“Just a few minutes before your father and I were getting ready to leave, you came out of the woods, crying. You didn’t have your doll; you obviously lost it in the woods. And you cried…you cried all the way home, and didn’t stop till you fell asleep in your bed.
“Oh, dear, the show is starting again! I need to get back, if that’s all you called about.”
“That was all, Mom.”
“Call me tomorrow, sweetheart. …Love you.”
There is a click when her mother hangs up. Helen continues to stare at the doll. Bits and pieces of that day long ago at Sandy Beach come into her mind, but the images appear blurred and not in any particular order.
“I did lose you that day, didn’t I?” she says to the doll in her hands, “But that wasn’t why I was crying. I was crying because…because…”
She can’t answer the question. She knows the answer is somewhere in her mind, but something stops her from recollecting it. She knows something happened to her that day, something horrible, something that made her cry for hours on end – and it wasn’t the loss of her doll. There is a dark veil between her and the hideous truth, locked away somewhere in her mind. She needs the key to get to it, to the truth. But where will she find the key – if it even exists anymore – if it ever existed.
Then, it dawns on her in a flash. She knows where to find the key. She takes her purse and makes sure the gun is there. She knows where she can find the key to the memory of that day – at Sandy Beach.
***
Helen feels both fearful and foolish as she drives along dark country roads toward Hourglass Lake, but she knows it is something she must do.
In the dark of night, she is unable to see any familiar landmarks that might trigger any old memories. A signpost up ahead reads, “Sandy Beach, 8 miles.” She will be there soon.
Thankfully, the chain-link fence surrounding the property is unlocked. The overhead sign at the opening spells out “Sandy Beach” – all the letters made of old horseshoes on an old, gray, wooden sign.
She continues down a long dirt road. To her left, she sees the lake through the trees. The moonlight flickers on the water.
At the end of the dirt road, it opens to a large empty parking lot. She shuts off the engine and turns on the overhead light. Taking the gun from her handbag, she slips it into her coat pocket. Under her seat is a flashlight; she takes it and turns it on.
When she slams the car door shut, the thump sounds off the lake and echoes back. The moon isn’t full, but it is bright. And the sky is clear, making it easy to see. The flashlight proves useful for finding good footing as she walks.
Looking around the empty lot, she senses old memories stirring within her. Walking onward, toward the lake, the sand is white and reflects the moonlight – giving a glowing halo appearance to everything. There is a trail of whitewashed wooden planks, now cracked and broken – walking on the sand is easier and safer.
Standing in the picnic area near the shoreline, the memories flood back to her like old ghosts that have haunted the beach for years. She can almost hear people talking and laughing, having a fun day at the lake.
She remembers the vision of her father standing over a hot coal grill, cooking hot dogs and hamburgers while her mother and Aunt Eleanor prepare salads. It is all coming back to her, but it is all in pieces. Sights and sounds are but a blur, especially faces of people.
She suddenly begins to feel vulnerable, as if she is a little girl again – a little girl of nine years.
She remembers the two brothers, her cousins Victor and Nicholas, how they taunted and teased her.
The image of her Uncle Jerry is coming back, too. He sits on the edge of the picnic bench, talking to her father while he cooks. At his feet, there is an ice chest full of beer. He continuously drinks a bottle and drinks another, then another, till the chest is empty.
She pictures his shape, but no matter how hard she concentrates, his face is a blur in her mind.
Again, she begins to feel vulnerable and frightened. A strong impulse to leave the picnic area comes over her – to get away from her two bullying cousins – and from her drunken uncle.
She heads for the shoreline. She recalls what it’s like to be nine years old, smaller than most people around her.
She remembers walking along the beach, holding her doll, International Nancy. She constantly pulls the string in her back over and over – the doll says phrases in different languages from all over the world.
Helen looks out on the lake. There are two roped off areas – the kiddy section, and the adult swimming area. Far off in the center of the lake is a large, wooden swimming platform painted white. She has always dreamed of someday learning how to swim and being able to go out to the platform. But it never comes true; she never learned to swim.
Further down, along the shoreline, is a diving board. There is something about it that calls to her. She approaches it. There she sees a walking trail just behind it – going into the woods.
“That’s where I went. …I remember now…I went into the woods,” Helen says to herself. “I was carrying my doll…pulling its string. …I went into the woods. I felt scared, but I kept on walking.”
Helen starts down the trail, flashing the light on the ground before her feet. Far into the woods, the trail ends and then opens to a large clearing surrounded by thick bushes and high trees. The moonlight cannot penetrate – darkness is all around.
A sense of terror comes over her. “It happened here,” she whispers. “But what happened here? In this clearing, a million years ago, when I was only nine…what happened?”
She strains to remember. But whatever it is, it is so terrible her mind won’t let her touch it.
Helen hears the snap of a twig from behind her. She spins around and shines the flashlight down the trail she has just come. Her hands are trembling, her breathing is loud and labored, and her heart is pounding so hard she hears every beat throbbing in her ears. The sound of another twig cracking echoes round her.
“Who’s there?” cries Helen, shining the light down the path. “Is there anybody there?” Her voice echoes back from the dark, “Is there anybody there?”
“Just the devil,” a voice says behind her. She spins around in horror, and the flashlight flies out of her hand. There, standing just a few feet in front of her is the silhouette of her attacker.
“Welcome, my dear Helen. You finally came back…back where it all began. We’ve missed you…me and the boys. …They send their regards.”
He isn’t speaking in his usual foreign accent jibber-jabber. He comes in closer; she clearly sees the black ski mask.
“We used to have so much fun together…you, me, and the boys…you remember? You were so tiny then…so innocent and tender. I’m sorry the others couldn’t make it, but that’s no reason we can’t…”
“You’re not who I think you are! You’re dead!” Helen shrieks.
“Dead…I can never die! I’ll always be alive…in your mind…forever.”
Helen searches in her coat pocket; she pulls out the gun and points it at him.
“What’s this? A toy…how exciting!” He laughs. It sends a cold shiver all through her. “Well, here’s a toy for you,” he says, grabbing hold of his crotch. “Do you remember how we taught you?”
He steps toward her, and she pulls the trigger. The first shot sends him back three or four feet, the sound echoing across the lake and back. He is still standing. Her next shot pushes him back another foot. The echo returns. She shoots two more times in succession. This sends him to the ground. After the echoes stop, he is motionless. His body lies there, twisted, his legs tucked far back under him. All is quiet again.
Helen slowly walks over, never once taking her aim off him. She examines him closely. He isn’t breathing. Slowly, she bends down and reaches for the ski mask. She has to know who he is – she has to.
She hesitates for a moment, and then grabs the mask at his neckline. She is just about to pull it over his head
when his hand comes up and seizes her wrist. She screams. He begins to laugh. His grip is strong. She can’t pull herself free. The louder she screams, the more he laughs. Finally, she remembers the gun; she places it down on his chest and blasts the last two shots into him. His hand releases her and falls to the ground. He is motionless again – she hopes, at last, dead.
Helen is frantic. She drops the gun and runs back down the trail toward the lake. She runs as fast as she can, tearing her clothes and skin against trees and bushes.
She makes it back to the diving board. She runs along the shoreline, past the picnic area, and back to the parking lot. Back in her car, she locks the doors, reaches into her handbag for her mobile phone, and dials the police.
***
“He’s dead. …I shot him six times. …He’s got to be dead. …There’s nothing to fear anymore,” Helen tells herself as she sits trembling in her car, waiting for the police.
A half hour passes – it feels like an eternity. Then in the rearview mirror, she sees bright headlights coming down the dirt road to the parking lot. It is two black and whites, and two unmarked cars. They come screeching to a halt alongside her. She feels relieved, especially to see one of the cars contains Goebel and Benson.
The two detectives walk over to Helen’s car as the others gather equipment. Helen jumps out of her car, runs to them, and starts to relay her story, but she is nervous and out of breath – she is rambling.
“Hold on, Mrs. Haywood,” Goebel says. “Try to relax. …Now, take a deep breath.” She does. “Now, calm down. Just let me ask questions. First…are you all right?”
Helen nods.
“Good. …Now…on the phone you said you shot and killed your assailant. …Are you sure it’s him?”
“It’s him, all right…ski mask and everything.”
“Well, Mrs. Haywood, could you take us to the body, please?”
They follow at her side, asking questions as they walk. She tells them about receiving the doll, how it triggered memories leading her back to Hourglass Lake – back to Sandy Beach.
Other police officers are carrying equipment and excessively large flashlights, which nearly light up the entire beach.
They walk passed the picnic area, along the shoreline, and up to the diving board. She stops, turns, and points down the dark path into the woods.
“Down that way,” she says. “There’s a clearing. …The body’s there.”
Benson guides Helen to walk behind him. The path is easier to walk with all the lights on, but this causes hundreds of shadows that move as they do. Once again, she is beginning to feel frightened and vulnerable.
The body is motionless, lying at the far end of the clearing –legs awkwardly tucked-back under the torso, just the way she left it nearly an hour ago. With all the lights, now it is easy to make out more details.
“So how many times did you shot him?” Benson asks.
“All six…” Helen replies.
“And where is the gun now?”
“I shot him four times. …He went down. I bent over him to take off the mask. He was still alive! So I shot him again. I got scared…dropped the gun and ran.”
“Give me your flashlight,” Goebel says to one of the officers. “Wait here, Mrs. Haywood.” He looks to his partner, “Well, let’s see who he is.”
Goebel and Benson walk over and bend down over the body. Goebel holds the flashlight as Benson eases the ski mask over the face and off the head.
“Who is it?” Helen cries. She can’t see around the two detectives. “For God’s sake…tell me who it is!”
Goebel and Benson do not respond. They remain hunched over the body, whispering to each other.
“Why won’t you tell me?” Helen screams, walking forward to get a better look.
Goebel jumps to his feet and gently guides Helen back.
“It’s not him.” says Goebel.
“Not him? What do you mean…not him! I shot him six times. …He fell. …He died. …There’s the body!”
“It’s not him.” repeats Goebel, “It’s Carol…Carol Hastings.”
Helen collapses in his arms. Goebel has two of the officers take her back to the cars.
She sits in the back of the squad car. Goebel and Benson return and get in the front seat.
“Mrs. Haywood, I think it would be best if we took you home. Don’t worry; we’ll make sure your car gets back to you safe.
“About the gun…you said you dropped it near the body.”
Helen just nods.
“Well, we can’t find it anywhere. This gun…it wouldn’t be the same gun your husband withheld from you?”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
“We have our ways,” Goebel says. He motions for his partner to step out of the car with him.
“Well, if you ask me, I’d say someone loaded the gun with blanks…and the last person with it was her husband. I think we have enough on him now. Put out a call for the arrest of Mr. Richard Haywood.”
***
Angela is no stranger to late night emergency calls, so she doesn’t question why her phone is ringing.
“Yes?”
“Angela, this is Helen Haywood.”
“Helen! Are you all right?”
There is a pause before she speaks.
“Angela, remember when you said if it got…too crazy…I could stay at your place? Well, I’m afraid it’s gotten that bad.”
“Of course, you can stay here. Why…what happened?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when I get there.”
The patrol car drives Helen home. Officers wait as she packs an overnight bag, and then they drive her to Angela’s.
Angela lives in the Madison District of town – large, older homes with finely manicured lawns, mostly colonial-style houses that have been in the same families for generations.
The officers escort Helen to the front door where Angela is waiting.
As soon as she locks the front door, Helen nearly collapses. Angela guides her to the living room sofa and pours them both a tall brandy.
“Here, this is one prescription I insist you take,” Angela says.
Helen takes a few sips, sighs heavily, and begins to relax. Angela pulls up a chair beside her.
“So, tell me,” Angela says.
Helen tells her story, sipping now and then at her brandy – about the doll, the lake, the shooting, finding Carol’s body.
“And now they tell me they’ve put out a warrant for Richard. They say there’s evidence pointing to him. How could that be? He’s my husband! I don’t understand.”
Angela pours another small amount of brandy into Helen’s glass.
“What you need to do is get a good night’s sleep and not think about it till the morning.”
“That’s just it, I can’t stop thinking about any of it. Sometimes, I think I’ll go mad. The images racing through my mind as I walked along that shoreline of the lake. …I couldn’t grasp one thought long enough for any of it to make any sense. And in the clearing…I had the strangest feelings.
“He said certain things to me that don’t make sense – ‘I’ve missed you.’ …‘The boys missed you.’ …‘The way we taught you.’ What does it all mean? It’s torture not knowing.
“Something happened to me in that clearing that day when I was nine. If I could only remember…maybe then I’d know what to do.”
Helen takes a long drink, sighs, and calmly looks at Angela.
“Those diplomas on the wall of your office,” Helen says, “I remember one of them was for hypnosis. Couldn’t you hypnotize me to remember?”
Angela sips her drink as she speaks, “Yes, I suppose, it’s possible. But I’m not sure if it would be a good idea. You see, the beauty of the mind is its ability to forget…forget things we can’t live with…and in your case, it thoroughly buried it…perhaps, for your own safety. If we dig this thing up again, it might be something you can’t handle.”
“I can’t handle
this,” Helen says. “If I don’t find out what happened, I think I’ll go insane!”
Angela puts down her drink.
“Very well…we’ll try it…but not tonight. You need sleep. When you’re rested and strong would be a better time.”
Angela walks off to prepare a bedroom for Helen. When she returns, she finds Helen fast asleep. She covers her with a blanket and turns out the light.
***
“Knock, knock,” Dodson says, entering Goebel and Benson’s office. He doesn’t wait for an invitation before he pours himself a coffee and sits down. A folder is tucked under his arm.
“So you two geniuses have solved the Haywood case?”
“We picked the husband up last night. We’ve got him locked up now.”
“What makes you think it’s the husband?” Dodson asks.
“It all adds up,” Goebel says. “The guy’s having an affair with some woman from work. …He decides he’s in love and wants to bump off his wife. So he comes up with this plan – a bizarre plan, I must admit – but he thinks it will work.
“We checked him out. He hasn’t any alibis for any of the times his wife was assaulted or contacted. He hasn’t an alibi for the night someone milked and shot Donald Johnson. Bartender at the gay bar even said he looked familiar. The night of Carol Hastings’ kidnapping, he was nowhere to be found. The night of his wife being attack at Sandy Beach, he couldn’t account for himself. She tried to shoot her attacker, but the gun didn’t do a thing to him because it was full of blanks – the same gun he’s had in his possession for nearly two weeks. …Plenty of time to switch the bullets for blanks. I tell you, Richard Haywood is our man.”
Dodson puts down his coffee, puts his hands together and applauds.
“Bravo! Bravo! That’s one hell of a story. …Only, it’s a fairytale.”
“What do you mean?” Benson asks.
“Your case has more holes in it than a piece of Swiss cheese. It’s all circumstantial evidence.
“Take for instance the night of Mrs. Haywood’s attack. So he’s bopping another broad …So what? You’ve got no witness, no fingerprints or original ski mask.
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