by R. A. Evans
The dull shear bit into the palm of Lionel’s tiny hand as his grip tightened around it.
“P-p-pl-ease…something has happened,” he cried into the phone. “They’re dead…my babies…they’re dead.” And then the revelation that he hadn’t seen his wife lying with the kids dawned on him. He dropped the phone and quickly turned; ready to run back into the bloodied mess he had just retreated from. Lionel struck quickly and brought the rusty shear up and across the much taller man’s throat with one quick and surprisingly powerful stroke. The dull blade tore into his neck as he cried out for his wife. Her name rose in a gurgling spray of blood that spread across the room and onto the bookshelves and wall. It ran down the screen and across the top of the large console television that sat nearby. Reed fell to the floor at Lionel’s feet where he lay twitching…and finally, dying.
Lionel dropped the blade and casually stepped over the body. He reached down and pulled the knob on the television and then turned the dial until the theme song from Gilligan’s Island began to waft from the set. He walked to the sofa and plopped down on the edge of a freshly blood spattered cushion. Beneath a thick coating of blood that now included both the dried and fresh varieties, an impish grin played across his delicate features. His eyes remained frozen on the gore covered television screen as he absently worked at wiping the bracelet clean on his pants. Within minutes the sound of sirens outside drowned out Gilligan and the Skipper arguing about coconuts. Lionel heard neither, however. He was lost to the voice inside his head.
Deputy John Tanner was the first to arrive at the Reed residence. He knew Ken Reed only in passing, mostly from Sundays at church. They shared polite handshakes and brief, innocuous conversations about everything from the weather to the current sad state of the Lions. Ken was a big man, quiet and definitely not one to be rattled easily. Tanner was at the station when Ken’s call came in and the voice he heard over the line carried with it neither the size nor strength he had always attributed to him. Its tone had left the deputy rattled and more than a bit curious about what could panic the mountain of a man so horribly.
From the outside, at least, he found the Reed home to be nothing less than ordinary. Piles of leaves dotted the large yard and a single rake leaned precariously against the mailbox. The garage door was open and no vehicles were in the driveway. He parked on the street and cut the sirens, leaving the lights on.
He reached for the radio and pressed it to his lips. “Maddie, you read me? It’s John. Where the hell is Frank?” Maddie worked the dispatch for the Bedlam County Sheriff’s Department and Deputy Frank Griggs, simple words couldn’t describe him. He was…an experience. And John had been experiencing Frank’s antics since they were in grade school together. He had long suspected that Frank and Maddie were more than merely co-workers, which was frowned upon by the Sheriff, but he hadn’t the courage to inquire. If they were happy then he was happy for them.
“Loud and clear, John.” Maddie’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Frank’s been,” a pause, “delayed.”
It was more in the way she said it than what she actually said that sounded so odd. Frank had once been “delayed” to a drunk and disorderly call in the parking lot at The Hayloft. It was opening day of firearm season and the story went that he had spotted a fourteen point buck running along the side of Country Road 22 just outside of town. Frank took it down from the driver’s seat with his service revolver, the steering wheel cradled between his knees. He pulled into The Hayloft an hour later with the monster tied with yellow caution tape across the hood of his cruiser. The once angry crowd erupted into cheers and high fives. They dispersed peacefully a short time later with most retreating back into the smoky confines of The Hayloft to toast the sharp shooting Deputy Frank Griggs.
John tossed the radio onto the seat next to him and flung open the driver’s door of the cruiser. A polite rain was falling, a fine but cold mist accompanied by a sharp breeze that brought with it the warning of a heavier storm in the very near future. He rounded the back of the car and briefly gazed up at the western sky where dark clouds gathered on the horizon. His hand moved instinctually to unbuckle the sidearm holster on his hip as he leaned into the wind and started down the driveway.
He was halfway down the driveway when he caught site sight of the footprints. They were small and red and seemed to double back and forth across themselves both entering and exiting the partially open door that led from the garage into the house. Deputy Tanner paused and drew his weapon. He briefly debated returning to the car for his radio, but at the site of the blood in the garage, Ken Reed’s words, “They’re dead…my babies are dead,” came pounding back into his head, leaving him shaking with fear as the reality of the situation swept over him. His sweaty grip tightened around the gun as he crept forward fearful of who had left those footprints, but convinced he would soon find out.
Deputy Frank Griggs pressed his face against the cruiser’s window and peered inside. The cold rain ran down his neck and back. “Shit,” he cursed as he stepped back and pulled the hood of his yellow slicker over his head. It was the fourth time he had bent down to look into the window, as if he somehow expected the keys would be magically removed from the ignition and safely in his hand instead. Finally, after resigning himself to the fact no magic key fairy was coming to his rescue, he crossed his arms across his barrel chest and leaned against the locked door of the cruiser, listening to the sound of John Fogerty’s raspy voice singing Credence Clearwater Revival’s Have You Ever Seen The Rain echo from the comfort of the dry interior of the car. Yeah, I’ve seen the fucking rain. He thought, letting the heat from the idling car warm his stiffening back.
Fortunately, he thought to himself, it had been only a half a mile walk to the nearest house. The old couple seemed quite understanding when he explained that he needed to use their phone. Police emergency, he had assured them. If only he had thought of a police emergency that involved asking to use their bathroom before he had decided to stop and take a leak on the side of the road; hindsight. If only he wouldn’t be standing out in the rain right now. He could only imagine what Johnny would say when he arrived.
He heard the siren long before the car came into view over the rise. The flashing reds and blues cut through the pouring rain as the cruiser sped towards him. Puzzled, Frank walked to the front of his car as he watched the lights draw closer. His heart fell as he saw the Sheriff Buck Tanner’s face tighten into a scowl behind the windshield wipers as the car rolled to a stop. “Fuck a duck,” he muttered as he shook the rain from his slicker and braced for the verbal barrage that was sure to come.
“Get your ass in here, Griggs,” the Sheriff yelled as he rolled the driver’s side window down. The deputy hesitated momentarily, “Now, Frank, there’s trouble!” The confused deputy sprinted to the passenger door and threw himself into the car. If he didn’t know better he would say the Sheriff was scared and that was something that just didn’t happen. His scowl had been replaced by a very pale and blank expression.
“Sheriff, let me explain,” Griggs began, lowering his hood and removing his cap. He ran a shaking hand through his slick hair and continued. “I’ve been in that car all day, sir and I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it all the way back to the station…”
He was interrupted by the crackle of the radio. “Sheriff, can you read me? Power’s out here in town and we’re running off the generator.” It was Maddie’s voice, and Griggs thought she sounded as nervous as the Sheriff looked.
The sheriff’s hand shot forward and grabbed the radio from its cradle on the dash. “Here, Maddie.” A pause and then glancing at his drenched passenger, “We’re right here.”
Maddie exhaled into the radio with obvious relief and then continued. “John’s on-scene, sir, he called in looking for Fra, I mean Deputy Griggs.”
“Well, get him on the horn and tell him we’re on our way,” the Sheriff ordered, glancing again at Griggs, who seemed to have shrunk at least six inches as he sank down into t
he seat trying to disappear into the upholstery. “I’ve been trying to reach him, but with this storm I think there’s some kind of interference.”
Silence, and then, “Sheriff,” another pause and then with a quivering voice Maddie said, “I’ve been trying for the past ten minutes and he’s not responding.”
Frank straightened in his seat. “What’s going on, sir? Where’s John?”
Sheriff Buck Tanner reached down and hung the radio back in its cradle as his foot pressed down even further on the accelerator. His eyes blazed from beneath the trademark Stetson hat atop his head but said nothing. They sped away, leaving Griggs’s still-running car along the side of the road. Griggs looked into his side view mirror and watched the cruiser disappear from sight.
He sat in silence waiting for an explanation and watched the speedometer out of the corner of his eye begin to bounce as it shot passed ninety and blew towards one 100 miles per hour. Trees and fields zipped by outside the rain streaked windows as they sped along the slick country roads back towards town.
They drove without speaking as if hypnotized by the scraping of the wipers across the windshield, keeping perfect time with the blaring siren overhead. Grip tightening on the steering wheel, Buck Tanner’s instincts turned from his responsibility as Sheriff to protect and serve the public, to those of a father trying to save his son.
Deputy John Tanner entered the garage and approached the open door. He carefully stepped over the bloody footprints, taking note of their relatively small size. He saw no obvious signs of a struggle, only what appeared to be an ordinary garage. An old riding mower was parked in the corner next to a giant snowmobile. The place was clean and orderly, except for the busy trail of bloody prints mapping paths to and from the house. They appeared to lead to the workbench.
Tools sprawled across its surface. The blood became visible as the deputy drew closer. He plucked a claw hammer from the bench and held it up in the light. Torn bits of flesh riddled with long dark hair clung to its claws and both the head and handle was slick with blood. As the realization of what he was looking at sunk in, the hammer slid from his hand landing and bouncing from the workbench with a thud. Revulsion overwhelmed him as he stumbled backward.
Trying to escape the sickening horror as he stumbled away, the young deputy failed to notice the small shadow creep up behind him. As John Tanner turned, however, he could feel the stab of something very sharp and cold bury itself into his chest. The pain dropped him to his knees, bringing him face-to-face with his attacker. The warm spread of blood flowed down his arm and over his hand. He attempted to raise his gun to ward off a second blow but instead felt it slide through his weakening grip.
As his world gave way to blackness, the deputy looked into the eyes of his small, blood soaked assailant. It was like looking into the bottom of an endless well of darkness. He felt small hands on his body, pulling and tugging, and then closed his eyes.
The wail of an approaching siren gave Deputy Tanner hope, even as piercing flashes of pain about his face and chest tried to steal it away.
Deputy Frank Griggs didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he knew from the way Sheriff Tanner was white knuckling the steering wheel that it must be serious. More than once the cruiser had swept into an oncoming lane of traffic as it sped around slower vehicles. They were breaking every rule of the road, and Griggs could feel his stomach lurch at the thought of what they might be hurrying toward.
The Sheriff eased his foot off the accelerator as they entered the city limits. Their speed dropped from well over one hundred down to just over seventy. Bedlam’s lone stoplight hung dark and heavy over Main Street as the cruiser passed beneath it. Without power, storefronts and lawns were enveloped in a murky grayness. The flashing reds and blues of the lights atop the car cast eerily hypnotic shadows against the quiet backdrop of the sleepy little town. Somewhere in the storm clouds overhead the sun was nearing the horizon. Below however, Bedlam Falls was entombed in premature nighttime.
Buck Tanner’s voice cut through the silence, “I came into the station right after Johnny left.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Maddie took a call from Ken Reed, something about his babies being dead.” He spoke as if he were testifying at court, brief answers that revealed simple facts and little else. “Something happened and she lost him…Ken, that is. The line was open but all she heard was… a thump.”
The cruiser skidded from the pavement onto the rough and rocky gravel of Sigler Road as Buck cranked the wheel hard to his left. They could see the flashing lights of Johnny’s car in the distance through the sheets of rain. Once again, the Sheriff pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and then added in a rough whisper that sounded like sandpaper as the words scraped between his lips, “She spent fifteen minutes listening to Gilligan’s Island…till the storm knocked the power out,” a final pause as he set his jaw and turned to Griggs. “And that’s about the last time anyone’s heard from Johnny.”
Griggs swallowed slowly as the full impact of what was unfolding settled over him. He reached for the .38 at his side and brought it out from its holster. With the flick of his wrist the short-barreled pistol snapped open to reveal a full cylinder. It spun as he snapped it closed. In his three years as a Deputy, Griggs had never drawn his gun on a call. Now that he held it in his shaking hand with the very real possibility that he may have to use it, it felt heavy with the weight of responsibility.
“Every time you draw your gun you hold a life in your hands,” Sheriff Tanner had told him the day he pinned the badge to his chest. “Sometimes to save a life, you have to take one,” he added. And then giving his hand one firm shake he continued, “And as much as you try to convince yourself that it all balances out in the end, it doesn’t. It’s best just to let God worry about the math.”
The cruiser skidded to a stop at the end of the driveway announcing their arrival to anyone within earshot. Buck had the door partially open even before the car stopped rolling. “Cover the back,” he barked to Griggs as he drew the cannon he kept holstered on his hip. It was a .44 Magnum, the same gun Clint Eastwood would make famous in his Dirty Harry movies. He sprinted towards the house without looking back.
Griggs leapt from the vehicle with his .38 in hand. He leaned into the blowing rain and made his way through the yard as the Sheriff disappeared into the darkened garage. Wind and rain aside, the place felt too quiet. He crept to the side of the house and peered in a window. Shadows on top of shadows greeted him.
He continued along, slowly making his way to the backyard. The faint sound of banging and creaking could be heard. Griggs felt his stomach tighten and paused before rounding the corner, both hands clutching the gun. Through the rain he could see a tire swing dancing in the wind. The limb overhead creaked each time the tire struck the large maple. He exhaled slowly as he surveyed the back of the house. A gas grill stood alone on a small cement patio with what appeared to be outdoor furniture neatly stacked beside the grill.
The yard extended beyond the large maple tree into a densely wooded area. State land, Griggs thought, as he stared into the trees, it went on for miles all the way to the lake and old hospital.
His attention returned to the house as a shadow passed quickly behind the window. He approached and stood on his toes to look inside, nothing. He reached for the flashlight on his belt and brought it up to the window. As he contemplated whether to switch it on and alert whoever was inside to his presence, a streak of lightning illuminated the entire yard. It was followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that pierced the silence. The brightness lasted only a millisecond, but it was long enough for him to see the body of Kenneth Reed lying motionless on the floor inside. Reed’s eyes were open and his lifeless gaze burned through the window.
Startled, Griggs jumped away from the window and pressed his back against the house. His yellow slicker provided little refuge as the cold rain soaked him to his core. He shivered as he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
&n
bsp; Fuck it! He thought, switching on his flashlight. Its beam sliced through the darkness, yet provided little comfort. He ducked under the window and took four long strides to the back door. The locked handle jiggled in his hand.
Griggs stepped back and raised his heavy foot to the door and kicked it in. He entered like Jack Lord, full of confidence and ready to kick ass. Shattered glass and splintered wood littered the floor. Ahead, an open door revealed stairs that led down to the basement. As he swung the beam to his right the light fell over the kitchen counter; pooled blood covered everything. The darkened basement could wait, he decided, and proceed into the gruesome kitchen.
The cabinets, countertops and backsplash were encased with gore. Blood-soaked towels were strewn everywhere as if someone had tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to clean up. In the center of this gore sat a plate of chocolate chip cookies. As he stared at the cookies, Grigg’s attention was drawn to a lump of towels in the sink. He fought the urge to scream as he looked in horror at a pile of tiny feet and hands stacked in the sink, there were too many; three feet, four? How many hands? Griggs’s mind couldn’t register what he was seeing.
The Sheriff’s words echoed inside his head; Maddie took a call from Ken Reed, something about his babies being dead. And then, something happened and she lost him. Griggs turned quickly from the sink, retching, as a distant and muffled groan broke the silence. Johnny,” he whispered as he followed the bloody tracks and drag marks into the living room, “Sheriff, is that you?”
