Deranged

by Lonni Lees

  Charlie’s attention was drifting from her.

  He twitched.

  Charlie didn’t want to bother Lucy. She was still sick and breathing oddly, but Charlie knew that he had to mind his Momma. It was in the bible—she’d said so—over and over.

  But he was smarter than Momma.

  The first night that it had happened, the first night that she had made him, he’d made Lucy Mae cry. He was determined not to make her cry again. Never. No matter what Momma said—no matter what Reverend Church said on the radio—no matter what God said…no matter how much it aroused him.

  He loved his little sister. So he and Momma would come into her room and he would crawl into her bed and he would whisper secrets to her. Then, to distract Momma, Charlie would do things to himself—with cigarettes or razors or pliers—all the while whispering his pleas to Lucy.

  But she never answered.

  That last night, Charlie crawled into his sister’s bed, certain that tonight would be the night she would forgive him.

  “Get to it,” Momma demanded from across the room.

  “I love you, Lucy,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

  But she didn’t answer.

  She didn’t move.

  Lucy Mae was dead.

  He bolted from the bed, screaming.

  “You drunken, rotten bitch! You’ve killed my Lucy. I told you she was sick. Couldn’t you hear her coughing? I told you she was making funny noises when she breathed. Why didn’t you take her to the doctor? Why? Why? I told you to. I begged!”

  Momma took a step backwards, then went out of the room.

  Charlie followed, as Reverend Churchill’s voice blasted from the radio. He grabbed the radio from the shelf, smashing it onto the floor. It broke into a million pieces and silenced the good Reverend forever. Then he turned to Momma as she cowered against the wall.

  He was young, barely thirteen, but his rage made him strong.

  He grabbed her by the neck, pushing his thumbs hard against her throat. Something went pop, but he kept on squeezing until her body went limp. He let her drop to the floor.

  He’d silenced her forever, too.

  That was the night Charlie Blackhawk sent his mother to heaven.

  His maddened pleas filled the night as he held Lucy, but she never answered.

  Never said the one thing he needed to hear.

  The next morning he walked out the door and never looked back.

  “Can’t make me,” he said. “Can’t make me hurt you.” But his hand kept rising.

  Sabrina held her breath.

  The game was totally out of control.

  Tears welled in his eyes as he looked down at her. “I love you, Lucy,” he said.

  Then the knife plunged downward—

  Sabrina screamed—and Charlie thrust the knife into his own abdomen.

  He didn’t react as it stabbed over and over again, through his t-shirt and deep into his flesh—did not register the pain, just kept stabbing.

  “Can’t make me hurt you,” he kept saying.

  He pulled out the knife, grabbed it with both hands, began stabbing himself again.

  “See?” He said.

  He was smiling.

  “See see see?” He chanted the word like a mantra as he slashed at his stomach, his groin.

  “No Charlie oh God no,” Sabrina moaned. “No Charlie stop.”

  Raising the knife, he said, “You can’t ever leave me again.”

  Sabrina turned, grabbing at the doorknob.

  She pulled the door open as the knife sliced through the air over her head, and ran out.

  She leaped over the back step and onto the ground and took off running—over a mound of freshly turned soil. Her foot tripped over something—

  a rock?

  Her blue slipper flew from her foot and she sprawled, face first, onto the ground.

  Charlie’s voice was ranting from the kitchen. “I won’t hurt you Lucy not ever again I dropped the knife see? see? see? you can’t leave me now I love you Lucy you promised you can’t ever leave me again I need you I need you to…”

  Sabrina pulled herself to her feet and turned to retrieve her slipper.

  That was when she saw something jutting out from the mound of dirt.

  It wasn’t a rock.

  It was a hand.

  Posed as if it were trying to hitch a ride—the fingernails were painted bright pink—it was the woman from the window.

  “…can’t leave me Lucy gotta forgive me gotta gotta gotta….” His voice was getting closer.

  Sabrina turned and ran.

  She heard screams.

  But she couldn’t tell if they were coming from Charlie or from herself.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Jerry propelled himself through the front door of the Wagon Wheel. Breakfast customers were clustered at the window to his far left, pointing at the BMW where it had crashed into the building. They shook their heads and muttered, then turned their attention to him.

  “Where are the two lakes?” Jerry asked.

  They stared at him as though he were an alien who had just crashed his saucer.

  “The two lakes,” he repeated. “Where are the two lakes?”

  A tall man, coffee pot in hand, eyed Jerry angrily. Stitched on the front of his stained apron, in brown letters, was the name Gus. What remained of his hair was white and bushed out above his large ears. “Yer gonna pay for that,” he said.

  “Where are the two lakes!”

  A waitress with dyed black hair answered him from where she stood behind the counter. Arrowhead’s up the road a ways.” She chewed on her gum, snapping it loudly, eying him.

  “Then there’s Big Bear the other way—a couple small ones in between.”

  “Are there any near here?”

  “Pine Lake, of course,” Gus said, as if responding to the village idiot. “That old wagon wheel was over a hundred years old. Yer gonna pay for it.”

  “Where is it? How do I get there?”

  There was no answer. Jerry threw up his arms, turned to the door, then back again. “It’s important.”

  The waitress snapped her gum again and yawned. “The dirt road,” she said, pointing out the window.

  “Lake ain’t much bigger’n a puddle of warm piss,” someone said.

  A bell tinkled overhead as Jerry opened the door. Halfway through the door he spun around and addressed Gus: “Call the sheriff—the Highway Patrol—whatever it is you’ve got around here!”

  “You bet your sweet ass I will. You’re gonna pay….”

  But Jerry was gone.

  “Goddam crazy city bastard,” Gus said.

  And reached for the phone.

  All four tires left the ground as the car flew over a deep rut in the dirt road. Jerry slammed on the brakes, trying to avoid the parked car directly in his path.

  “Hawk!” Meg said, pointing to the license plate.

  The BMW came to an abrupt halt, hitting the back bumper of the old Nova.

  The engine jerked and died.

  “Look at the sign, Jerry. It wasn’t two lakes—it was TO LAKE. Hawk—to lake—thank you, Amy—thank you, thank you, thank you.” Meg was crying again.

  “The girl is close,” Amy said.

  “Where?”

  Then they heard the scream.

  Sabrina scrambled away from the cabin, past the Ponderosa pine, toward the open space. She could hear Charlie gaining on her—feel his breath panting behind her. “Don’t leave me.”

  She ran faster.

  She felt him grab her legs.

  She lost her balance—fell to the ground—twisted around to face him.

  He was hugging her leg and sobbing, covered in his own blood, covering her with his blood. His voice was weak.

  “Please,” he said.

  Sabrina heard a yell and looked up. She saw a man racing in their direction, running straight at Charlie. He was charging at them like Rambo. No, like Chuck Norris. Like a hero. But inst
ead of wearing camouflage he was wearing a suit and his only weapon was the rock which he held in his hand.

  Sabrina watched in awe as the man sailed through the air and landed, half on Charlie, half on the ground. The impact threw Charlie onto his back. The man raised his arm and slammed the rock downward, grazing Charlie’s head.

  “Don’t leave me,” Charlie whimpered.

  Again, the rock slammed down, this time full force against Charlie’s skull.

  More blood.

  More whimpering.

  Visions of abused puppies and mad dogs raced through Sabrina’s brain.

  Again, the rock hit its mark with a loud cracking sound.

  “Lucy….”

  “Stop,” Sabrina said, her arm reaching toward her rescuer. “Stop. He’s dying—he’s already dying! Please stop.”

  The man’s arm froze in mid-air. He looked at Charlie—at Sabrina—at the bloodied rock which he held.

  “Please stop,” she repeated.

  Something rattled from deep inside Charlie’s chest.

  “Don’t leave me,” he said.

  “I’ll never leave you, Charlie.”

  He curled his large body into a fetal position—rested his head upon her lap.

  “This time I saved you, didn’t I, Lucy?” Charlie said. The deranged man’s voice had become that of a tormented child.

  “Yes, Charlie. This time you saved me.”

  His breathing was shallow.

  He smiled up at her with the innocence of a little boy.

  As he drifted towards death, there were visions swimming in his head.

  “I’ll never leave you, Charlie,” Lucy Mae said.

  She stood before Charlie, smiling at him. He saw that she was wearing her Girl Scout uniform but it was the most brilliant white he had ever seen, as white as the shimmering light that surrounded her.

  “I love you,” he said.

  Her arms were outstretched, reaching out to him.

  “Forgive me.”

  “I forgive you, Charlie.” She motioned to him. “Come,” she said.

  Charlie reached out and took her hand and she led him into the pure white light.

  Charlie Blackhawk closed his eyes.

  “I forgive you,” Sabrina said, finally understanding the purpose of the game, finally giving him the words he needed to hear.

  She eased out from under him, lowering his head gently to the ground. The man in the suit stood over her, looking more like a CPA than a hero. But he was a hero. A real live hero. She reached up and took his hand. He pulled her to her feet. Sabrina walked with him, then stopped, pulling her hand from his.

  She walked back to where Charlie lay. She pulled off her sweater as she spoke to his lifeless form. “I know you couldn’t have killed me, Charlie.” She covered him with the green sweater he had given her on her birthday, then walked away.

  She knew, that in the instant it had taken Charlie to push his way through the bathroom door, that she was capable of killing him. It had nothing to do with right or wrong—strength or weakness—or even hatred.

  It had to do with the will to survive.

  And Sabrina was a survivor.

  She felt the warm sun against her skin—heard the birds singing—inhaled the fresh mountain air.

  She was free.

  The game was over.

  In some strange and twisted way, they had both won.

  The sound of a police siren echoed through the mountains.

  Again, the man in the suit held out his hand to her. She put her hand in his as they descended the hill and walked toward the car.

  Her rescuer. Her hero.

  “They’re safe,” Meg said, squeezing Amy’s hand.

  The nightmare was over.

  Amy watched as her father came down the hill. The girl was with him and when she saw Amy she ran toward her, auburn hair flowing in her wake. Just like in the dream. Amy ran to her. They stopped—faced each other.

  The sound of the police siren was getting closer.

  Amy’s hand reached out, her small fingers tracing Sabrina’s features—her nose, her brow. Amy looked into her jade green eyes and smiled. This was the girl with the crocuses—the girl who spoke to her in dreams—the girl in the photograph.

  And she was real.

  “Buddy,” Sabrina said. “My wonderful, wonderful Buddy.” She threw her arms around Amy and held her tight.

  The girls laughed and cried and spun in circles, mirroring each others every movement as if in a perfectly choreographed dance.

  “You’re real,” they said simultaneously, then laughed.

  Amy felt contentment as Sabrina held her. It was just as it had been in the happy dream—as if she’d always been nothing more than a broken fragment and was finally whole.

  Whole and strong.

  EPILOGUE

  Charlie Blackhawk’s body was taken to the County Morgue. The tag on his toe read: JOHN DOE. The authorities had come up with nothing that shed any light on the man named Charlie Blackhawk. He didn’t exist.

  They found several ID’s in his car, none of them his. They all belonged to unsolved cases scattered throughout the country.

  His driver’s license was a fake.

  He had no Social Security number.

  No one seemed to have known him or knew where he came from.

  They ran his fingerprints through the computer and came up empty.

  All he had was a name and they’d assumed even that wasn’t real.

  He was a dead-end.

  So he lay in a cold, dark drawer. Unclaimed. In death, as in life, Charlie Blackhawk had managed to remain The Invisible Man. Just how he liked it.

  It was autumn in Hidden Meadows. The leaves were turning yellow and brown and orange. They drifted like kites, then fluttered downward, blending their autumn palette on lawns and in gutters.

  Three children sat on the lawn in front of the Colonial house. Amy wore the locket Freddy had given her for her birthday. Inside it were photographs of Sabrina and herself. A large cardboard box sat on the ground between Amy and Freddy. They both reached into the box and handed Sabrina more crocus bulbs.

  The three children laughed.

  Sabrina dug holes with a spade and planted the bulbs, covering them with soil and patting down the dirt. Then she held out her hand for more.

  Amy was gaining weight. The bad dreams were gone. The children at school no longer teased her. Or Freddy. They knew that if they did, they’d have Sabrina to contend with—and nobody wanted to mess with Sabrina. Sabrina was her twin, her sister, her best friend. And Sabrina was popular.

  Amy looked back at the house. Meg and her father stood at the window. Meg held an artist’s brush in her hand. Her father had his arm around her and they were waving.

  Amy waved back.

  They had kept their promise.

  Amy and Sabrina were together.

  Amy smiled as she remembered their long flight to Connecticut—she and Sabrina meeting their grandmother.

  They were a real family.

  And every Saturday their mother and father drove them into Hollywood to visit with old Miss Cooney. She was like family, too.

  Amy reached into the box and handed her sister another bulb.

  Come next spring, at 11 Avenida Larkspur, hundreds of crocuses would push their way through the soil in a rainbow of color. White and blue and purple and yellow.

  Sabrina’s crocuses.

  Flowers bursting forth with promise—promises fulfilled—and promises for tomorrow.

  “There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots; the other, wings.”

  —Hodding Carter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lonni Lees has had several of her short stories published in Hardboiled Magazine, where she is a regular contributor. Her stories have also appeared in the e-zines Yellow Mama and Einstein’s Pocket Watch, as well as in the anthology, Deadly Dames. Stories will be appearing shortly in the anthologies,
Whodunit? and Battling Boxers.

  She has won awards for her writing as well as her art. In the past she did illustrations for books and for the L.A. Mensa Journal. Her artwork had accompanied several stories by other writers in Yellow Mama and Black Petals.

  Lonni was twice selected as a Writer-in-Residence at Hedgebrook, a writers’ retreat for women on Whidbey Island in Washington State. She’s traveled to many countries, and lived in several states; and currently resides in Tuscon, Arizona, with her scientist husband, Jonathan. She often shows her art at a Tuscon gallery. She’s currently working on another novel, and on a collection of stories with her sister, Arlette Lees.