Devil's Playground

by D P Lyle

  A surge of dread gripped her. This is what had happened to her mother when she entered her sixties as Thelma had two years earlier. Forgetting, getting lost, repeating tasks she had already completed, until she slowly forgot who she was, who Thelma was. Was this how it began? Was she to suffer her mother’s fate? Who would care for her?

  She attempted to push her fears into the corner of her mind, but was only marginally successful.

  She hurried up the steps and into the post office. After stamping and mailing the letters, she removed the mail from the department’s mailbox, then headed toward Starbucks. By the time she returned to her office and finished her muffin and coffee, her headache had disappeared.

  *

  Sam sat on a stool in the corner of the autopsy room as Dr. Ralph Klingler finished the post-mortem exam of Juan Rodriguez. The room was cold so she wore her leather jacket, zipped to her neck. Ralph, apparently accustomed to the chill, wore short-sleeved surgical scrubs and thin latex gloves.

  The only light came from a ceiling lamp over his head, which cast a circle of illumination over Juan’s partially dissected body and shadows everywhere else. Thankfully, her sense of smell dulled with each passing minute. At least she could no longer taste the morgue’s formalin infused air. No longer had to consciously suppress the nausea that wound its fingers around her gut.

  She had been in this room perhaps a dozen times before, yet never got used to it. The chill, the smell, the bodies, the dim lighting gave it a crypt-like quality. Death seemed to reside in every corner, to hide in each shadow.

  She watched him work, fascinated by his skill as much as she was amazed that anyone could do this for a living. Ralph was a small man with a thin, angular face. His glasses were so thick that they magnified and distorted his pale blue eyes, lifting them from his face where they floated as if unattached. Short dark hair surrounded his bald pate, which sprouted sparse black fuzz. His narrow shoulders slumped forward, as his delicate hands probed Juan’s liver, which now resided in a shallow white plastic basin.

  Carlos’ body, which had been examined earlier, occupied a stretcher near the far wall. A flimsy white sheet draped over his lifeless form. The charred remains of John and Connie Beeson, zipped inside two plastic bags, lay on another stretcher.

  “So, what’s the story, Ralph?”

  “As I suspected, Juan crushed Carlos’ trachea, then hung himself. Looks like Carlos put up a fight. His knuckles and Juan’s face were bruised and battered. Juan sustained a fractured nose and lost a couple of teeth, but no other injuries. No broken neck, fractured larynx, anything like that. Died of asphyxiation. No drugs. Blood alcohol level was 0.09, which means he was fairly well lubricated when he was locked up three hours earlier, but other than maybe impairing his judgment, it didn’t play a roll in his death.”

  Sam shook her head. “How does someone hang themselves like that?”

  “Most people, who try hanging as a way out, die from asphyxiation, not from a broken neck. You have to fall a few feet to create enough force to snap your neck. Tipping over a chair or, as Juan did, stepping off a bunk, won’t usually do it. Typically, in self-hangings, the victims repent when they discover they’re not dead and it ain’t like the movies. They excoriate their neck and hands, even rip out finger nails, trying to escape the noose or climb the rope to loosen it. Anything to survive.”

  “But, not Juan.”

  “Nothing. Looks like he simply hung there and died.” He shook his head. “Strange to say the least.”

  “And Connie Beeson?”

  “Not pretty. She was decapitated and died instantly. John also died instantly from massive head and chest injuries. Both bodies were burned beyond recognition.”

  “The driver?”

  “As expected, blood alcohol was 0.22 and he had a hefty dose of amphetamines on board.”

  Alcohol. Speed. Like Garrett said. “When did you get the blood reports back? About the alcohol and drugs?” Sam asked.

  “About an hour ago.”

  An hour. Yet Garrett knew hours ago. Lucky guess?

  “As you know, that’s a common combination among truckers,” Ralph continued. “This guy’s levels of both were pretty high. How he was driving is beyond me.”

  “He apparently wasn’t driving very well. Who was he?”

  “James McElroy. Lived in Van Nuys. I called his wife. Seems he was driving on a suspended license. Two DUI convictions in the past year.”

  “And this clown was hauling ass with a ton of gasoline. Any idea why he crossed a hundred yards of desert to head the wrong way down the freeway?”

  “Maybe he passed out or got confused. Maybe road rage. Who knows?”

  “Those two kids that he barely missed felt he was after them. Or somebody anyway.”

  “I’d suspect road rage or some type of acute psychosis. According to McElroy’s wife, he used Black Mollies like candy when he drove cross-country. Long term use of that stuff can cause psychoses, rage, disorientation, and a load of other problems.”

  Sam stood and stretched. “Thanks, Ralph. I’ll let Charlie know.”

  “If anything else comes up, I’ll give you a call.” He hunched back over the organ filled plastic basin.

  *

  Sam blocked Jimmy’s right hook, ducked low, and fired a left to his ribs, an overhand right, and a left hook. The first blow landed solidly against his mid-section, but he deftly deflected the other two with his gloves and crashed a left hook to the side of her head, dropping her on her rear.

  “What was that for?” She jumped to her feet.

  “I didn’t want you to start thinking everyone would be as easy as that reporter. In four weeks you’ll be in the ring with someone who takes this shit seriously. Since this is your first bout, I want you ready.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Physically, yes. Nobody hits as hard as you. But, mentally, that’s a different story.”

  “I’m focused. I know this is no cake walk.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Every fighter gets in trouble sooner or later. Gets his bell rung or runs out of gas, whatever. That’s when you have to dig down deep and find the courage to ignore pain and fatigue and fear, keep your poise, stick to your fight plan, don’t panic or try to fight the other guys fight.”

  “How good will the competition be in Vegas?”

  “The best. All the other women there will have had ring experience. You haven’t and that puts you at a big disadvantage.”

  “You don’t think I can win, do you?”

  “I know you can. That’s why I pulled a few strings and called in a couple of favors to get you in the competition. I just don’t want you to get surprised or rattled if you draw a tough cookie the first time out. After you get a few bouts under your belt, you’ll know what I mean.”

  “OK, coach. What now?”

  “Back to work. We should have started this lesson a month ago, but with the trial, I knew your head wouldn’t be in it. Now, we have to make up for lost time.”

  Jimmy circled to his left, parried Sam’s left hook, right jab, then slammed a right to her ribs, followed by a left to her head. Again, she went down.

  Fuming, she jumped to her feet and charged, releasing a barrage of rights and lefts, which Jimmy easily blocked as he back peddled. She rushed forward firing a wide right hook; Jimmy stepped inside and dropped her with a straight right hand to the chin.

  “Goddamn it!” She sprang to her feet and renewed her assault, off balance, swinging wildly. Jimmy covered up, moving backwards, accepting the blows to his shoulders, blocking those to his body with his elbows, and picking off those directed at his head with a flick of his gloves. Planting his right foot to stop his retreat, he popped a left, right, left combination to her head, sending her sprawling to the canvas.

  She sat up, shaking her head in disgust.

  Jimmy sat down next to her. “What’d you do wrong there?” he asked.

  “Got angry. Lost control.”

  “Exac
tly. Two things that don’t belong inside the ropes are fear and anger. Either will take you right out of your fight plan and leave you wide open to counter punching.”

  “I know.”

  “They cloud your focus. Anger makes you attack when you should retreat and fear makes you retreat when you should attack.”

  “Know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.”

  “Look, boxing is a dance. Sometimes you lead; sometimes you follow. Let the situation dictate what’s necessary. Don’t force it.”

  She grabbed the rope and pulled herself to her feet. “Let’s go, Ryker. I’m going to whip your butt.”

  She took her position in the middle of the ring, focused, balanced, and snapped his head back with a crisp left jab.

  Chapter 8

  Midnight settled over Mercer’s Corner, extinguishing most lights and all activity. Dim street lamps, a rotating time and temperature sign above the bank, and Red’s flashing neon were the only indications of habitation. A strong westerly wind, kicked up by the setting sun, had dragged the temperature into the low thirties before settling to the typical ten to fifteen mile per hour breeze. Only the rumble of the occasional truck down nearby I-40 and the intermittent howls of coyotes punctured the stillness of the night.

  Walter Limpke awoke with a start. At first, he wasn’t sure what had awakened him. The room was dark and quiet. His wife Margo slept beside him, undisturbed. The soft glow of the night-light spilled through the open bathroom door. Nothing seemed out of place.

  Then, a sharp pain exploded behind his left eye. He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple; the pain did not relent, but rather strengthened, throbbing a steady beat. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, attempting to relieve the pressure that steadily mounted within his head, neck, and shoulders. Mercifully, the sharp pain eased, the throbbing receded, but when he opened his eyes, he bolted upright in disbelief.

  The room’s darkness gave way to a pulsating glow, which seemed to emanate from the walls as if the sun had suddenly risen and painted them a luminescent yellow. The radiance intensified, becoming a fiery red-orange, while the ceiling melted into a swirl of green, gold, and red. The walls pulsated and rasped like giant bellows, as if the room was a living breathing entity.

  Walter sat frozen in bed, fearful, fascinated, confused. Bright flashes of silvery light rippled across the walls and ceiling and jumped across the room like giant electric arcs. He drew the blanket around him, tucking it beneath his chin as if it would offer protection.

  Again, he looked at Margo. She slept soundly, seemingly oblivious to the metamorphosis taking place around her. He attempted to call to her, but her name wedged itself in his throat. He extended a tremulous hand toward her, to shake her into wakefulness, but suddenly found himself standing in their walk-in closet, slipping on a shirt, then pants and boots.

  How did he get there? Why was he in the closet? Why was he getting dressed in the middle of the night? Confusion and fear smothered him. His chest constricted and sweat dotted his forehead, ran down his neck. Yet, he continued dressing, unable to elude the compulsion that drove him.

  As he buttoned his shirt, he turned and peered from the dark enclosure at Margo. She stirred, but did not awaken. Again, he attempted to call to her, but once more his voice died somewhere in his throat.

  The odor of potpourri wafted toward him. One of the little bags of dead flowers Margo tossed around everywhere. He hated them, found them annoying, but now he wanted to hold the aroma, to clutch it to him in the hope it would pull him away from whatever held him. But, it faded and he suddenly was standing in the garage.

  Panic gripped him. What had happened, was happening? Fear wound his gut into a knot.

  His brain screamed at him to retreat into the house, to safety, but he could not make his legs take him there. Then, he was in his car, backing down the driveway, leaving the cul de sac where he lived, turning toward town.

  To anyone else, the night would have appeared dark, cold, quiet, typical for December, but to Walter it exploded into a kaleidoscope of color, swirling, blending, fusing into patterns and hues he couldn’t name.

  The sky, a restless ocean of Dreamsicle orange and purple, dripped onto houses and buildings of lime green, teal, and chocolate and hovered near streets, themselves striated with ribbons of gray and red.

  Awed by the colorful world around him, he lost all connection to place, time, or reality, knowing neither where he was going nor why he must get there. But, he must get there. Soon.

  As he entered the six blocks of downtown Mercer’s Corner, the familiar shops and buildings mutated into splashes of color and flashes of light, which smeared one structure into the next so that distinguishing the bank from the hardware store next door or from the side walk in front was impossible. The street, a lake of shimmering silver, reflected the hues, creating shadows of color upon color, staining the orange sky, which appeared to continually consume the reflections.

  He drove through town and wheeled to a stop near the rear door of the Post Office, whose lot was an ocean of gold. Swinging the car door open, he gingerly stepped onto the golden surface. It bubbled and spewed as if it were molten. Astonished that he did not sink into the cauldron, he walked toward a cobalt blue air conditioner compressor. The liquid gold beneath his feet leaped around his ankles and released puffs of golden mist with each step.

  He leaned over the compressor and swept his hand behind it, searching. For what? He had no idea, but he knew it was there.

  The mist crept up his arm and sinuously encircled his head. He inhaled deeply, relishing its cool, sweet taste.

  His hand brushed against something. That’s it. He lifted the plastic bag. It emitted an intense scarlet light that caused him to squint, turn his head away. His fingers played over the bag, feeling the hard object inside, no recognition.

  He returned to his car.

  West of town, he left the paved county road and followed an unnamed dirt road, used mostly by the four-wheeling, dune buggy crowd, for a mile, before parking near a rocky escarpment. He stepped from the car and scanned his surroundings. The iridescent orange sky painted the desert floor a rich rosy color. Brilliant blue clumps of sagebrush, tangerine tumbleweeds, black Cholo cacti, and large emerald boulders dotted the landscape.

  His numbed senses did not record the chill of the night air, nor the yips of young coyotes secreted in a nearby lair, nor the scratching of the scorpion that scurried across his boot.

  His focus moved to the south, where a cluster of thirty homes draped over a slight rise in the flat terrain. The sleeping community displayed few lights and no signs of activity. To his retinas, the houses appeared as splatters of ocher and dark green with dollops of navy blue, smeared in elaborate swirls as if in motion, each structure losing its identity into the next.

  From the Technicolor chaos, a single home retained its identity, a blood-red beacon in the storm of hues. He didn’t recognize the house though he knew he had been there many times. He wound his way through the blue Sage and black Cholos toward the pulsing ruby light.

  One part of his brain screamed at him. Turn back, go home, it pleaded. He wanted to, sensed that he must, but he couldn’t abandon the mesmerizing beacon, which pulsed in time with the thumping in his chest as if it paced his heartbeat, controlled every vital function. Without it, he feared his heart would stop, his body would wither. He would cease to breathe, to exist.

  Yet, he knew he must turn and flee. If not, he would be irrevocably changed. How, he didn’t know, but he sensed his mutation would be profound, miring him in a web of unspeakable horror and sin.

  He stopped, took a step back, then another. The scarlet beacon seemed to tighten its grip. With great effort, he managed two more steps of retreat. Another. Two more. Tears streamed from his eyes as he felt he might break free. He thought of home, of Margo, of his son and grandchildren in Chicago. Another two steps. The beacon’s hold on him weakened even as his own strength grew.

/>   Then suddenly, he stood before the throbbing crimson house. How did he get there? He must have walked the 400 yards that had separated him from where he now stood, but he had no memory of doing it.

  As the realization that he was powerless against the magnetic force that held him, that drew him, he began to tremble, resigning himself to whatever fate awaited him.

  Why was he brought here? He had no idea. Whose house did he stand before? He knew, but right here, right now, couldn’t recall who lived there.

  An hour later, he returned to his car, retraced his route through town to the post office lot, into his neighborhood, and suddenly found himself standing in his bathroom, staring in the mirror.

  The brilliant colors that had invaded his world dissolved into drab reality. Gone were the red orange walls that pulsated and wheezed like a dying man. Gone were the flashes of silver lightning and the swirling greens and golds and reds of the ceiling. Gone was all color as the world faded into the monochrome of night.

  In the mirror, he appeared gray, ashen, like a corpse he had seen once. Where? Who? He couldn’t remember.

  As he turned, a flash of color leaped at him. Red, blood red. He whirled to face the mirror again, then recoiled as he absorbed his image. His pallid face was blotched with red, as were his hands, shirt. He stepped back from the mirror, hoping distance would erase the image. The wall blocked his retreat. He stared at his hands, turning them over, examining his palms, forearms as if they belonged to someone else. They couldn’t be his. Why would his hands, his clothes be soaked with blood?

  His mind spun, searching for an explanation, grasping for reality. He could remember reading, setting the clock alarm, turning out the light. He had been asleep and then--what?

  He remembered colors, brilliant colors, un-worldly colors---brilliant orange, deep emerald, oceanic blue. And a red house. He remembered a silver stream and a golden lake and Miriam Hargrove. Miriam Hargrove? Why had he dreamed of her?

  His confusion and panic rose with each visual image that flashed through his mind. What was happening to him? Is this how people go insane? Do they have nightmarish dreams with nonsense images? Do they wake up and not remember where they are, where they’ve been? And the blood? Where did it come from? Was he still dreaming? Is this part of the nightmare, the madness?