This must be a punishment for crashing all those funerals and wakes! I am getting a firsthand look at being stuck in a hole due to all my rubbernecking at death gatherings. The wet cement has now nearly reached my waist. The heaviness of the matter is like trying to move through a swimming pool full of pudding that’s beginning to thicken. The Xanax has completely lost its effectiveness now that I’m saturated in this gooey mush.
I need to get out of here. Please don’t let this happen! I need to get out now!
Agnew is gradually climbing the ladder, but he somehow loses the grip of the gun. It strikes a couple of rungs on the way down and splashes in front of me. Luckily, the semisolid state of the watery cement kept the weapon from sinking.
I grab the pistol.
If I shoot the asshole in the back of the head, this nightmare may all be over. In my best “Dirty Harry” stance, I point the gun upwards and squeeze the trigger. Click! Nothing! I pull the trigger again, and it doesn’t do shit. Either it is out of bullets, or the syrupy cement has seeped inside the barrel.
This can’t be happening. I need this fucking gun to fire! Let me put the sick bastard out of his misery!
I frantically remove the waterproof flashlight from my pocket and look to see that the safety isn’t in the ‘on’ position. I then check for any obstructions in the barrel. Staring back at me is the rare double-faced penny jammed inside the barrel; a section of the chain hangs out to taunt me. The penny seems to be fused inside as if it was melted down with a soldering gun. I’ll give the bitch points for originality. In my panic-stricken state, I yank so hard that the gold chain slices into my fingers. I may not be able to release the necklace with my hands, but a bullet firing from the barrel may dislodge the damn penny.
The viscid cement has reached the straps of my bra, and it’s rising fast. My mind is completely coming unhinged. I push through the wet cement and grab the lowest metal rung. My hand just slips off like the damn thing is smeared in butter. My shirt is no longer dry enough to wipe off the bar. I was worried about everyone’s neck except for my own. Otherwise, I would never have climbed inside this fucking hole. Nothing ever goes right for me—why did I think fixing this situation would be any different? The cement keeps falling from above. Fuck! I probably only have two minutes to figure something out before I begin gagging on runny cement.
I glance at the gun and realize there is only one choice left—and I can’t handle being down to such a choice. Reluctantly, I place the nasty barrel inside my mouth—necklace and all. I massage the trigger and squeeze with all my might. Click! Click! Click!
FUCK!!!!! I can’t even blow out the back of my own skull to end this nightmare!
Agnew slips from about 20 feet up and lands right in front of me; naturally, his falling body completely missed mine. What are the fucking odds that he couldn’t kill me on impact?
From the height he fell, he doesn’t seem able to stand up. Even injured, he grabs my leg and pulls hard. The little fucker is trying to take me down with him to have one last kill before blacking out. All I can see is his face gasping for whatever untainted air it can suck inside his churlish lungs. His hand is still tightly clinging to my leg. I shove the barrel inside his mouth. This has to fucking work!
Click! Click! Nothing!
“For fuck’s sake, just fire!”
Someone, anyone, please get me the hell out of here! I swear I’ll quit fucking around with my life! I’ll respect bereavement! Don’t make me go out this way . . . I can’t handle being trapped like this!
I scream, “Damn it, Abbey, this isn’t what you promised!”
Chapter 27
Derek
Driving into Wilkinson Creek always makes my stomach churn. Having spent the majority of my childhood in this characterless town, very few fond memories relate to most places around here. I wasn’t one of those local kids that loved fishing for hours at the creek. To this day, I can’t comprehend staring at a bobber until a bluegill drags it under. I had an aversion to most outdoor sports, so adolescence was a bit lonely at times. I had plenty of friends, but they rarely wanted to do anything interesting. When stuck in long periods of intense boredom as a child, that tedium will either grow into creativity or the development of bad habits. Luckily, I spent an abundance of that idle time with a pen in my hand instead of a rolled joint.
The quick stop at the McAllister residence failed to produce Mandi or a cell phone bill. Trudy appeared at the door of a modest ranch holding a wet mop and a can of Ajax while projecting a ton of attitude. I’ve dealt with narcissistic drug addicts with a more delicate disposition as I cuffed their wrists after tackling them to the ground. I’d be willing to wager that the majority of Mandi’s poor decision-making was a direct result of Trudy’s lack of empathy. Most hardened criminals usually had a menacing relative that spilled some unnecessary negativity into their world. The only good that came from the short visit was being informed that, “Mandi was babbling on about how she had to make something right with the Jackson’s. Why she’d be consorting with either of those dirtbags is anyone’s guess.” Every sentence that slid from her crass mouth was brimming with antipathy or drunken wisdom.
While I enjoy searching for clues, I detest being on wild goose chases. I clearly warned Mandi not to contact Patricia but never considered that she might have the backbone to face Benny at Franklin Hills. The building is reminiscent of an eerie haunted mansion with towering gothic-architecture walls, unnerving gargoyle-like statues carved into the stone, and a long driveway leading from the front gate. I get a bad feeling even driving past this place.
With six floors of deranged patients, Franklin Hills is considered a prison for the mentally ill. In these days of political correctness and absurd sensitiveness, they try to be slick and label it “brain health.” When you observe a few of the lunatics housed inside the north wing, you’d be hard-pressed to find anything resembling a thriving mind. The health-care industry can package it any way they want, but we all know that crazy is crazy!
When arriving at Franklin Hills, I notice that only three parking spaces are reserved for visitors. This suggests that most of the residents in these outdated rooms have no one that cares about them beyond the front gate. To be forgotten by family and friends must be a horrific feeling. I’m disappointed that Mandi’s Cavalier wasn’t taking up any of the visitor spaces. I can’t picture her taking an Uber over here, but I’m not ruling out anything. I’ll need to go inside and see what is what!
I walk up the narrow sidewalk, feeling awkward. A few residents are looking down from their barred windows at the unannounced visitor about to step inside. Unless your last name is Jackson, you won’t be getting a drop-in from this guy. Even Benny will be getting a limited social call. The scope of my business here is hoping to find Mandi pleading for Benny’s forgiveness in the dayroom.
With Agnew still being at large, I should be carrying my gun, but Franklin Hills has three electronic security checkpoints I’ll have to pass through to get anywhere near Benny’s floor. I locked up my pistol inside the glove compartment. In truth, running into Agnew is a secondary concern, yet it’s important to remain prepared for anything.
Due to the rules of the privacy act, the third-floor guard is unwilling to tell me if another visitor is with Benny at the moment. Even after flashing my police badge, his lips remain sealed regarding any guests on the north side of the floor. Good security is rare, but it can also be a time-intensive hurdle. After proving that I am Derek Delaney of Bluff Ridge, he opens an iron door where I’m escorted by an orderly with just “Dan” written on his nametag. I guess the less the inmates know about you, the slighter chance exists that an escapee will be able to find your house, climb through a window, and slit your throat.
The hallway is depressing with black and white checkered tiles and soft fluorescent lighting. It feels as if I’m walking through a psychedelic nightmare or that freaky Tom Petty video. Any inmate forced to spend any real time in this hallway is likely to end u
p with more psychotic episodes than they are dealing with already.
Upon arriving at Benny’s room, I’m disappointed not to find Mandi chatting away. Maybe he will be able to give me an idea when she was here and where she went.
“Benjamin, you have a visitor,” Dan informs.
Benny lifts all 240 pounds of himself from the plush chair but doesn’t say a word. He seems confused with the disruption of what will clearly be a day full of trite routines and scheduled activities.
“Hello, Benny. How are you today?”
Although I’m in a hurry, I can’t get into asking about Mandi immediately. I have some manners when dealing with a guy that gets most of his sunlight from the windows facing his single bed.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles, trying to place me. My arrival must feel a bit intrusive.
To save a slew of tedious questions, I quickly tell him my name, where I’m from, and all the vital information that might help him get relaxed with a stranger invading his space.
“I saw you in the paper a while back.” He still possesses that southern drawl similar to a backwoods resident of Tennessee. Since I haven’t seen him since I was a kid, that’s about all I remembered about him other than being black and a bit slower than most adults. “You got shot by Agnew McAllister.” Nothing like getting straight to the point.
“That I did,” I confirm, laughing silently. Misjudging a person like Benny is easy. He may be a simpleton, but he is apparently good with names and faces. That talent must go to waste on a floor with only three-dozen residents. “I was shot, but I’m all better now. I’ve had lots of bed rest and some little green pills to keep away any infection.”
“I get too much bed rest here,” he says, sullenly. “They like us in bed by 10:00 every night, except Saturday when we watch a movie in the dayroom that goes later. I try not to spend all that much time in bed or sittin’. I stand as much as they’ll let me. Mama got me some nice binoculars for Christmas. I like lookin’ through ’em out the windows but never from a chair. During the winter, you don’t get much to look at. Now that it’s gotten warmer, I can see lots of birds from my window.”
Before he goes too far into specifics related to birds, I interrupt by asking, “Benny, did a woman come by here today?”
“Nurse Tracy always does rounds at 9:30. She’s never later than two minutes.”
“I meant a visitor like me from the outside. The woman would have been named Mandi . . . a lovely girl with blonde hair.”
I may have overshot her description by just a tad.
“No sir,” he states, firmly. “No women other than mama visit me from outside the gate. I did have a woman collectin’ from the Mission once, but I told her I couldn’t spare any of my clothin’. They don’t let us wear too much from the stores.”
I happen to know that Franklin Hills has a strict dress policy. They don’t make them wear orange jumpsuits, but the inmates in here for mental health reasons aren’t allowed to dress in flashy colors. Some of the residents loathe any clothing with protruding tags or vertical stripes. I guess you just never know what will make someone snap that already has a short fuse.
Before I can comment, he rambles on about his personal items. “I have my baseball cards, but they won’t let me keep that many. I want to get the 1972 Topps Chicago Cubs, but they are expensive because of the higher-numbered cards. Everything else is shared in the dayroom. We don’t get to use a computer unless our name is on a list. You can get stuck on that list for a week ’fore it’s your turn.”
“Well, Benny, I should probably get out of your hair.”
“Why? You just got here.”
I have no reply. Other than what I presume to be stifling visits from his mother, Benny has little contact with other people aside from the lunatics trapped on this floor and the staff required to talk to him by law. Even though I desperately need to find Mandi, it would be rude not to stay for a few extra minutes. Conversing with him might end up being the most compassionate act I do all day.
“Let me take a look at those binoculars.”
Benny’s face lights up knowing I’m interested in what might be his “prized” possession. Everyone feels a little joy when someone shows a bit of interest in a passion.
“I will show you all the birds across the street.”
“Sounds like a plan, Benny.”
We look at birds from the various locations he has scouted from spending hours in front of the window. He peers through the lenses, focuses, and then hands me the binoculars to get an eyeful of his feathered friends that are free to explore. Within the first ten minutes, he shows me a cardinal, a blue jay, and a shitload of robins.
His mother must have worked a few extra hours at the hospital gift shop to earn enough scratch to afford such high-powered Nikon binoculars. They are practically military grade.
Naturally, I have to ask. “Did your mom tell you how she got these? They are very nice.”
“She told me that $300 showed up in her bank account a while back. You would’a have to ask her the rest. I can’t remember.”
“That’s an interesting discovery,” I say, knowing that even an honest woman like Patricia Jackson wouldn’t give back $300 after the unmerited treatment she gets because of her son’s reputation. “Benny, you must have a lot of fun with these.”
“You’re not kidding, mister,” he says, sounding like an older version of Larry Mondello from Leave it to Beaver. “They are so good that you can see the hummingbirds over there across the street. They hang ’round over there because he has two feeders by the house.”
I take the binoculars and glance across the street. Even with the distance being nearly a quarter-mile from his window, I see a hummingbird clearly hovering in front of the liquid feeder. When I move the binoculars slightly to the right, the vacant lot next to the house has enough open space to see a few square blocks of the town off in the distance. Being located on the bluff, Franklin Hills has always been a dismal place the locals lament and prefer to keep hidden behind a ton of trees. In correlation, the staff tries to keep the town shielded from the maniacs. The remanded residents are more comfortable—and less dangerous—in a controlled space with little hope of contact with the outside world.
Town Square is just down the hill—a mile or two beyond that open space. Although the lenses aren’t focused with any precision, two cement trucks seem to be backed up to the wishing well in the middle of the park. What the hell is happening over there?
Chapter 28
Patricia
As the cement pours into the opening of the well, I can no longer hear the panicked voices screaming from below.
“Lord, please forgive me.”
Although two godless idiots will perish as a consequence of my wish, my Benny will soon be free, and all of his problems will go away. My boy has wasted most of his adult years locked away while those McAllister kids only suffered for about fifteen minutes; it hardly seems like justice was served. Under absolutely no circumstance will I ever tell anyone—not even my Benny—that I am responsible for those two deaths. That secret will follow me to the afterlife. I hope God is forgiving. He had a son so he might understand what a mother has to do, now and then.
Chapter 29
Derek
I anxiously focus the lenses, aiming the binoculars steadily at the wishing well. The two cement trucks drive away, dragging the clanking chutes like a child lugging a red wagon handle along the sidewalk. Something doesn’t feel right.
This vibration hovering in the air suddenly seems to be some sort of urgent tip-off. It’s not as if every bird is suddenly flying away in a wildlife panic, but the pressure must be escalating. I will admit to projecting flippant theories earlier, but everything seems interconnected.
Before I can focus closer on Town Square, Benny pulls the binoculars from my hands like a four-year-old child that won’t share his toys.
“Benny wants his turn,” he says greedily. “I want to see if any new birds are on the wires. I�
��ve been waiting for like forever.”
“Benny, I normally wouldn’t ask this, but can I use the binoculars for just a few minutes? I saw something very unusual. I need to look again to authenticate what I’m seeing.”
“Was it an oriole or a blue jay?”
“No, this wasn’t a bird. What I saw falls under police business.” I hope being authoritative will get him to surrender the binoculars.
“You’re not dressed in uniform. Doesn’t that mean that you’re not on duty? Why would you need binoculars when not on duty?”
Jesus, I hope this won’t turn into a battle of wills. Benny is too large and unpredictable to challenge to a tugging match. Finding another pair of powerful binoculars would be highly unlikely on a floor that prohibits board games with small pieces. I feel like I’m about to argue with Rainman about giving up the television during The People’s Court. I’ll need to use my conflict resolution skills to get them back.
After promising to buy Benny the 1972 Chicago Cubs baseball card set, he timidly surrenders the binoculars. It was fortunate that I was actively listening because I don’t think the promise of any other item would have done the trick.
I get positioned in the same spot, aiming the binoculars through the vacant lot until Town Square is back in my sights. Once the lenses are in focus, the profile of a black woman comes into view. I’m almost certain this is Patricia. I’d ask Benny to verify, but I’d be lucky to spring the binoculars from his bulky hands again. Certain mistakes are not worth repeating. After readjusting the lenses, she comes in a bit sharper. It is Patricia. Why is she just standing there? Did she have anything to do with those trucks that just left the park?
In Dark Places Page 32