by R. A. Evans
Power’s out, he surmised, flipping the switch on the wall as he closed the door to the winter chill. Stepping from his snow covered boots, Collins started for the kitchen, to the cabinet where he kept the flashlight.
An unfamiliar voice in the darkness, thick with hatred and dripping with malice stopped him dead in his tracks and chilled him to the core. The Reverend listened intently as the realization swept over him that God’s hand played no role in this foul game.
“One should watch where one steps,” the disembodied voice continued as the gun pressed harder into Buck’s head The Sheriff could feel the distinct outline of a double barrel just under the brim of his Stetson; enough firepower to spray his brains well into the next room, if not beyond.
“I believe those were your compatriot’s sunglasses you just stomped to pieces. No worries, however, his days of requiring eye protection are passed.”
Buck swallowed hard. In an instant his nerves of steel had crumbled. Neither his police training nor his years of experience had prepared him for the feeling of a shotgun to the back of his head. Pretty sure this one’s not in the manual, his mind raced at the predicament. The .44 in his hand provided scant comfort.
“We’ve met before, you know? Twice, if we’re counting the golf lesson, should we count the golf lesson?” the voice snickered “Of course, I don’t expect you to remember. Our first encounter was years ago. As for the last time, you were… preoccupied. It’s too bad there won’t be a next time; this time I plan to make a lasting impression.”
The stranger was obviously enjoying himself. A fact that provided Buck a glimmer of hope. Keep him talking. “I meet a lot of people,” Buck replied dryly, “all part of the job. Don’t take it personally. As for the golf lesson, it only reinforced my hatred of the game.” Buck’s pieced together scalp itched beneath his hat at the memory.
The comment was met with silence. If not for the barrel of the shotgun pressed to his head, Buck would have thought for sure his attacker had reconsidered.
“Looks heavy,” the voice replied, absent the previous traces of amusement, “the gun that is; drop it.” Buck winced as he dropped his sidearm to the floor. If not for the .22 strapped to his ankle he would have been defenseless. Not that he stood a snowball’s chance in hell of drawing it before the shotgun blast painted the walls red with his blood. Still, its presence kept hope alive.
“Turn around, slowly.” The voice carried a certain don’t fuck with me quality that Buck quickly obliged. Of course, reinforcing a demand with a shotgun tends to empower an individual. The Sheriff, mind ablaze with questions, was ill-prepared for the answers that awaited him as he turned to face his foe.
Standing before him, shotgun now trained at his chest, Sheriff Buck Tanner gazed down at young Lionel Collins. Even cloaked in darkness, Buck noted that the menacing voice wasn’t the only change in the lad. Lionel’s face was deathly pale with dark circles beneath each eye. His lips were drawn back into a snarling smile; revealing more teeth than Buck had thought humanly possible. Most startling, however, were the piercing red eyes that glowed from Lionel’s sunken eye-sockets.
“You let them take her, Sheriff. Much of this could have been avoided… the hurt… the loss.” For the briefest of moments the intensity of the voice wavered as it trailed off into silence. “The price for blood is blood, however, and I am here to collect.”
For some, faith is a blanket that provides comfort in times of great distress or grief. For others, belief in a higher power provides a place to deflect responsibility; everything difficult is part of a master plan. For Reverend James Collins, his faith had always been an anchor; a place of refuge during the storms of his life. Tonight, however, in the presence of what he could only describe as true evil, the Reverend’s faith became a weapon.
Buck started into the steel-eyed barrels of the shotgun and smiled. He had accepted long ago that any given day could be his last on earth; and had thought on at least a handful of occasions that his last day had finally come. But never had he considered that he would be taken down by a twelve-year-old boy.
Movement in the shadows behind the red-eyed figure caught the Sheriff’s attention. “Promise me,” Buck whispered in hopes of providing distraction, “it ends here…with me. Let my blood settle the debt.”
The fire in Lionel’s sunken red eyes blazed. “My good Sheriff, are you trying to bargain with me?” The hollow laughter that followed chilled Buck to the bone. “I’m afraid we are well beyond the point of negotiations.” More laughter followed. “Besides, I do believe I have developed a taste for it.”
The next few seconds were a blur of confusion. Unsure of what, if anything, the shadowy form behind Lionel could be, Sheriff Buck Tanner made the brash decision to reach for his .22. As the law man ducked for his weapon, a blast from the shotgun took the Stetson from atop Buck’s head. He could feel the displacement of air as the buckshot slammed into the wall behind him. Pain from a thousand bee stings peppered his shoulder as Buck rolled to his feet with his back-up weapon in hand. His mind commanded his body to fire a salvo of shots, but not a single round left the barrel. His entire hand and arm was numb and immobile. Fear ran through his body, but when his eyes finally registered what he was seeing, Lionel’s crumpled body lay unexpectedly sprawled across the floor.
Gripping what remained of his antique Bible, Reverend James Collins towered over the fallen boy.
The remnants of the family heirloom fell from his hands as he dropped to his knees beside his son. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Buck’s revolver fell to the floor as he collapsed. His eyelids became heavy as the sting in his shoulder intensified. Drifting into unconsciousness, the Sheriff could hear the Reverend crying over his fallen son, as two smoldering red eyes waited for him in the darkness.
The power of a name is as ancient as the custom of naming itself. All throughout mythology, examples can be found of secret names, names that had the power to destroy, and names that had the power to bring great rewards.
Ken Ritz was hopeful that the great reward for his dubbing of Lionel Collins as The Cookie Monster would be a move to a larger market. Not that Lansing was small potatoes, but his sights had always been on something much bigger and definitely more lucrative.
The highly popular children’s television program Sesame Street had recently unveiled its latest Muppet;
The Cookie Monster. The smug reporter saw the opportunity and ran with it, nearly wetting himself with excitement when he saw his story picked up by the Associated Press and running in media outlets across the Midwest.
Ritz, it turned out, was privy to far more information than just the words written in blood above the bathtub inside the Reeds’ bathroom. His unidentified source, acknowledged for his intimate knowledge of the investigation, had also revealed that the assailant was believed to have helped himself to a plate of freshly baked cookies before undertaking the vicious attacks that had ended with a family of five brutally murdered and the town gripped by fear. Sadly, Lieutenant Bowling had been unavailable for further comment, but Ritz ran with the unreleased details, and the clever moniker, nonetheless.
Ritz, much like the countless other members of the media present outside Bedlam Fall’s small hospital, were camped out waiting for word from Sheriff Buck Tanner. Although the specifics had yet to be released, rumors were swirling that both the accused and the Sheriff had sustained what doctor’s were calling non-life threatening injuries during the apprehension.
As the vultures circled outside, Buck sat quietly on the edge of the table in exam room one. A young doctor worked anxiously to remove the remnants of buckshot from his bloodied shoulder and arm. Beside him, an even younger appearing nurse stood quietly with a syringe of morphine should the lawman finally decide to accept the offered painkillers. Buck Tanner needed a clear head, however, and declined.
Dressed for the second time in just over a week in an embarrassingly thin hospital gown, the Sheriff’s thoughts vacillated b
etween shock and anger. Most upsetting, however, was the loss of his cherished Stetson. Damn it all. He fumed, running an awkward hand through his thinning gray hair.
Task complete, the doctor exited with his nurse in tow; encouraging his patient to get some rest. Alone at last, Buck Tanner was left to contemplate which was more frightening; the small number of answers he now possessed or the multitude of questions that plagued his beleaguered soul.
Just down the hall from where the bandaged Sheriff sat in quiet contemplation, Deputy Frank Griggs stood guard outside Lionel Collins’s room.
Again, the guilt ridden deputy had been too late to respond to the call. This time, however, with good reason. Because of his efforts, a young child had been pulled free from the twisted wreckage of a fatal head-on collision. Griggs’s quick thinking and brute strength had enabled him to literally pry the child from the back seat mere seconds before the vehicle burst into flames. Sadly, the child’s parents had been killed upon impact.
Griggs had resisted the urge to pummel the driver of the other vehicle, a drunken teenager whose truck had crossed the center line and struck the unsuspecting family returning from vacation. The teenager had walked away unharmed, more concerned with the angry reaction of his parents to their damaged vehicle than with the devastation he had just caused. The angry deputy took a small amount of satisfaction when the teen’s head “accidentally” slammed on the doorframe of the cruiser as he threw him into the back seat.
Just out of earshot stood a handful of State Police brass huddled together in hushed conversation. One of their own was unaccounted for, and they were fully unconvinced by the strange tale that was being spun by Sheriff Buck Tanner. Surely the man was rattled. Griggs could easily overhear their whispers.
Griggs sighed in frustration drawing angry looks from the troopers. Battle lines were obviously being drawn and the pissing match over jurisdiction would soon begin anew.
As of now, however, Sheriff Buck Tanner was still in charge and his only order for the young deputy had been quite simple, “Nobody in. Nobody out.” The smell of gasoline and charred metal clinging to him, Griggs folded his beefy arms across his barrel chest and with blazing eyes dared anyone to try to pass.
All things must change to something new, to something strange.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Alone with his thoughts, the echoing silence in Lionel’s mind was deafening; all but drowning out his father’s incessant bedside recital of the Twenty-third Psalm. If not for his aching jaw and temple, the boy would have thought for sure he was merely dreaming.
Lionel knew he was in the hospital, and apparently in some sort of trouble; beyond that limited awareness, the lad was lost. The same deputy who had interviewed him after the incident at the Reed’s was again lurking about; this time, however ,wearing a much more bitter expression on his already sour face. Lionel paid it little mind however and instead focused on what he did know, something in him had changed.
Resting amid the sterile bed linens, Lionel felt hollow; as if his soul had been carved out from its resting place within his core. The sound of the door opening didn’t rouse him from his torment.
“Sheriff,” Lionel heard his father mutter from his bedside. With the greeting, the patient turned his eyes toward his guest. Time seemed to freeze as they locked gazes. For the briefest of moments Lionel experienced an odd connection with the lawman; a passing sensation of the familiar that evaporated as the Sheriff broke his gaze.
“Reverend,” Buck nodded as he slowly made his way forward. Nearing the bed, the Sheriff recast his attention on Lionel.
The man looked different without his hat, Lionel thought, smaller and far less imposing even. Maybe it was the way he was gingerly holding his arm or the slow and awkward gait to his usually determined walk.
“I’ve got some questions, son,” Buck began. “But first, I need to explain a few things.” The Sheriff looked down at the small form in the bed and drew in a deep breath before continuing. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will be used against you in a court of law…”
Three hours later, Buck left the hospital riding shotgun in Griggs’s police cruiser. The deputy had retrieved the Sheriff’s Stetson from the crime scene and had placed it strategically on the dash in front of the passenger seat. Without a word, Buck gently placed the shot-ridden hat atop his aching head.
Griggs drove without talking, knowing that the Sheriff would get around to it in his own time. It took all of fifteen minutes.
“Do you believe in God, Frank?”
Griggs hadn’t known what, if anything, to expect from the man, but this question took the deputy by complete surprise.
“Ummm...Yeah, I suppose I do.” Like most small towns similar to Bedlam Falls, church membership was deemed almost mandatory. Rumors ran rampant about those who didn’t at least grace the pews at one of the town’s two small churches; at least once in a blue came calling far too often. However, attending church and believing in God were two different things.
An uncomfortably long silence greeted Frank’s reply; minutes passed before Buck continued. “I never cared either way, just did what I thought was right.” Buck paused, collecting his muddled thoughts. “But I felt something tonight, Frank, something…evil. And it got me thinking; if there is a God then it stands to reason that there is something else…something wicked and full of hate.” Buck’s words trailed off into silence.
Griggs’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as he pondered his passenger’s words. “Sheriff, I can’t begin to imagine what it is you’re feeling, what with Johnny and all, but that Collins kid is just plain sick in the head; ain’t nothing evil about that.” It was the Deputy’s turn to pause. “You gonna head back to Grand Rapids now…check on Johnny?”
Griggs stared at the road ahead as he waited for the Sheriff’s reply. When none was offered the deputy stole a quick glance at his passenger. Sheriff Buck Tanner sat motionless, staring straight ahead into the wintry night. “Sheriff?”
Buck recast his focus to the Deputy. For the briefest of moments the Sheriff’s tired eyes blazed red beneath the shadowed brim of his Stetson. Barely audible above the noise of the cruiser’s tires crunching over the snow-capped road, Buck’s reply sent chills down the Deputy’s spine. “Yes, Grand Rapids,” the words dripped with vitriol from Buck’s smiling lips. “I’ll be taking care of Johnny in Grand Rapids.”
August 30, 2010
Bedlam Falls, Michigan
The next two weeks breezed by as Brady and April rediscovered their teenage crush. Brady’s anxiety over sharing the broken parts of himself slowly subsided and in this sharing he found a degree of healing.
Sadly, as his days became filled with April, Brady’s nights were plagued by strange dreams that left him shaken and beaded with cold sweat. Details of this reoccurring nightmare always remained at the periphery of his memory, although the icy blackness of the lake always seemed to be the setting. The lack of sleep, not to mention the anxiety of the nightmare itself, began to wear on him.
“Looks like somebody woke up under the bed this morning,” April teased as she approached down the path from the driveway. Abby was at her side, struggling under the weight of an enormous picnic basket. Today’s lunch by the lake had been her idea after all; the menu and everything. Gruff padded out to greet her.
Brady brushed his lips against April’s cheek, gently encircling her fingers with his own. “Careful lady,” he teased, giving her hand a squeeze. “You try sleeping with that great behemoth across your legs.” Holding hands, they led Abby and Gruff down the path to the deck overlooking the lake.
April remained silent, knowing full well that it wasn’t the dog causing Brady’s sleepless nights. Just two days ago he had fallen asleep on the couch while watching television. It was 2:00 in the afternoon and April was watching Abby and Gruff splash along the shore in the warm lake water. With the latest issue of People Magazine spread across her lap and a Corona wit
h lime within easy reach, April had just closed her eyes to enjoy the sunshine when a scream erupted from inside; sending nearby gulls into flight over the lake with echoing cries of their own.
April scooped Abby into her arms and sprinted up the back stairs, through the French doors and into the kitchen; Gruff clawing at her heels.
She found Brady standing at the kitchen sink soaked in cold sweat and water from the running faucet. He was pale and stood motionless gripping the counter.
Setting Abby down, she approached him cautiously and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”
Brady’s body quaked beneath her touch. He raised his eyes to briefly meet her questioning gaze as a forced smile tugged at the corners of this mouth. “Yeah, yeah – I’m fine,” exhaling deeply, “just a dream.”
April didn’t ask for details and Brady didn’t offer. Yet now, two days removed from that frightening event, Brady looked at her with bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles. “Let’s get some food in you,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “And maybe after we can see about finally getting this place organized?”
Brady smirked, “Organized? That just sounds like work.”
“A little work will do you good, mister,” another squeeze to his hand before she let it go and ran ahead to catch up with Abby and her over-filled picnic basket. “Besides,” she said turning and smiling mischievously back at Brady, “after work there is always room for a little play.”
“And that, Mr. Tanner, is how you organize a sock drawer.”
