by R. A. Evans
Brady sat in stunned silence on the edge of his bed. The last three hours had been torture. From the kitchen pantry and linen closet, to this, the dreaded sock drawer. He now felt like Martha Stewart had given his home a complete makeover.
“You do realize that the sock drawer is not meant to stay organized.”
April glared in response.
“Don’t blame me, socks get lost, even mismatched; before you know it the sock drawer is chaos. It’s best to just let it be a mess and move on.”
Brady tried to refrain from smiling, but couldn’t resist. He rose to his feet pulling April into his arms and planting an easy kiss on her forehead. Their comfort level with one another was remarkably strong, especially given the hesitancy with which Brady had initially pursued his former crush.
April playfully drew away from his embrace. “Not play time yet, Mr. Tanner.”
Brady collapsed back onto his twin bed and groaned. “Really? What could we possibly have left to organize?”
April extended her hand, inviting Brady to stand. He accepted, following her from his room and down to the closed door at the end of the hall. With each step towards his parent’s bedroom his stomach tightened with worry.
They stood quietly, holding hands as Brady collected his thoughts…and his breath. “I don’t know what you think this is going to accomplish.” Brady muttered.
April turned to face Brady, gazing deeply into his hazel eyes. “Two things,” she said. “First, you have to face whatever it is you think is behind this door, Brady. And I promise you, it won’t be as bad as you think.”
Brady sighed in agreement as he reached for the doorknob. “Wait. You said this was going to accomplish two things. What’s the other?”
April answered with a kiss, deep and passionate, rocking Brady to his core. “I thought tonight would be a great night for a sleepover,” kissing him again on the lips. “But I am not sleeping in that sorry excuse you have for a bed, Mr. Tanner. This Amazon Woman needs room to stretch her legs.”
Brady’s erection was all the motivation he needed as he fumbled at the knob. April’s giggle evaporated as quickly as his excitement as Brady opened the door.
“Houston, I think we have a problem.”
As a young child, Brady had spent countless hours playing with his little green army men on the floor in his father’s study. On rare occasions, and for reasons that were never explained, the room had been deemed off limits to him. On one such occasion he had taken the liberty of sneaking into the room while his parents were occupied elsewhere. The visit had left him with nightmares.
The room’s walls had been covered with push-pins holding reports, handwritten notes, newspaper clippings, and what was obviously crime scene photos depicting a variety of different victims with battered, bloodied, and contorted bodies. Brady had run to his room feigning illness, where he remained for the next two days. The joy of waging make-believe war at his father’s feet had been wrestled from him with that one ill-timed visit.
The memory came back in a flash as Brady stepped through the open doorway. He expected to see the room as he had remembered it; a neatly made bed topped with pillows, photographs and artwork from his childhood spread across chest of drawers in the corner accompanied by the familiar scent of his mother’s perfume.
Instead, his parent’s bedroom looked like it had been dressed by the same designers who had created the sets for NYPD Blue. The bed was gone, and the remaining furniture had been filed against the far wall beneath the blind-drawn windows. If not for the light filtering in from the open door the room would have been dark as night. Even still, it was replete with shadows.
Brady fumbled for the light switch. A bare bulb hanging down from the center of the ceiling over a very small wooden desk sparked to life. Atop the desk rested his father’s old PC. Brady instantly recognized the dinosaur.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” April snickered as she glanced passed Brady and into the room.
When the initial shock subsided, Brady entered and examined the room much more closely. Stacks of newspapers, some dating back decades, littered the floor. A large map covered the mirror that hung on the wall. Beside the map were blueprints of some sort pinned into the plaster. His father’s easily-recognizable handwriting covered numerous legal-sized pads of yellow lined paper.
“Safe to say you’re dad didn’t take up interior design in his retirement.”
Brady agreed with a chuckle. This made no sense. Although he had no idea what his father had been up to, especially after his mother’s death. Brady had always assumed the old man’s days consisted of puttering around in the garage, fishing for blue gill from the end of the dock, and watching his Tigers, Lions and Red Wings on TV. Maybe the old man had even mixed in an occasional beer or two down at The Hayloft with Frank Griggs.
If he didn’t know better, Brady thought this room looked a lot like his father never really retired. He had been in enough precincts to see the trappings of an active police investigation; not to mention the memory of his last time inside his father’s study at their home in Grand Rapids.
A cursory examination of the room, however, revealed little. Everything, from the newspapers to the notes and reports, appeared to be decades old; with some more than half a century.
Aside from the collection of papers, photographs, maps, and architectural renderings that occupied nearly every surface of the room, not to mention the relic of a computer on the desk, there sat two more personal items resting on a small shelf near the map.
Grandpa’s hat, he recognized, reaching forward to touch the old Stetson that he had seen in so many old family photos. Although Buck Tanner had died in the line of duty long before his grandson was even a glimmer in his daddy’s eye, the man whose name Brady carried had been discussed often, and with reverence, by those who had the fortune of making his acquaintance.
Brady’s hand paused mere inches from his grandfather’s hat; his attention momentarily diverted by a weather beaten hospital bracelet that lay beside the tattered Stetson. His hand reached forward to pluck the bracelet from the shelf when April spoke.
“You’re right,” sighing her surrender, “We’ve done more than enough organizing for one day.” Wrapping her arms around Brady’s waist and leaning her head onto his shoulder, she continued, “Not even I have the energy for this.”
Brady dropped his hand away from the shelf, turned and melted into April’s arms. Taking her smiling face into his hands he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.
“I agree. Opening the door was a good first step.” Brady led her from the room, turning once as he flipped the light off and closed the door. His gaze returned momentarily to the shelf as the room went dark. “Besides, I have a feeling you’ll need your energy tonight.”
Buck awoke to find himself standing near the lake. The snow had finally ceased and the clouds overhead were breaking, raising temperatures into a much more comfortable twenty-degree range. A thin film of ice was just starting to form on the lake’s surface, sealing its depths away for another winter.
Buck couldn’t recall how he had ended up outside; his last vague memory was of climbing into Griggs’s police cruiser. Instinctively, he reached for his hat and was pleased to find it resting on his aching head. He pulled it off to examine it under the moonlight, his fingers poking through its tattered brim.
Should have aimed about six inches lower.
Buck whirled around at the sound of the wind-swept whisper. The pathway leading from the house was deserted. Buck squinted his tired eyes into the darkness of the tree-line; nothing.
Down here, Sheriff.
Buck dropped his vision from the winter bare foliage to the shoreline at his feet. The moonlight overhead was reflecting off the thin layer of ice covering the lake. For the briefest of moments he saw something…a spark of light. Shaking his head, the confused Sheriff stared harder into the mirrored surface. Slowly his vision refocused. Staring back at him, from the haggard a
nd unshaven face he knew so well, were two blistering red eyes.
And God said to Abraham, take your son, you’re only son…go and sacrifice him as an offering onto me…
Buck Tanner’s scream became laughter as his lips curled back into a sinister smile; a stranger’s smile unrecognizable as his own. His last thought before succumbing to the darkness writhing inside his tired body was of Dr. Wesley Clovis, a man he had never met, moonlit walks along the lake in the company of a young woman, and the rancid stench of aged metal.
The old Ford was half way to Grand Rapids when Buck realized he was driving. The clock on the dash read 3:15 a.m. and the radio was tuned to static. It took a moment for Sheriff Tanner to orient himself to his surroundings.
Unfamiliar eyes looked on as unknown hands gripped the wheel of his Ford truck. Buck was a tourist in his own body; a feeling that made his stomach lurch and head spin with foggy thoughts.
Welcome back, Sheriff. The menacing voice echoed through the fog inside Buck’s throbbing head. Although caught by surprise, the shock of hearing the disembodied voice had a far less rattling impact on Buck this time. The bewildered lawman did his best, however, to avoid stealing glances at his own reflection in the rearview mirror.
I must admit, Sheriff, you had me more than a bit worried back at the lake. For a moment I thought that old heart of yours had burst; left me wondering if the task of killing is something best left for the young.
The humming of the strange voice between Buck’s temples suddenly ceased. In the deafening silence that lingered Buck sensed that for whatever reason he was at least temporarily alone with his thoughts and once again in control of his body. He slowly eased his foot off the accelerator to guide the truck off to the shoulder of the highway.
The absence of other vehicles on the road both relieved and frightened the lawman. But at 3 a.m. what could one expect. Besides, Buck had a suspicion that he wasn’t really alone. Although currently silent, he suspected that his passenger would return. In the meantime, Buck got his bearings.
Resting on the bench seat to his right lay a variety of items; each more menacing and disturbing than the last and Buck had no memory of collecting them. A hand axe from his tool shed, meat cleaver from the kitchen, his .44 Magnum, and lastly his Springfield deer hunting rifle. The powerful .30-06 had been overseas with Buck’s father in World War I and would one day be passed down to Johnny. At the thought of his son, the humming inside Buck’s head returned.
I also had the rifle in mind for your son; funny how great minds think alike, wouldn’t you say, Sheriff?
Buck’s insides turned to jelly as he watched his hand clumsily move to the gear shift and slide the truck back into drive. Once again, his trusty Ford was cruising uncontrollably down the highway. Buck’s mind jumped from one possibility to the next as he tried to make sense of the madness that was engulfing him.
He looks a lot like you, your son that is. The voice was taunting Buck now. Of course, I saw him only briefly and once covered in blood most people tend to look alike.
Buck tried with every ounce of his fiber to stifle the voice in his head with a scream. It passed through his lips as more ghostly laughter.
The price of a memory, Sheriff, is the memory of the sorrow they bring.
He was running through the woods; small branches and overgrown foliage biting into his exposed flesh. To his right he heard the sound of breathing. Stealing a glance he saw a young woman struggling to keep up. He extended an unfamiliar hand to offer help. Pale white and porcelain smooth, the hand that was not Buck’s burned under the filtered afternoon sun that fell through the trees overhead.
“Emily,” the voice called. “Take my hand.” Although absent of malice, Buck instantly recognized the voice as the unknown passenger inside his own mind. Now, it seemed, the Sheriff and the mad man had somehow switched roles.
Sightlessly, the woman groped for the offered hand. She’s blind, Buck realized, struggling unsuccessfully to help.
“Ellis,” she cried, “I can’t.” Her dirty cheeks ran wet with tears… and blood. “Run, Ellis. Run away.”
As the figure glanced back into the trees, Buck could feel the indecision and fear growing inside his host. “We’re close, my love, just a little further. The highway is just through that field.”
Buck looked more closely at Emily’s bulging belly, confirmation of a pregnancy. Six months or so, Buck reasoned. Ellis’s frantic efforts led the lawman to the certainty of parentage. Instantly, the Sheriff felt a sympathetic bond with Ellis and his struggles to save this woman and the unborn child she carried.
Effortlessly, Ellis lifted Emily into his arms and continued his trek towards the open field that lay beyond the tree covered bluff. The muscles across his back and legs burned with each stride.
Buck silently urged Ellis on, unaware of what he was fleeing from but sensing that it certainly couldn’t be good.
The sun was blinding as Ellis emerged from the tree-line into the open field. The red winter wheat was lush and nearing time for harvest. Ellis waded through the waist-high crop as the sun’s rays burned against his pale skin. Finally, after what seemed to be an endless sea of green, the pale man carrying the blind and bloodied woman emerged on the shoulder of Country Road 22 just outside the city limits.
Emily’s blood was mixing with his own, running down his arms and leaving a trail along the pavement. Ellis trudged towards town, roasting beneath the afternoon sun as he hummed soothingly in Emily’s ear
Buck watched as Ellis struggled under the weight of Emily’s unconscious form. Finally, over the horizon, an approaching vehicle came into view. Buck recognized the familiar rack of lights on the police cruiser. His excitement at the unexpected sight of help on its way turned instantly to fear as Sheriff Buck Tanner at last remembered his first encounter with Ellis Arkema.
“What in holy hell is that?”
Although relatively new to the force, Deputy Bradford “Buck” Tanner, fresh from a decade of service in the U.S. Navy, felt prepared for just about anything. The sight of the ghost like figure, bathed in blood, and carrying a young girl in his arms, however; wasn’t one of them.
He reached for the radio as he brought the cruiser to a skidding halt. “Dispatch – this is Tanner. I have…a situation. Country Road 22, three miles west of town. Get the Sheriff out here – pronto!”
Deputy Tanner eased the door open and stepped from the cruiser, hand placed on the gun at his side. With the black Stetson atop his head, the young lawman’s hazel eyes were shadowed against the hot afternoon sun; Tanner looked like Wyatt Earp patrolling Tombstone. The .38 felt like a play-toy compared to the .44 he owned, but Sheriff Walters insisted on carrying the biggest gun; although he was now too fat to even carry one, a fact that Tanner was sure meant he was compensating for some other shortcoming.
“Sir,” Tanner shouted as he stood at the front of the cruiser, a mere 20 yards in front of the approaching figure, “I need to see your hands. Please, put the woman down slowly and show me your hands.”
The man was tall and slender. The girl in his arms was limp as a rag doll. Buck didn’t know if the blood that covered them both was solely hers, but knew from the sinister tilt of her head that she was most assuredly in a very bad way.
“Please,” the blood-covered figure mumbled, “help me.”
Deputy Tanner noted the man’s pale appearance and close-cropped snow white hair. Most striking, however, were the red eyes staring out from behind the exhausted and blood soaked face. Drawing his gun, Tanner repeated, “Sir, I need you to stop and show me your hands.”
The man’s shuffling feet slowly came to a halt. “Please, she’s hurt.”
His knees buckled under the weight, spilling the girl onto the road. Deputy Tanner sprang forward using a precisely placed booted foot on the man’s back to pin the stranger to the ground. “Don’t move.” Handcuffs were quickly clicked about his wrists. Tanner noted the plastic bracelet encircling the man’s bloody arm; easily ident
ifying him as a patient from the asylum. Although not common, patients sometimes wandered away from the hospital grounds.
“You have to help her,” the stranger pleaded. “Please.”
Deputy Tanner turned his attention to the girl, noting her delicate features beneath a tangle of blonde hair. She, too, was pale, but not like the man. The man was a ghost. A matching hospital bracelet encircled her thin wrist.
His quick inspection revealed that most of the blood was coming from under the woman’s dress and running down her legs. The deputy dared not examine further. Her breathing was shallow and pulse almost non-existent.
“I promise you, help is on the way,” Tanner reassured the man, releasing the pressure on his back slightly. “What happened?”
The man was sobbing now, his thin frame convulsing on the road with each gasping breath. “They took her. I tried to save her…save the baby. Help me.”
Deputy Bradford “Buck” Tanner looked up from the road to see the approaching police cruiser. Behind the car hurried an old white Studebaker. Relief swept through the young deputy as he recognized the hospital’s ambulance. Neither sounded their siren as they rolled up to the scene.
“Rest easy, help is here.” Tanner consoled the weeping man beneath his boot as he stole a glance in the direction of the young woman; the rise and fall of her chest was becoming fainter.
Sheriff Rylan Walters heaved his corpulent form from the police cruiser, slick with sweat and gasping for air. His pants were cinched about his round waist by a length of rope. With short arms that could no longer reach down to his side, the man hadn’t carried a gun for years.
Behind the rotund Sheriff, two men exited the ambulance, neither in much of a hurry. The driver was impishly small with a pencil thin mustache and greasy dark hair that he wore slicked back into a pony-tail. Pausing briefly to light a cigarette, the man exhaled a plume of gray smoke; with not a care in the world.
