Dark Omen: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel

by Erickson, J. R.

  “How about the boyfriend? Western? She seemed quite taken with him.”

  Bette sighed and tugged on the phone cord. “Weston Meeks. I don’t have his number.”

  “Don’t have his number? Well, look him up in the phone book, Bette. He probably knows right where she’s at.”

  “I tried to look him up in the phone book. His number wasn’t listed. I called the university where he works and again, no number on record. I know he teaches Poetry 101 on Monday at nine a.m., but that’s days away.”

  “Monday morning?” Her father thought out loud. “I’d best drive up. Right? I mean if she’s been in an accident … Yes, okay, I’m on my way.”

  Bette didn’t bother arguing with her father. He’d made his mind up the moment she said Crystal was missing. His doggedness made him a good archeologist. He didn’t let things go, and she needed a partner. She couldn’t go it alone on this one.

  “Dad, I already went to the police.”

  Silence on the line.

  “Okay. That was the right thing to do. I’m leaving now.”

  6

  Now

  Bette walked down the driveway and looked in the mailbox, though she’d already retrieved the mail that day. It had been a stupid thought. Maybe Crystal had tucked a note in the mailbox, in such a hurry she hadn’t even bothered to walk it up to the house, but no. It stood empty. A little black cavern of nothing.

  She walked back to the house and then returned to the road. On her next lap, she slipped into the side yard where a shed, formerly the sisters’ childhood playhouse, held the push lawn mower, rakes, a snow shovel and the necessities of a life. Bette had arranged the tools by the season. A section for winter items, including the bags of salt and the shovel, another section for the summer with pouches of flower seeds and her mother’s big red watering can.

  Their father had left it all when he moved out, opting for a condo near the Archeology Association he’d joined after his work as a professor ended. He left everything except a photo album, his clothes and a handful of knickknacks he’d purchased with his wife over the years.

  He’d left many of his archeology books. He wanted Bette to have them. She’d followed him into the field, though her chosen focus was anthropology, the remnants of civilizations rather than their bones. He said they’d offer inspiration and reminders to keep going; you never knew what lay beneath another foot from the surface, keep digging.

  It took her father an hour to make the drive to his former home. When he arrived, the hair on the left side of his head stuck out in tufts as if he’d been massaging and pulling at it on the drive, which he had, Bette knew. It was one of his nervous ticks, one she’d inherited.

  “Hi Dad,” Bette said, hugging him and walking back to the house with Homer practically stepping on her heels.

  “Martin Henderson works at the university. I’ll call him and see if I can’t track down this Western person.”

  “Weston,” Bette corrected.

  “Sure, yes, Weston.”

  Her dad grabbed the phone in the kitchen and sat down at the table with a pen and a notepad.

  Bette tried not to hover over him as he dialed the number, but she couldn’t help it. Her lunch plates were still in the sink. She washed them, glancing back repeatedly and trying to make sense of the one-sided conversation as her father spoke into the phone.

  Homer hung up. “He didn’t have Weston’s number, but he gave me the number for Jared Knudson. Apparently, they’re chums.” He dialed again. “Hi, may I speak to Jared Knudson please?”

  His pen was poised and ready, but he looked momentarily crestfallen.

  “Out of town for the entire week? Where? Mississippi. Hmm… Could I get his number there? It is a matter of some importance. Yes, okay. I understand.”

  Homer hung up again and chewed the end of the pencil.

  “He’s visiting his ailing mother in Mississippi. His wife refused to give me his number, but said she’d ask him to call us back.” He tapped the pencil against the wire binding on the notebook. “Someone has to know this guy.”

  He stared at the paper beneath him. He’d written almost nothing on it and then his eyes brightened and he slapped his forehead.

  “Crystal!” he exclaimed. “Crystal knows him. His number is somewhere in her apartment. Come on.” He stood and strode out the door.

  Bette followed him. She’d looked for Weston’s number earlier, but not thoroughly. At that point, she’d still assumed it was all a big mistake. Crystal had forgotten, or some unseeable thing had come up, preventing her from arriving.

  It was still reasonable that she’d appear at any moment, filled with apologies. But that time had dwindled. They’d moved into dangerous territory — into that foreboding stretch that signaled something was wrong. If it had been anything within Crystal’s control, Bette would have heard from her by now.

  Bette’s father drove, tapping on the steering wheel and pulling at his hair when they stopped at red lights.

  “Have they added two minutes on to every red light in town? This is ridiculous.“ He thumped his hand on the wheel and the car shot forward the moment the light turned green.

  Bette wound her fingers together and unwound them. She pulled at a string coming loose from her jeans. She looked out the windows, searching the people in restaurants, the faces of women walking to their cars, but none of them was Crystal.

  When they opened the door to Crystal’s apartment, her dad held out his arm.

  “Disturb as little as possible,” he told her, moving into the apartment light on his feet.

  Bette surveyed the room.

  The front door opened into a large combined kitchen and living room. Beyond that, a short hallway led to a single bedroom and a bathroom at the end. Colorful Indian tapestries hung from the yellow walls.

  Crystal didn’t have a kitchen table, but used a small island for eating. It was scattered with text books. Every chair had clothes slung over the back. Every surface contained books and journals.

  Stained-glass hummingbirds, angels and flowers hung in her picture window. A pair of purple fuzzy slippers in the shape of Bigfoot’s feet rested near her couch.

  Homer walked to the hanging wicker chair near the picture window looking into the courtyard behind the apartments. A stack of magazines stood on a table, a book of poetry balanced on top. He picked up a pen and gently opened the cover of the book, allowing it to drop when he saw nothing of interest.

  Bette headed straight to Crystal’s room.

  She eyed books and papers on the dresser. Clothes lay strewn across a chest and filled a hamper behind the door.

  Beside Crystal’s bed stood a nightstand holding a telephone, a notebook, and a paperback copy of The Handmaid’s Tale.

  Bette picked up the notebook and thumbed through the pages.

  She read mostly scattered thoughts, things Crystal probably recorded when she woke in the night struck by inspiration for a poem. The series of numbers Crystal had been obsessed with most of her life was marked throughout the pages: 6251991.

  In the other room, she heard her father click play on the message machine.

  “Crystal, it’s Wes. I’m sorry, okay? Please just call me.”

  “Hi Crystal, it’s Nina Henderson from Hospice House. I wanted to let you know George Potter’s son brought you a thank you gift. He might be sweet on you. No need to stop in and grab it. I’ll put it in your cubby.”

  Two more messages from Wes, each sounding more urgent than the last.

  “They had a fight,” Homer said. “And she might have called you back if you’d left your unholy number!” He blurted, glaring at the machine.

  Bette’s father rarely swore, but when he did, his word of choice was unholy.

  “I checked her address book. I don’t think Weston’s number is in this apartment,” Bette sighed, tugging at her long hair.

  “It’s got to be. It’s somewhere…” Homer’s eyes scanned the room slowly, coming to rest on the corner
drawer in Crystal’s kitchen.

  The infamous junk drawer, that dark burrow collecting the oddities people couldn’t seem to throw away.

  Homer went to the drawer and slid it open. It stuck. He tugged it and then carefully reached a hand inside, pushing the contents around until he managed to open it all the way. He laid a clean dishtowel on the countertop and started removing items, one by one.

  Unable to stand and watch without helping, Bette joined him.

  Her dad extracted six pens in various colors, and two pencils, one with the eraser broken off. He took out a necklace tangled into a pile of cheap silver with a small butterfly pendant. He removed three batteries in various sizes. The first bit of scrap paper contained a scrawled recipe for coconut lime banana bread.

  He found a broken Christmas ornament of a puppy wearing a Santa hat; its foot was missing. Peppermint candies, loose change, a wadded-up dollar bill, three playing cards and a brochure for bungee jumping all came out of the drawer.

  He pulled out a scrunched napkin from Luna’s Cafe. When he gently unfolded the edges, Bette saw the phone number emerge beneath the name “Professor Meeks” and next to that, with a smiley face, “Wes.”

  “That’s it,” she shouted, ripping the napkin out of his hand and running to the phone.

  Her father said nothing, but smiled grimly and began to put the items back in the drawer.

  Bette snatched up the receiver and punched in the phone number.

  After three rings, the answering machine picked up.

  “Hi, you’ve reached the phone of Weston Meeks. I’m currently unavailable. Please leave your name and phone number and I’ll call you at my earliest convenience.”

  “Weston, this is Bette Childs, Crystal’s sister. Crystal is missing. I need you to call me as soon as possible at 517-676-4037.”

  She hung up.

  “Let’s go back to your house and send Mr. Meeks an email at the University,” her dad said.

  * * *

  Weston Meeks didn’t call back until the following evening.

  “Bette, this is Wes calling. I just got back into town and listened to your message. Have you found her?” he sounded agitated, scared even.

  “She’s not with you?” Bette demanded, planting a hand on the wall as a dizzying sense of falling coursed through her. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “On Wednesday,” Weston admitted. “I haven’t seen her since then. I had to go back to Traverse City to teach on Thursday and then I got sick.”

  Homer stopped next to Bette and held out his hand.

  She gave him the phone.

  “Weston Meeks?” Homer asked in his usual dry tone. “This is Crystal’s father, Homer. Bette and I would like to speak to you in person. Can you meet us in one hour?”

  No answer. Finally, the voice returned.

  “Sure, yeah.”

  “We’ll meet you at Captain Mike’s in Old Town. In one hour, which is,” Homer lifted his wrist and gazed at his watch, “six-seventeen.”

  He hung up the phone and looked at Bette, his forehead wrinkled with worry.

  7

  Then

  Crystal parked her VW bug and climbed out.

  Thick gray clouds muted the light of the day. A thin drizzle fell, and she tilted her face up, allowing the rain to wet her cheeks. It had been an unseasonably warm few days in Michigan, and much of the snow, piling in drifts since January, had melted. As March came to a close, she imagined the spring. The return of green, of flowers and sunny skies.

  The Crow Thieves were doing an unplugged show at a coffee-shop pub combined that served the best Aztec hot chocolate, something she had first discovered in California and been delighted to find in Michigan.

  As she hurried down the alley and into the parking lot behind the pub, she spotted a familiar figure jogging from the other direction.

  Weston Meeks.

  He didn’t notice her.

  She slowed, watching him.

  He wore ripped jeans and an itchy-looking wool sweater. He’d tied his shoulder-length hair back. His beard and mustache looked recently trimmed.

  Weston stopped at the door and pulled the handle. It didn’t open. He leaned in, reading a white sign plastered to the glass.

  Crystal started walking again.

  He looked up, surprised as she approached.

  “Hi.” He grinned.

  “Hi,” she laughed. “Small world.”

  “Are you here to see the Crow Thieves?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but they canceled the show because of a power outage in the building.” He tapped on the door where the taped sign hung.

  “Bummer,” she admitted as a crack of thunder split the sky and stole her comment.

  As if summoned by the thunder, the drizzle turned into a downpour.

  “Whoa,” Weston yelled, but she barely heard him as rain pelted the street and buildings around them.

  In seconds they were both soaked.

  Crystal regretted the too-thin jacket she’d chosen based on the warmer temperatures as the cold rain saturated it and the shirt beneath.

  Weston cupped a hand over his eyes.

  “I walked from campus,” he yelled.

  “I’m parked over there,” she shouted back. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  They ran through the rain thundering onto the pavement. It hit the hard surface and splashed up, soaking their shoes and pant legs.

  When they reached Crystal’s car, she grabbed the door handle and yanked. The door didn’t open.

  “Oh shit,” she whispered, leaning close and spotting her keys still dangling from the ignition.

  Weston had wrenched up his sweater to create a small and ineffective cover for his head.

  He recognized the look on her face and laughed.

  “Locked out?” he yelled.

  She nodded.

  “My office is two blocks that way.” He pointed towards the Michigan State University campus. “Let’s make a run for it.”

  He offered his hand, and she grabbed it, not thinking about the stares if anyone spotted a professor and student running hand in hand through the wet grounds. Who would see them anyway? The street was empty; the campus deserted at five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon.

  As they ran, Crystal’s hands slid inside Weston’s. It was a raw, exhilarating sensation. The wetness threatened to separate them, but she held on, refusing to let her fingers slip from his.

  He ran up the cement steps to the huge brick building that served as the offices for most of the English staff at MSU.

  They pushed through the door, and as it closed behind them, the roar of the storm died.

  Inside, the long, high-ceilinged corridor was dim and quiet. Only a single lamp illuminated the hall.

  “I’m on the second floor,” Wes explained, heading toward a wide staircase with a bit of threadbare carpet running down the center.

  They still held hands, and the electric buzzing between their palms seemed to intensify in the hushed space of the building’s interior.

  She swallowed the lump of nervous excitement lodged in her throat.

  When they reached a door in the second-floor hallway, he pulled his hand from hers, reaching into his pocket for a keyring.

  She held her hand in the air for a moment longer, the space where his had been empty and cold.

  “Come on in,” he told her, pushing into the office, and laughed. “Welcome to my cave.”

  The space was small, made smaller by the bookshelves on either wall crammed with books and binders. A desk sat in the back of the little office, a brown leather chair behind it. Much of the desk’s surface was consumed by a large desktop computer. A leather couch faced the desk. Behind the chair, a window looked over the sodden campus.

  “I’ve got a space heater,” he told her, reaching behind his desk and pulling out a small black box.

  He plugged it in and set it on top of his desk, directing
the blasts of warm air towards Crystal.

  “Mmm, that’s perfect. Thank you,” she said, shivering.

  She hadn’t noticed the cold until he took his hand from hers. Now her teeth chattered, and her wet clothes felt like ice blankets draped over her goose-pimpled flesh.

  He wheeled his chair from behind his desk, placing it near the corner of the couch.

  “I think I have…” he mumbled, digging around in a duffel bag in the room’s corner, “…extra shirts!” He held up two MSU Spartans sweatshirts. “They give these to the staff as Christmas gifts every year. I don’t even take them home anymore. I just drop them at the thrift store or give them to students.”

  “Thank you,” she told him, pulling her coat away from her skin and fanning it in front of the heater.

  “There’s a bathroom down the hall,” he told her, watching as she peeled off her soaked jacket. “Or I can just turn around.”

  She saw the blush rising up his neck. Her own blood coursed hot and close to the surface of her skin.

  “I don’t mind,” she told him.

  Before he could protest, she pulled her blouse over her head.

  She wore her white satin bra. Not a pretty bra, but a well-worn and somewhat tattered undergarment with frayed elastic and a clasp broken on the back. She didn’t care.

  He blinked and looked away, shifting his eyes toward the floor.

  Shivering, she stepped toward him. She took his prickly sweater in her hands and pulled it up.

  As it rose toward his face, he looked at her, their eyes meeting before she drew the sweater over his head.

  A swath of dark curls covered his chest.

  His eyes found her again, and for several seconds they stood staring at each other, their desire expanding until it filled the room.

  Weston broke the stillness. He put a hand on the small of her back and pulled her against him, crushing his mouth into hers.

  They kissed until her mouth was raw and sore. His hands roamed over her face, her hair, and her back. His mouth moved from her lips to her nose and jaw, and finally to her neck.