Asylum Lake

by R. A. Evans

  April pressed her hands over her reddening face, as if hiding would make her annoying laugh less noticeable. She could feel the tears escape from her eyes as her shoulders rocked in a now silent laughter

  “Nothing to see here people, go about your business.” Brady moved forward and placed his hand on her shoulder, guiding her towards the counter. “Let’s get you some ice-cream.”

  They talked for hours as Gruff and Abby played; a lot can change in fifteen years and for both of them it had. April had left Bedlam Falls right after high school, accepting a scholarship to Eastern Michigan University to study elementary education. She had wanted to put as much distance between herself and her hometown as possible. Like Brady, however, she was back in the one place she thought she would never be.

  Her life couldn’t be mapped in a straight line; instead it had been filled with peaks and valleys. After college she had settled in Ann Arbor and quickly found a job teaching kindergarten at a small Catholic school.

  That was a peak.

  The valley followed a year later when a positive pregnancy test abruptly ended what she had thought was a very promising and long-term relationship.

  Abby’s father, April used that term only in the biological sense, was completely uninvolved and provided absolutely no support. The juggling act of balancing a baby and a demanding job became too much, and with her pride fully swallowed, April found herself back in Bedlam Falls.

  The tiny trailer she had grown up in was cramped, although less so now after her mother had passed away. April’s father had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and she now found herself spending most of her time caring for him. It wasn’t the life she had planned for, but she was making the most of it; for herself and for Abby.

  Brady hung on every word. He had known that April had always wanted to teach, something that he had never fully understood. Brady couldn’t recall even one teacher that had made an impact on him. Besides, dealing with 25 screaming little kids just seemed more like torture. Now, however, as he watched Abby run and play, Brady could see just why April might enjoy children so much.

  “How about you?”April asked motioning towards Brady’s ring. “I see the ring but have to doubt that there is a Mrs. Tanner at home eating Funyons right now?”

  Brady didn’t know how to respond. The subject of his wife’s death had always been a difficult one for him to discuss. The wound was still very fresh, and somehow he felt that by sharing his hurt here, and with April, he would be soiling that memory.

  “Peaks and valleys,” he said looking away. “What do you say we save that topic for another day?”

  April paused and nodded, “Sure thing.”

  A comfortable silence followed as they watched Abby and Gruff. Both appeared close to being at the end of their batteries. Lay out perpendicularly on the grass using his soft fur as a pillow. Although unable to understand the words, Brady could hear Abby talking quietly and non-stop to the dog.

  “Something tells me those two are going to be inseparable.”

  “Yeah,” April agreed, reaching over and giving Brady’s shoulder a soft punch. “Like long lost friends reunited.”

  November 10, 1971

  Bedlam Falls, Michigan

  Sheriff Buck Tanner arrived at the station shortly before sunrise and parked his familiar truck around the block behind the library to mask his presence. He wasn’t quite ready to be the official face of the investigation. Let Frank have a little more fun. He thought as he entered the darkened station and put on a fresh pot of coffee.

  As requested, Maddie had spent some time in the file room. A neatly organized mess greeted him on his desk. To the left was a very thick and somewhat intimidating appearing binder atop a stack of newspapers. Buck guessed at what was contained therein and quickly turned his attention to the small stack of files on the right side of his desk. Between the two piles rested a handwritten note.

  Sheriff,

  – Cupboard was left pretty bare. I’ll keep digging.

  Buck recognized Maddie’s penmanship and set the note aside. He had expected as much. His predecessor’s handling of the asylum affair had been less than thorough. Sheriff Rylan Walters had his deputies snap some photos, ask a few questions, and then basically wrote the whole thing off as though it was livestock merely thinning its own herd. Rumors had run wild but soon they, too, had died off from lack of interest.

  Buck caught the scent of the cigar before he noticed Jim Bowling’s shadow pass over his desk. “Morning, Jim.”

  State Police Lieutenant Jim Bowling stood in the open doorway and smiled down at the Sheriff.

  “My, my, what do we have here? The long arm of the law finally comes to save us simple folk?” Bowling snickered around the cigar clamped between his yellowed teeth. The Cheshire cat should have envied the man’s smile.

  Buck looked up from his cluttered desk and locked eyes with the trooper. “You might call it that, Jim.” The Sheriff’s eyes glittered hungrily. He was in no mood for Bowling’s bullshit. Buck had already heard enough from Deputy Griggs about how uncooperative the little prick had been; best to put him in his place right away. “Black, Jim, no sugar. How ‘bout you go fetch me a cup?”

  Bowling blew out a long slow plume of gray smoke and stepped into Buck’s office, the trooper’s beady little eyes full of instantaneous rage. “Excuse me?”

  Subtlety wasn’t one of Buck’s strongest qualities; especially after recent events.

  With his son bandaged and broken, a young family butchered, and a killer still roaming the streets, Sheriff Tanner didn’t have time to mince words. Plus, having one’s skull cracked open with a golf club tends to set a person in a foul mood.

  “How long have your worn that badge, son? Five years? Certainly not much longer.” Buck kept his voice calm and his eyes on the young trooper. Buck paused, letting his words settle over his “guest.” “You ever work a homicide, son? Not just string the yellow tape, but actually roll up your sleeves and work one?”

  Buck could see the anger leaving the man as he continued. “Now, I ain’t saying you don’t know shit, but dammit Jim, if you think running to channel forty-one with every last detail is gonna actually help in any way, then it’s obvious; you don’t know shit.”

  Bowling’s face flushed with embarrassment. Buck held up a hand before the man could comment.

  “I get it, you’re pissed. You wanted this. Hell, maybe you even deserved it.” Buck paused, and for the first time his calm demeanor and cool tone began to fray at the edges. “But this isn’t about what you want…or what I think. This is about justice; for the Reed’s, for my boy, and for Lord knows who else this sick son of a bitch has hurt.”

  Bowling stared across the desk at the Sheriff. The gray smoke hung heavy between them, but the tension had finally broken. “What can I do?”

  “I need your help, Lieutenant. You have access to records, files…information that I could never lay my hands on. “

  Bowling nodded, not fully understanding the request but suspecting he might be bending a few rules in obliging the man. “Done,” he nodded, noting the seriousness in Tanner’s eye. His hatred for Griggs aside, the trooper had a modicum of respect for the aging Sheriff.

  Buck paused, reconsidering the man standing before him. He too had been young and brash once. Perhaps not the asshole that Jim Bowling had shown himself to be, but nonetheless there was no denying the kid had fire. That fire may just be the catalyst to nailing the murderer.

  The file was marked ‘Lake View Asylum – 1958’. Inside were half a dozen sheets of handwritten notes and a few black and white photographs. Buck held it out to the state trooper.

  Bowling opened the file and glanced briefly at its contents. The trooper’s brow furrowed with puzzlement.

  Buck removed a photo from the binder on his desk and held it up for Bowling. “Notice anything?”

  The Trooper’s eyes moved from the file’s contents to the photo Buck held. Bowling had seen the Reed’s bathroom and quick
ly recognized the blood-scrawled word: Repent. Bowling’s eyes widened as he made the connection. His reaction was immediate.

  “No fucking way!”

  Buck smiled in spite of himself, “Yeah that was my thoughts exactly. I’m not sure how or why but it’s your job to find a ‘fucking way’.”

  Bowling nodded, his mind spinning at the possibilities.

  Buck rose to his feet, standing a full six inches taller than the young Trooper, and extended his hand. “I’ll talk to Griggs; let him know to give you a wide berth and all.”

  Lieutenant Jim Bowling accepted the offer and responded with a firm shake of the Sheriff’s hand. Depositing the thin file on the Sheriff’s desk, he left Buck’s office with something to finally dig his teeth into. Walking to his car a few minutes later he had more than a passing suspicion that the elder lawman was grasping at straws. Yet the photos were eerily similar.

  Maybe I should just take a look around. He thought, pointing his cruiser east down Main Street. Placing his trademark mirrored sunglasses atop his nose; Lieutenant Jim Bowling drove towards the rising sun over the Lake Hospital On that final drive, he never suspected how right Buck Tanner’s hunch would turn out to be. Or that, much like the countless souls before him who had ventured through the asylum’s doors, he would never see the light of day again.

  Lionel hadn’t been to school since the incident. Instead, his father had thought it would be best if the boy took some time off, probably through the Thanksgiving break. By then, Collins hoped there would be some progress in the case and life would start looking more…normal.

  While the elder Collins tended to his flock, a task that considering recent events had been taking more and more of his time, young Lionel was left pretty much to fend for himself. Fortunately for Lionel however, even when by himself he was never truly alone.

  The soft and soothing tone to Ellis’s voice had taken on a more pained and powerful tenor. Initially, this frightened the boy, but Lionel was quickly adapting to this stranger’s voice inside his head. Oddly, this unseen companion provided him a sense of comfort. It was also during this period of change with Ellis, that Lionel noticed his own loss of time. There really was no other way to describe it. Entire portions of a day or night would be wiped from his memory. Once he had awakened to find himself standing over his father’s bed as the man slept, with no recollection of how or why he was there. It was only upon returning to his own bed that he noticed the kitchen knife in his hand. Another time he found himself alone walking along the wooded shore of Asylum Lake, a good six miles from his home, again with no recollection of how he had gotten there.

  Today, however, was proving to be the most perplexing experience yet. Lionel could recall having breakfast with his father. If, by breakfast, a silent glass of orange juice and dry toast qualified. His father had left shortly thereafter, mumbling something about visiting a church member; he would be back by dinner.

  That was the last thing Lionel could recall; until now. Teeth chattering, Lionel slowly came to the realization that he was sitting on his front porch swing dressed in only a bathrobe. His hair and skin were still damp from what he assumed was a shower. Taking in a deep and cleansing breath of the cool air, Lionel recognized the fresh scent of soap.

  The strangest part of this awakening, however, was the feeling of utter and complete fatigue that welled from deep inside his muscles and joints. That, and the splintered pair of mirrored sunglasses he held tightly in his knuckle-scraped hand. Specks of blood marked both the lenses and the white bracelet that encircled his thin wrist. A circular burn roughly the size of a quarter also throbbed painfully on his forearm.

  Exhaling a bitter plume of white vapor into the late afternoon chill, Lionel rose from the swing and retreated to the warmth and solitude of his bedroom. His father would be home soon and the voice was urging him to rest; for strength would be needed before the night was through.

  Buck had spent the better part of the day in the solitude of his office reviewing the case notes and lab reports from the Reed homicides. Much like Griggs, the absence of certain evidence aroused more suspicion than what evidence they actually held. All things pointed to Lionel Collins.

  The boy’s prints and tracks were on everything. From the knives and screwdrivers that had been used to puncture and slice the victims, to the golf club that had taken a divot of the Sheriff’s scalp. No other prints were found; nor did it appear that any had been wiped away.

  Most concerning was the boy’s silence. All things considered, it was time for Lionel to provide some answers, and Buck was confident that he would know just how to pose the questions.

  “Time to get to work, Maddie,” Buck stated matter-of-factly on his way out the door. “When Frank gets back have him meet me at the Collins’s house, would ya?”

  “Sure thing, Sheriff,” she responded reaching for the radio. “Snow is picking up, be safe out there.”

  Sheriff Buck Tanner’s lips tightened into a thin smile. “And while you’re at it, get Jim Bowling on the line. Have him join us, too.”

  Maddie watched the Sheriff turn and walk through the swinging door into the frigid November evening. How he kept that damn hat on in the wind was a mystery. She mused.

  Always one to trust her women’s intuition, she couldn’t help but worry as a shudder of chills ran down her neck and shoulders. Snuggling deeper into the cardigan sweater she kept at her desk, she fidgeted nervously in her seat as she waited for State Police Lieutenant Jim Bowling to respond.

  The last time Buck Tanner had rolled up to a darkened house things had turned very ugly in a hurry. Removing his .44 from its holster, he vowed things would be far different this time. Of course, the good Reverend and his son may just be out, but the tingling hair on the back of the Sheriff’s neck told him differently.

  Maddie’s efforts to reach Lieutenant Bowling had proven unsuccessful, presenting the Sheriff with an altogether unsettling sense of déjà vu. If that son of a bitch has done anything stupid I swear I’ll kill him. Buck fumed as he crept slowly up the porch steps. Whether by force of wind or something much more sinister and likewise unseen, the door creaked open as the Sheriff placed his first booted foot onto the wood-planked porch. An open door is an invitation. Tanner mused, raising his gun to the ready position. And the last thing I want is to be rude.

  Reverend James Collins couldn’t decide which concerned him more; driving up in his AMC Gremlin to find his house completely dark with the front door partially open or the police cruiser parked in the driveway. Neither was tantamount to good news.

  Not that he had expected good news. It seemed as if God’s plan for him included a near constant test of faith. Fortunately, James Collins had the patience of Job and a strong belief that in the end everything would work out exactly as it should. He pondered this as he left the relative warmth of his car and prepared for the biting chill of the wintry walk to the house.

  Clutching his oversized bible in one ungloved hand and securing his unbuttoned coat against the wind with the other, he braced himself against the pummeling snow and walked gingerly through the ankle-deep drifts that blanketed his walkway and yard. Puzzled by the tracks that led from the police car and up the front steps to the open door, he followed them nonetheless. The creaking of the porch swing’s movement in the wintry breeze echoed across the stillness.

  The solitary tracks led into the darkened house. Collins stopped at the door and eased it the rest of the way open. Glancing back in the direction of the Police Cruiser, Collins’s wrapped his frozen fingers around the worn leather of his bible and entered the shadowy confines of his disturbingly silent home.

  Somewhere, in the hidden recesses of his subconscious, Lionel slept; oblivious to the flurry of activity that his unwitting body was now undertaking. The boy’s normally copper-colored eyes blazed like smoldering embers; their intensity surpassed only by the sinister smirk and hardened demeanor that now defined Lionel’s once delicate features. Transformation complete, Ellis Ark
ema’s penetrating red gaze burned through the shadows. Fueled by vengeance and years of pent up hatred, Ellis spurred Lionel’s unknowing body forward; silently stalking his prey.

  Slowly, Buck’s vision adjusted to the dim interior of the unfamiliar surroundings. Even in the darkness his slow breath came out in visible white plumes; the house was bitterly cold.

  The .44 felt like ice in his hand. Buck tightened his grip on the cold metal as he moved deeper into the shadows. Although he had never before been inside the Collins’s home, the Sheriff had walked through enough of the old Colonial-style dwellings to know the basics of where everything was located. He moved easily from the foyer into the living room, brushing against the indiscernible furnishings.

  The house was quiet, too quiet. Buck trained his ear towards the kitchen and moved slowly in that general direction. The crunch of something beneath the Sheriff’s steel-toed boot echoed across the stillness. Fuck, he cringed, freezing in place.

  An eternity seemed to pass as Buck waited for something…anything to come leaping out from the darkness. Finally, he relaxed, easing his finger from the frosty trigger on his sidearm. Buck let out a long and steady breath as he contemplated his next move. Sadly, the press of cold steel against the back of the law man’s head stirred him from his planning.

  “My, my, my,” came a whisper from the darkness. The warm breath on Buck’s neck carried with it the scent of freshly turned earth. “Here for another golf lesson, Sheriff?”

  The last time the good Reverend had come home to such a peaceful house had been the worst moment in his entire life; finding his wife hanging from the bedroom rafters. The memory still haunted him. It had been the first domino in a series of events that were still tumbling out of control; events that he still found himself struggling to find God’s plan in.