaned. Charlie saw movement and scurried to her. He sat on the bed, petting her face with his bandaged hand. She turned away and when she moved she felt a dampness, warm and unfamiliar.