Journalstone's 2010 Warped Words for Twisted Minds

by Compiled by Christopher C. Payne

  Fielding is a notorious sleepwalker. He walks the cool pavement barefoot, dressed only in his state-issued hospital clothes. If he were actually conscious, he would undoubtedly be freezing. Fortunately, (or perhaps unfortunately) he is lost in the depths of a dream.

  Keylee reaches for his radio. “Deb? It’s me. I’ve got good news.”

  The speaker crackles. An excited woman’s voice asks: “Did you find him, sheriff?”

  “Copy that.”

  “Okay, great. I’ll get County Hospital on the line and tell them we found their patient.”

  “Right. I’ll let ya know when I’m en route.”

  “Should I send Ralph for back up?”

  “What for?”

  “Just thought I’d check.”

  Keylee switches off. Next, he opens the driver’s side door and steps out of the cruiser to approach his suspect.

  Fielding walks in perfect stride, missing every pothole, every pile of loose gravel, as though he were coordinating each step meticulously. This is impossible of course. After all, his eyes are closed.

  The sheriff knows from past encounters that he could speak to Mr. Fielding who occasionally would even reply despite his lack of awareness. The trick was to speak to him gently, act polite. And most of all: show no fear.

  “Evening Simon. Where you off to tonight?”

  Simon’s eyelids flutter, his head turns ever-so-slightly. The reply he gives is a soft spoken enigma. “The corner of 1st and May.”

  Keylee swallows and takes a dramatic step forward. “Well, how ‘bout I give you a lift?”

  Simon halts and Keylee stops with him.

  “A lift?”

  “That’s right Simon…” Keylee places a hand on Fielding’s left shoulder and guides him back to the patrol car. He gently places him into the backseat without cuffing him. There’s no need. The sheriff straps in his suspect then quietly shuts the rear door. He returns to the driver’s seat and puts the car in motion, making a quick U-turn so he can get back to the expressway.

  Minutes pass in silence. Keylee glances up and checks his rearview mirror. Mr. Fielding sits motionless, both hands resting in his lap.

  Keylee knows the staff at County Hospital will place him in the Disturbed ward once they arrive. “Disturbed” is a high security section on the fourth floor of a six story facility. The two floors above it are also occupied by men with mental incapacities, some of them mild, most severe. To prevent him from escaping again, the staff will undoubtedly monitor him on camera and possibly strap him to a gurney or hospital bed. Electroshocks are out of the question, but heavy sedatives are certain to be on hand. There will not be another escape.

  Keylee’s thoughts shift to Simon’s escapes in general. He suspects someone at the hospital might be assisting him with breaking out, but the real question is why?

  Suddenly, the police scanner clicks, the sound of static erupts through the speakers –ssssssssssssssssssssssssss- a voice finally transmits. It’s Debbie again.

  “Sheriff? You there? How’s it going?”

  Keylee snatches up the receiver. “Copy, Deb. I’ve got our mystery man in custody. I’m heading to the Interstate, but it’s gonna be minute ‘til I get there. He was pretty far out there this time.”

  “How far’d he make it?”

  “Hmmm, about six miles. He was right where you said he’d be.”

  “Did you ask him where he was going?”

  “Yes, ma’am”

  “And did he give you that same address? First and May?”

  “Sure did.”

  “God, that’s so strange…”

  “Yeah well, this whole thing is strange if you ask me.”

  “Well, just so you know, I ran a search and there’s no record of a First and May anywhere in the state. I double checked. I even asked a few locals. Lots of First streets they said, but no May.”

  “Well, I think it’s safe to say our boy’s from outta town.”

  “Yeah, but from where?”

  “You know as much as I do, Deb. In fact, I got a feeling you know a lot more. Speaking of which…how’d you know for me to check Shepherd’s Pass? He’s never come out this way before.”

  “Just call it a hunch, Sheriff.”

  Hearing this, Keylee smiles and shakes his head. “Bull. C’mon, Deb. What’s the story?”

  “Well, Sheriff, I can tell you, but you won’t believe me.”

  “Try me. I got a good 10 minutes to spare before I make it to the Interstate, another 30 to get to County Hospital. So I got plenty of time to debate your wild theories.”

  Laughter comes over the radio speakers. Keylee checks his rearview mirror again to monitor his man in custody through the Plexiglas divider. Mr. Fielding is still asleep, his breathing, slow and even. Debbie’s voice cuts in, but Keylee misses it.

  “What’s that, Deb? Sorry. I was checking on something.”

  “I said I had a dream about it.”

  “A dream about what?”

  “The road. Shepherd’s Pass.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Well, you know the old story about it, don’t you?”

  Keylee groans into his radio. “Oh boy, here we go. I knew this was coming. You and your old stories...”

  “What’s that’s supposed to mean?”

  Keylee sighs, still smiling as he plots his next words carefully. “I guess I’m simply saying that you’re…beyond common understanding.”

  “Well put, sheriff.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anyway…what’s your latest? Let’s hear it.”

  “Well, since you’re so eager to know, Shepherd’s Pass was where they found that doctor.”

  “Doctor? What doctor?”

  “County Hospital’s got a history of patients goin’ missing from it, Sheriff.”

  Keylee frowns. He has been on the Jessup County police force for 10 years, sheriff for five. And during that time he has never heard of anyone other than Mr. Fielding escaping from the County’s mental ward. Then again, he thought, Debbie has lived in Jessup County all her life. Her father had been a deputy for 36 years. Perhaps she knows something he doesn’t.

  “It was before our time,” Debbie explains as if sensing his confusion. “A good twenty somethin’ years ago. Back when Shepherd’s Pass was still open.”

  Keylee frowns. “What’s the Pass got to do with it?”

  Debbie continues. “A lot of folks in town who were around back then think it’s got a lot to do with it actually. They say that road is…of the devil.”

  Keylee sighs. “Deb, some folks in town say everything is of the devil. Cable TV is of the devil. McDonald’s is of the devil. Airplanes…of the devil. Hell, Ms. Clarkson accused my cat once of bein’ ‘of the devil’.”

  “I know, I know. But this is different.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “The doctor, I think his name was Grover, claimed he knew the cause for all the disappearing patients. He said he’d discovered some secret manuscript, some book. Of course no one ever saw this mysterious book and before he could produce it, the good doctor just snapped.”

  “What do mean?”

  “Well, he showed up at the hospital one night, took out a guard and then helped one of his patients escape.”

  A knot tightens in the sheriff’s stomach. So the hospital had a prior incident of someone helping patients break out.

  “Go on,” he says, his level of intrigue rapidly increasing.

  “Well, the police were called in, my father included. He said they never found the patient, but they did manage to locate the doctor. And I’m sure you can guess where…”

  “Shepherd’s Pass?”

  “Bingo.”

  Keylee ponders this information then asks: “So, where is this doctor now, do we know?”

  “He’s dead,” Debbie says flatly. “When they found him on the Pass he was in his car. Apparently he’d been in a terrible accident. The car had flipped over several ti
mes. When the medics arrived and transported him to the hospital they said the doctor was delirious. He died a few hours later, slipped into a coma in his hospital bed, then he flat-lined.”

  “Wow. That’s too bad. I would have had a lot of questions for him.”

  “You and a lot of other people, Sheriff,” Debbie remarks slyly. “The hospital was furious that they couldn’t press charges. The guard he’d taken out almost died from his concussion. Anyway…that’s the story.”

  “So no one knows what became of the missing patient, huh?”

  “No, but you can bet there were some pretty wild theories. That’s why the city council decided to close the Pass. Folks in town were scared. Thought the crazy man might still be out there. And sheriff, you’re not gonna believe this next part. The patient? They said his name was Fielding.”

  Keylee’s eyes widen in bewilderment. “What? Debbie…why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  A dead silence fills the patrol car. The radio crackles, hissing with static. Keylee attempts to switch frequencies, but the white noise continues.

  -sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-

  “Debbie? Debbie, come in?”

  -sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-

  “Sheriff? Are you there?”

  -sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-

  “I’m here Debbie. What the hell’s happening?”

  -sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-

  “Sheriff? Hello?”

  -sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-

  “Debbie, can you hear me, copy?”

  -sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-

  “Yeah, I can hear you now. Did you get him?”

  -ssssssssssssssssssssssssssss- (The hissing stops.)

  “Get who?” Keylee asks, confused.

  “The suspect. Simon Fielding.”

  What’s going on here?

  “Of course I got him, Deb. I already told you this. Who do you think we’ve been talking about for the last ten minutes?”

  “Uh, sheriff…” Debbie replies hesitantly. “You haven’t called in for over an hour.”

  Keylee’s face reddens. “Deb, what the hell are you doing? Quit playin’ games.”

  “Sheriff, I’ve been tryin’ to reach you for a whole half an hour, but all I’ve been getting is static.”

  Keylee’s pulse quickens. He gazes out the windshield, losing himself in the beam of headlights reflecting on the asphalt. The surrounding night has consumed all visibility. There is only the road ahead.

  “Debbie, what are you saying?”

  No response. The radio is crackling again. The hiss of static returns.

  -sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-

  “Debbie? You there? Can you hear me?”

  -sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-

  “Deb, this isn’t funny…”

  -sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-

  “Deb…?”

  -sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-

  The radio clicks off. Silence fills the patrol car, amplifying the hum of the engine as the sheriff looks up and stares at Simon’s reflection. His eyes are open now. He’s alert…and smiling.

  Keylee turns in his seat, releasing his grip on the steering wheel. “Mr. Fielding? Are you alright?”

  Simon remains silent as he reaches out and taps on the divider and points to the windshield, his lips mouthing two words: “Look out.”

  Keylee frowns and his eyes shift back to the road. The patrol car is swerving toward a massive ditch on the left hand side of the pass. The sheriff gasps and he frantically realigns his position on the road.

  “Mr. Fielding I need you to sit back in your seat, sir…”

  Simon does as instructed.

  Keylee calms himself by inhaling a deep breath. “Mr. Fielding? Are you okay back there?”

  Simon’s head tilts back, his eyelids fluttering faster than before. “Let me out, Sheriff…” His voice is soft, thoroughly absent of malice, yet all the same, it manifests something that causes the sheriff to shudder.

  “Mr. Fielding…what’s going on?”

  Simon’s lids peel open. “I have to stop the crash,” he says. “I have to stop it…or we’ll never get out.”

  I should pull over, Keylee thinks to himself. I should pull over and put him in restraints.

  The interstate is less than two miles distance, and this fact deflects his decision to stop. Just keep him calm. Keep him talking. Find out what’s going on.

  “Mr. Fielding? Can you hear me? I need you to explain to me what crash you’re referring to.”

  Simon bows his head. “I’m lost…”

  The sheriff shakes his head firmly. “You’re not lost, Mr. Fielding. You’re right here with me.”

  Simon reaches up to his face, emitting an agonized groan. “Oh God, I’m lost…so lost…I can’t get out…I can’t escape it…”

  Get to the hospital. Stop screwin’ around and get to hospital now!

  Keylee floors the accelerator. The speedometer races to 90mph as Simon cries out in terror, banging at the divider. “You have to get us out of here!”

  Keylee whirls around. “Sit back!”

  Simon ignores him, pounding the plate glass like a man in the midst of torture. Keylee grits his teeth and impulsively reaches for his sidearm. “Sit back in that seat right now or so help me I’ll-”

  Vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-BMPT!

  A loud crash as the hood of the patrol car collides with a thick mound of dirt. Keylee is thrown forward, his seatbelt choking him as the vehicle swerves headlong into a ditch. A spray of white rocks crack against the windshield. The sheriff grips the wheel and stomps on the brake pedal. No use. The vehicle falls directly into the ditch and flips on its side. There’s an explosion of shattering glass as metal crumples and exhaust fumes rise in thick black clouds.

  Minutes pass. The echoes of the impact fade and the dust clouds settle. The police scanner crackles as the roaming frequencies locate Debbie’s transmission:

  “Sheriff? You disappeared on me again. Is everything all right?”

  A wind picks up. The patrol car headlights dim. “Sheriff…? Sheriff…?”

  No response.

  The road is silent.

  SIMON’S EMPTINESS:

  “How are you feeling today, Simon?” Dr. Fredrick Grover asks of his patient as he enters his living quarters (room 28-C), located on the fourth floor of the mental ward inside Jessup County Hospital.

  Simon is sitting at the edge of his neatly folded bed, a suitcase at his feet.

  “I’m fine,” he replies and his appearance suggests that this is the case. For the first time in weeks he is clean-shaven and wearing civilian clothes (donated to the Hospital by members of a local Protestant church).

  Dr. Grover is pleased to see his patient looking sharp, but the sullen tone combined with his demure manner is somewhat unnerving. After this should be an exciting day for him.

  The doctor grabs a metal folding chair that’s been placed near the front door beside the chrome sink area and sets it directly across from the bed.

  Simon tilts his head at an angle, intrigued by the folder Dr. Grover is carrying under his left arm. A thin label is printed in the corner: FIELDING, SIMON.

  Under the name is a personal identification code used for filing purposes. Simon studies the numerical sequence then drops his gaze to the polished marble floor

  The doctor senses his discomfort and briefly eyes the suitcase.

  “All set to go I see…” He opens his folder and sifts through several pages of handwritten notes, most of which are simple observations made during weekly sessions with his favorite patient. There are other notes left by substituting psychologists who filled in while he was on vacation or sick leave, but these are rarely considered
by the hospital staff who meet twice a month to examine their patients’ progress and discuss further methods of treatment.

  Dr. Grover is mainly concerning himself with the last six pages near the back section of the folder that are stapled to a Xeroxed copy of Mr. Fielding’s discharge papers. These pages consist of notes from last week’s session.

  “You’re quiet today, Simon,” the doctor remarks, glancing up from his papers. “Are you sure everything is fine?”

  Simon raises his head slowly, his expression shifting to one of dreariness. “I’m ready to leave this place.”

  The doctor nods his sympathies. “I’m sure you are.”

  A brief silence follows.

  Simon’s gaze returns to the floor. “I want to thank you for putting in your recommendation.”

  Dr. Grover leans back in his chair. “Well Simon, I have great confidence in you, as do many of the others on staff.”

  Simon’s timid smile vanishes. He eyes the doctor suspiciously. “Your hands are shaking, Dr. Grover. Is something the matter?”

  The doctor laughs, but there’s an underlying nervousness that seems, on the surface, unwarranted. “I am a bit shaky, aren’t I? I suppose I had a little too much caffeine this morning…”

  Simon’s glare darkens. “Did you?”

  Dr. Grover clears his throat, ready for a change of subject. “Let’s stay on track here, shall we? We have very little time this morning. I’m supposed to take you to the transitional housing center by noon and I want to finish our discussion from last week.”

  Simon frowns. “You’re the one taking me to the halfway house?”

  “Does that bother you?”

  Simon shakes his head. “No. It’s just…well you’re a psychiatrist. Seems strange they would expect you to take the time.”

  “I volunteered,” Grover says, a bit too quickly.

  Simon turns to face the curtains over the sealed window above his bed. “I see…”

  Grover retrieves a retractable pen from his sport coat and clicks the tip open. “Let’s get on with the session shall we?”

  Simon looks back from the curtains, unable to ignore the doctor’s rising impatience. “I had the dream again last night,” he says and the doctor immediate poses interest.