The Vanishing

by Gary Winston Brown

  The third floor was a restricted area, reserved only for clinicians and doctors. Though well lit and electronically monitored, Claire was afraid to be there alone. It bothered her that despite repeated requests, a building as secure as the Mendelson Clinic had never installed a key card system to further restrict access to the floor. Anyone could simply get on the main elevator, press the third-floor button, and gain immediate access to the staff parking area. Like Claire, many of the doctors working at Mendelson were psychiatrists dealing with high-risk patients. Though no doctor had ever been attacked at the clinic, Claire certainly did not want to be the first. As she approached her car, she pressed the remote control on her key chain and disarmed the alarm. From the short distance, a chirp-chirp sounded.

  “Doctor Prescott?”

  Startled, Claire wheeled around. Walter Pennimore stepped out from behind a black Lexus parked in the space next to the elevator doors. At six feet, four inches, he was a large man with thin, slicked back salt and pepper hair, thick horn-rimmed glasses and a quiet but unsettling presence. He loomed in front of her, the bottle-thick lenses of his glasses doing little to help his myopic condition. He squinted at Claire. His abnormally pale complexion appeared jaundiced under the hard glow of the mustard-yellow ceiling lights. In his hands he held his crumpled jacket. He fidgeted with it as he walked towards her. Claire gasped, stepped back, and accidentally dropped her keys on the pavement.

  “What are you doing here, Walter?” she asked. “This area is off limits to patients.”

  “I know,” Walter replied. “I’m sorry if I startled you, Doctor Prescott. I just wanted to tell you how thankful I am. You know, for spending so much time with me and all.”

  “That’s all right, Walter,” Claire replied, trying not to let her welling fear speak for her. “I’m just doing my job as your parole officer and the state board have instructed me to do.”

  Claire looked past Pennimore to the panic alarm mounted on the wall beside the elevator entrance.

  “I know that,” Walter continued. He shuffled closer. “But you’re the only one I’ve ever really been able to talk to. All these years, the state kept sending me to different prison doctors. They’d just give me more pills and send me on my way. Or I’d sit with a bunch of other guys in some room and listen to everybody else say how much better they’re getting. Not me, though. I just kept thinking about getting out.”

  Claire kneeled, picked up her keys, then stepped cautiously to her left as she rose to create an escape route past Walter and to the security alarm.

  “That’s good, Walter,” she said. “Very good! You shouldn’t be concerned about anyone else. Their situation is always going to differ from yours. What do you want to do now that you’ve been given the opportunity to live on your own again? Are you going to take responsibility for getting your life in order? You know I can only help you so far. The rest is up to you.”

  “I know,” Pennimore replied. “That’s why I had to see you. I wasn’t entirely honest with you tonight.” He moved in front of Claire, blocked her path, then paced back and forth, agitated, wanting to speak but holding back.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the demons. They’re back.”

  “We’ve talked about this, Walter,” Claire replied. “You know that is not true. There are no such things as demons.”

  Walter slapped his hands violently against his head. Claire stepped back. She dropped her keys a second time.

  “But there are!” he screamed. Walter threw his jacket on the pavement. “They made me do those terrible things to those children.” The butt of a handgun protruded from his waistband. Jesus! How did he get that into the building? He pulled out the weapon, pointed it to his head. “You’ve helped me so much, Doctor Prescott…”

  “Oh God, Walter,” Claire cried. “No!”

  8

  WALTER FELL TO his knees and sobbed. He rammed the barrel of the weapon under his chin and placed his finger squarely on the trigger.

  “I can’t take this anymore,” he cried. Tears washed down his face. “Every night I hear them. Taunting me. Telling me to find someone new. Someone for them.”

  Behind Walter, the elevator door opened. A security guard stepped out, drew his sidearm. “Drop the weapon!” he yelled. “Do it now!”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor Prescott,” Walter continued, disregarding the command of the armed guard standing behind him. His attention remained fixed on Claire. “You’re the only one who has ever believed in me. I’ll always be thankful for that.”

  “Of course I believe in you, Walter,” Claire replied. “I’ve always believed in you. But right now, you need to do what the officer says. Put down the gun. Talk to me.”

  The guard pressed the panic button beside the elevator door. A shrill alarm wailed throughout the parking garage.

  “Are you deaf or just plain stupid?” the guard screamed. “Drop your weapon! Put your hands on top of your head!”

  “I needed to see you one last time, Doctor Prescott,” Walter cried. “There’s something you need to know.”

  “What Walter?” Claire replied. “What do I need to know?”

  Walter tried to speak, choked on his tears. “When I was in prison, I found out who you are.”

  “Who I am?”

  “Your father was a doctor too, right? I heard he was the best. He was supposed to treat me, to make me better. I got transferred to a halfway house instead. That’s when I overheard the other guys talking. I know what really happened to him. I know about the accident.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The security guard inched towards Walter. From the corner of his eye, Pennimore watched him approach, then rose to his feet, turned, and fired twice. Claire screamed as the guard reeled backward from the gunshots, slammed against the elevator, then slid to the ground and slumped helplessly against the door, weapon still in hand. Dark rivers ran from his shoulder and down the center of his chest, streaming in ever-widening pools at his sides. His eyes, sunken and vacant, stared blindly at Claire, his body motionless.

  “God, Walter. What have you done? You’ve killed him!”

  Pennimore turned back, faced Claire, then placed the gun to his head.

  “Your parents’ car crash wasn’t an accident, Doctor Prescott. It was deliberate. They were murdered. And I know who did it.”

  Claire stared in numbed silence, speechless.

  “I know it’s none of my concern, but like I said before, you’ve been good to me. Maybe the only person in this godforsaken world who ever has. And for that you should know the truth. I met a guy during my transfer. He told me what happened, about the accident, the car going over the cliff and all. Said he knew the guy who did it. That it was no accident. He told me his name. It’s…”

  The shots came from behind. Walter’s mouth widened as the first bullet struck him in the leg and dropped him to the floor. The second found its mark in the middle of his back, crumpling him to the ground. Claire screamed and looked toward the elevator door. In his outstretched hand, the security guard held his gun. She watched his arm fall to the ground, his chin drop to his chest. Drawing a last breath, he died.

  Walter Pennimore lay face down on the floor of the garage, choking on the blood as it filled his lungs. Crimson rivers trickled from the corners of his mouth.

  Claire ran to him and dropped to her knees beside the troubled man. “I’m so sorry, Walter,” she cried.

  “His name…”

  “Y-Yes, Walter. His name. Tell me his name.”

  “Kre…”

  “Kre… Kre what? I need to know. Tell me his name, Walter. Please!”

  Too late, Walter’s body relaxed. He died in her arms.

  9

  THE SECURITY GUARD’S body slipped backward into the elevator as police officers burst through the opening doors and rushed to Claire’s aid. She sat on the floor, Walter Pennimore’s dead body cradled in her arms.

  Within minutes, the parking garage
was filled with emergency personnel. Duty officers cordoned off the perimeter with ribbons of black and yellow crime scene tape which read, CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS. Police photographers snapped pictures of the parking lot from every angle. Investigators took notes as paramedics tended to Claire. The bodies of the two dead men were placed in black nylon bags, zipped closed, loaded onto stretchers, and wheeled to a waiting coroner’s van.

  “Are you hurt, Doctor Prescott?” a man’s voice asked he draped a warm blanket around her.

  Claire shook her head. “I’m fine,” she replied. She pulled the wrap tightly around her neck.

  “You sure you’re okay?” the officer asked as he helped her to her feet.

  “A little shaky, but yes, I think so.”

  “Good. My name is Maddox. If you don’t mind, I have some questions I need to ask you as soon as you feel up to answering them. You’ve been through quite an ordeal tonight. I’d rather you not leave here on your own. Is there someone you’d like me to call?”

  Claire nodded. “Kelly Patterson.”

  “Who is Kelly Patterson, Doctor Prescott?”

  “My roommate.”

  “No problem. Give me her number and sit back. We’ll locate her right away. If there is anything you need, just ask. My men will take care of it for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Maddox walked away, then paused, turned back to Claire. “I knew your father,” he said. “I worked with him on several cases over the years when I was a detective. He was a good man. I reviewed the footage from the security station in the lobby. This could have turned out a lot worse than it did. One guard saw what was happening and called it in. You kept your wits about you under exceedingly difficult circumstances, which probably saved your life. If it helps to say, I think your father would be immensely proud of how you handled yourself tonight.”

  “Thank you,” Claire said.

  The police officer withdrew a business card from his jacket pocket.

  “If you ever need my help, call.”

  “Thank you.” Claire read the name on the card. “Inspector, are you aware of how my parents died?”

  Maddox nodded. “A car crash, as I recall. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Walter Pennimore spoke to me before he died,” Claire continued. “He told me my parents’ death wasn’t an accident, that they were murdered, and he knew who was responsible. Does the name ‘Kre’ mean anything to you?”

  “Kre?”

  “Yes. Walter died before giving me the full name. If my parent’s death was not an accident as he claims, then I need to find out who is responsible… who this Kre is. Will you help me do that?”

  “Of course.”

  The paramedic returned with a wheelchair for Claire.

  “Good. Then I’ll call you tomorrow, Inspector.”

  “That will be fine,” Maddox replied. “Get some rest tonight, Doctor. And as difficult as it may be, do your best to put this out of your mind.”

  10

  CLAIRE TOSSED IN her sleep, haunted once again by the dream.

  The day of the accident. Languishing in the warm breeze of a midday summer sun, ‘Pretty Lady’ riding the crests of gently rolling ocean swells. Swimming in the inviting Pacific waters. Charting a course back down the coastline to the Paulo Brava Yacht Club. The winding drive up Zion Canyon Road to watch the Fourth of July fireworks celebration from the top of the Point. Her boyfriend, Steve, recognizing the personalized licence plate of her parents Porsche, ‘Dr. P’, as it rounded the turn toward them from the top of the canyon road. Watching in numbed terror as the Porsche suddenly veered out of control and took flight off the cliff. Disbelief giving way to unconsciously surrendered screams. Running to the broken guardrail, only to be pushed back by the concussion and heat from the fiery explosion. Smoke and fire gorging up from the burning wreckage, belching plumes of putrid melting rubber, liquefying plastic, and roasting metal high atop the side of the cliff. Police cars, fire trucks and ambulances racing up the canyon road, sirens blaring, lights flashing, screaming to a halt at the site of the splintered barrier. Officers rushing to control the scene, busily cordoning off the area, keeping curious onlookers at bay. A second fireball, raging up the side of the cliff from the inferno below. Paramedics who had rappelled over the crest of the cliff, scrambling back for their own safety. A voice bellowing through fire engine loudspeakers. The incident commander, demanding all emergency personnel let the fire burn out before attempting another rescue. The frightening reality that below her parents lay dead or dying. Screaming out in desperation as Steve holds her back. She breaks free and tries to climb down the jagged cliff face as Steve runs after her and grabs her by the collar of her blouse, fighting to pull her back up the cliff before she loses her footing and falls, but to no avail. Arms flailing, straining defiantly against his weakening grip, single-mindedly determined to save her parents, she tears free. Particles of sand and gravel give way beneath her feet. She is sliding now down the broken slope, out of control, riding a pebbled carpet of broken clay and tarmacadam, gaining speed with each passing second, her screams mute against the roar of the burning wreckage. Ahead, a slit at the edge of the cliff widens, as though she is being drawn into the mouth of a malevolent demon angrily awakened from its dormant state by the crash below. The precipice rushes towards her, opens its mouth to feed. She slides, faster still, to the edge of the cliff, scratching and clawing at the ground, rolling from side to side, trying desperately to dig in and slow her descent, until at last she slides over the edge. A malevolent, hissing creature, born of roiling smoke and flickering flame, writhes in torment and welcomes her. Through smoke and fire rise the ethereal images of her mother and father, arms wide and welcoming, and she is no longer filled with terror but with serenity, tranquility. They catch her as she falls and carry her on the air, soaring high above the burning wreckage, and place her gently on the edge of the cliff, their ghostly countenance vanishing as she looks towards the heavens. The smoke-serpent-fire thing, reborn from a thickening pool of fire and ash, rises once more and looms over her. It has transformed into a greater, darker manifestation of its former self, as though denouncing the angels and the life forces in its midst. It attacks, then engulfs her…

  Once again, as always, she awakens to the strain of the scream as it catches in her throat.

  Claire bolted upright in bed. She clutched the bedcovers with white-knuckled fists, her body shaking, bedsheets saturated with cold sweat, gasping for breath. Though five years had passed since her parent’s untimely death, the events of that evening remained as hauntingly vivid as if they had happened yesterday.

  She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment in the darkness, waiting for her thundering heartbeat to slow, then slipped into her housecoat, wrapped it tightly around her, and stared out the bedroom window. The bright glow of the moon had drawn a gossamer blanket over the sleeping inhabitants of the small town. In the distance, a silver ocean sighed and waned. She pondered the dream and its meaning. Over the years, she sought the answer to a simple question: Why? Why did her parents have to die such a horrible death, and why had she been commanded by fate to be there at that specific moment in time? Had she been drawn to bear witness to her parent’s death by forces too powerful for her to comprehend? Was there a greater, higher purpose? So many years later, the answers still eluded her.

  She returned to bed, tried to fall back to sleep, couldn’t. She picked up her phone from the nightstand and checked the time. The bright white numbers read two forty-five. She closed her eyes, drew several deep breaths, exhaled slowly, tried to calm herself.

  It’s only a dream, she told herself. Just a dream.

  Cocooned in the comforting warmth of her housecoat, she drifted off to sleep.

  The glare of the numbers hung on her retina. In her subconscious, they peered at her.

  Eyes of fire.

  Rising through a column of smoke and ash.

  11

  THE AROMA OF fresh-brewed coffee filled
Claire’s bedroom. Her first waking thought was of the previous night’s events and Walter Pennimore’s frightening revelation; that her parent’s death had not been an accident, that most likely their killer was still out there, and that now he had a name.

  Kre.

  Kelly Patterson opened her bedroom door, coffee cup in hand.

  “How are you feeling, kiddo?” she asked as she set down the steaming cup on the bedside table.

  Claire loosened the sheets and propped herself up. Kelly fluffed her pillow to make her more comfortable.

  “I’m okay. What time is it?”

  “8:25.” She sighed. “Ever thought maybe you should have picked a safer profession? Say bomb disposal expert or something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At least you can look at the timer on a bomb and see when it’s going to explode. People, on the other hand, are a whole different matter. Like this Pennimore guy.”

  Kelly handed Claire her iPad. The headline story in the Google newsfeed read MURDER AT THE MENDELSON. “I’m making breakfast,” she said. “Want some?”

  “Sure.”

  Kelly hugged her. “Good. You need to eat. It’ll be ready in fifteen.” She tapped the tablet’s screen. “Looks like you made the headlines.”

  Claire tapped the PLAY icon and watched the news coverage of the previous evening’s events at the Mendelson Clinic. The reporter who had interviewed Inspector Maddox at the scene spoke of the murder of the security guard at the hands of Walter Pennimore. Maddox praised Claire and told of her ‘heroic attempt to talk down the troubled man at substantial risk to her own personal safety.’ Police photographs inserted into the video showed the draped body of Walter Pennimore being wheeled into the coroner’s van. Pictures of Walter Pennimore, Claire, and the murdered security guard, Clarence Demmings, were also included. Claire studied Demmings picture and listened as the reporter provided background information on the brave man. Married. Two small children; a girl eight, a boy ten. He had been working evenings at Mendelson for the last three months. He and his wife were expecting their third child, and his family needed the extra income the part-time job provided. Now she was alone, soon with three small children to care for. Clarence Demmings had given his life to save hers, yet she had only known him well enough to say hello and goodbye. Claire paused the video and took a screenshot of Clarence Demmings. He was good-looking, black, in his mid-thirties, with kind eyes and a smile that belonged to a man satisfied with life. She saved the screenshot. She had missed the opportunity to know Clarence Demmings in his lifetime. Now, she wanted to be sure she never forgot him.