Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2

by Patrick Logan

  He half expected to see his friend outside, to see Ray with his arms out in front of him like a zombie as he sleepwalked across the lawn. Ray had been known to sleepwalk in the past, but Drake or John usually found him curled up on the couch downstairs.

  Ray hadn’t wandered outside, at least not yet.

  And it appeared that he hadn’t this time, either; all Drake saw was empty fields. He listened to the coyote howls that filled the night air for a moment, before pulling away from the window and heading to the door next. Like the window, it too was slightly open. A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table showed that it was nearing four in the morning, which meant that John Reynolds would be up in about an hour, making his extra strong coffee in preparation for a day at the mill. Cognizant of this, Drake slowly and quietly left the room, curious, but not yet concerned, about Ray’s safety or whereabouts. If it had been the other way around, if Drake were the one who had gone missing in the middle the night, Ray might have activated one of those sirens they used during World War II to warn of imminent bombing.

  And yet, as Drake made his way into the hallway and there was still no sign of his friend, and when he peered down the stairs and didn’t see Ray curled up on the couch, he started to feel a pitter-patter in his chest.

  Drake’s and Ray’s room was located off the middle of the hallway, while John’s and Angelina’s was at one end, a guest room at the other. At least that was how it used to be. But after Angelina had gotten sick, John had relocated her to the guest room. Once, after one too many nightcaps, he claimed that he had done it for her, so that she could be more comfortable and wasn’t disturbed by his “rusty chainsaw snoring”. But Drake thought differently. He thought it was because it was she who was keeping him up, that her ventilator and oxygen tank and mask and all the other stuff that Drake had no idea how it worked or even what it did, would keep John awake. It probably wasn’t even just the noise, either. The constant reminder of her imminent death was likely too much for John to handle.

  And it was that door, the door to Angelina Reynolds’s room, that was also ajar.

  It wasn’t as if her room was completely off limits—John didn’t keep her locked up or anything like that—but there was an unwritten rule that they would only go in, would only see her, if John was present or if Mrs. Reynolds specifically asked for them. This was fine by Drake, because he didn’t much like being reminded of his own mortality either. And yet, tonight, at four in the morning, he felt compelled to enter.

  He was drawn to it, partly because of the smell of cigarette smoke emanating from within, and partly because he thought Ray might be in there.

  And mostly because he was just curious.

  Drake tiptoed across the floor, cringing with every step when his clammy feet made an annoying sticking sound on the wood. As he neared the door, he slowed even further. What he had first thought was his imagination, that there couldn’t possibly be smoke coming from her room, was confirmed: he was smelling smoke. And when he leaned into the room, he realized he could see it too.

  Drake stood in the doorway, his jaw slack.

  Angelina was lying on her bed, her eyes closed, her skin the color of melted wax. It had been a good three days since Drake had seen the woman, and back then it had been during the light of day when the sun was shining brightly on her. But now, in the pale moonlight, she didn’t look so much like she was dying, but more like she was already dead.

  Her mask was off and she lay with her palms up, the backs of her hands resting on top of the sheets. The machines that kept her alive were all dark and for a brief moment, Drake’s heart stopped in his chest.

  She’s dead, he thought in horror. She tore her mask off in her sleep and died.

  Which explained why the machines were off. And yet, even with his limited experience, Drake knew that when things went wrong, these machines didn’t go quiet. They beeped and blipped and chirped loudly. Shit, that was their job.

  No, there had to be another reason why they had shut off, and Drake’s searching eyes quickly found the cause.

  Someone had unplugged them.

  And that someone was Ray Reynolds.

  Chapter 6

  Ray Jacob Reynolds stood at the head of his mother’s bed, just out of the shaft of moonlight that spilled in through the window, which was why Drake hadn’t noticed him at first. The boy’s face was shrouded in shadows, and he stood perfectly still. In fact, the only thing in the room that moved was the twisting and twirling of the cigarette smoke coming from the white cylinder dangling between his fingers.

  Is he sleepwalking? Drake wondered. Did Ray sleepwalk here?

  Drake wasn’t sure if you could sleepwalk and light a cigarette at the same time, or if you can do anything while sleepwalking other than just walk, but he hoped that that was the case. He considered reaching over and tapping his friend on the shoulder, but recalled hearing somewhere that waking a sleepwalker prematurely could kill them.

  Even knowing that this was silly and childish, Drake stayed his hand. The truth was, he wanted to see what happened next without his intervention.

  A moment later, his friend started to move, slowly bringing the cigarette to his mouth. Like Drake, Ray was a casual smoker, a teenage smoker, if there was such a thing, but the aggressive drag that he took now, and the thick cloud of blue smoke that he expelled, was something different.

  It made him look older.

  It made him look like his mother.

  And then Ray did the unthinkable: he brought his hand with the cigarette slowly to his mother’s lips.

  It was no secret that Angelina’s cancer was a result of her smoking. Which was why John had vehemently forbidden cigarette smoke in the house, smoke of any kind, actually. The one time that he had caught his son smoking, a year or so back, Ray had shown up to school with a welt above his eye the size of a small turtle.

  And yet, as Drake watched, Ray lowered the cigarette to his mother’s lips. He expected the woman’s eyes to open and for her to flail, to shout for John, to yell at her son to get away from her, but nothing happened. Nothing that overt, anyways. But when the filter grazed her lips, he saw them pucker ever so slightly and then grip it.

  The entire time, Angelina’s eyes remained closed. Even as she took a small drag and exhaled through her nostrils with her next breath, she didn’t wake. Ray pulled the cigarette away from her mouth, took a drag of his own, and then extinguished it on the bedside table.

  And then Ray tilted his head sideways and observed his mother from this new angle.

  Put her mask back on, Drake pleaded silently. Come on, Ray. Come on, put the mask back on and plug in the machine.

  His heart was racing now, and a chill coursed through him.

  Please, Ray, just do it. Put the mask back on and plug in the machine.

  Drake stood in the doorway for what felt like an eternity, watching his friend as he stared at his mother.

  Ray became so still then, that once again Drake was convinced that the boy was sleeping. In fact, Drake had to pinch himself to confirm that he wasn’t the one that was sleeping.

  Ray suddenly twitched and to Drake’s relief, he grabbed the mask that lay on Angelina’s pillow and placed it over her nose and mouth. Then he went over and plugged the machine back in. It started with a whir and a beep.

  Satisfied and relieved, Drake slowly backed down the hallway towards his bedroom. As he climbed into bed, he heard the mechanical click followed by the wheeze of Angelina’s artificial respirator.

  Drake closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep when he heard Ray’s feet shuffle into the room. The bed beside him creaked as Ray lowered himself onto it. Less than five minutes later, Drake heard another sound in addition to the machine that helped keep Angelina Reynolds alive.

  He heard his friend snoring softly.

  Despite his exhaustion, Drake stared at the ceiling for more than an hour before falling back asleep.

  Chapter 7

  “Drake? Drake, you awak
e?”

  Drake rolled onto his side and opened his eyes.

  “Yeah,” he replied groggily. “I’m up.”

  “What time is it?” Ray asked, as his eyes drifted over to the clock. It read 8:22. “That’s weird, dad didn’t wake us up today.”

  The sun was already shining brightly, and seeing as Drake had forgotten to close the drapes when he’d looked out the window last night, it shone directly in his face. The light caused a headache to start behind his eyes, and he squinted.

  He must’ve drifted off at some point between five and eight, but he couldn’t remember falling asleep. Part of him wanted to believe that he had slept through the night, that what he’d seen in Angelina’s room had been a dream, but when he inhaled deeply through his nose, he could still smell the second-hand smoke.

  Drake had heard John wake up, had heard the man grunt and groan as he made his way down the stairs. He even heard John making his coffee then pouring cereal. These noises, however annoying, had served as a welcome reprieve to listening to Angelina’s machinery, to making sure that the woman was still alive.

  Drake had even heard John make his way back upstairs sometime later and then traipse down the hall to Angelina’s room. Thankfully, he had closed the woman’s door, finally offering Drake some silence.

  “I didn’t hear him wake up,” Drake lied.

  Ray rubbed his eyes and then swung his legs over the side of the bed. Drake watched him curiously as he did this, needing to see if Ray would give any hint, any clue that he knew what had happened the night before.

  “You all right?” Ray asked. “Why you eyeballing me?”

  Drake shook his head and looked away.

  “Nothing, I mean, sorry—I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Ray frowned, but said nothing as he made his way to the door. As he left the room, he turned back and looked at Drake.

  “I’m gonna have a quick shower. You wanna head to the pond, after?”

  Drake also rose out of bed.

  “Sounds good. I’ll go fix us something to eat.”

  ***

  As soon as he heard the shower start, Drake made his way down the hall. But instead of heading to the kitchen, he walked to Angelina’s room. The door was still closed, and for some reason, this made him uneasy. He felt like a voyeur, like the time that he had gotten a peek in the girls’ change room at school and had glimpsed the side of one of Becky Hanscom’s large, pale breasts.

  Only this time he didn’t feel a tingling in his groin, but a flutter in his chest.

  Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead…

  Drake took a deep breath and slowly opened the door, ready to slam it closed again and run at breakneck speed toward the kitchen should Angelina shout or cry out.

  And he wanted her to do just that; to scream at him, to cry, moan, burp, fart, any excuse for him to get the fuck out of there.

  But she didn’t. As Drake opened the door, he heard the sound of the click and then the wheeze of the respirator filling her diseased lungs with air.

  Drake leaned his head inside the room. He was surprised that it didn’t smell like smoke, but he didn’t give this much thought. As soon as his eyes fell on Angelina’s pale, sunken cheeks, he became preoccupied.

  She looked worse; worse than he had ever seen her before. Her fingers, laid out nicely on top of the crisply folded bedsheet, had taken on a bulbous appearance, with each of her knuckles standing out like hubcaps glued to a baseball bat. Blue veins on her forehead extended down and seemed to encircle her eyes. The capillaries on each of her nostrils were bright red even through the plastic mask.

  The woman’s eyes were closed, and in the brief moments between the click of the machine and the forcing of the air, she was completely and utterly still.

  Click, whoosh. Click, whoosh.

  Drake finally managed to peel his eyes away from the woman’s face, but just as he started to pull his head back into the hallway, he noticed a pile of ash on the bedside table. And then he noticed something else that he hadn’t seen the night prior. There was an orange pill container beside the ash, and although Drake couldn’t be certain, the top seemed cross-threaded.

  John was in a hurry. That’s why he didn’t wake us. Didn’t even have time to put the cap on right after giving Angelina her medicine.

  With a nod to himself, Drake started to back out of the room again. But his right heel pressed down on one of the worn floorboards and it groaned loudly. He froze, and for a moment he thought he would get away scot-free—after all, the shower was still running behind him, and Angelina Reynolds was in some sort of—

  To his horror, Angelina started to turn her head in his direction. The woman’s eyes were partly open, revealing yellowed sclerae and cloudy irises.

  Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…

  At first, Drake didn’t think that the woman was seeing him, that she was just shifting in her sleep or coma or whatever she was in, but when her pale lips parted behind that mask, Drake knew that she was trying to say something. He tried to make out the words, but with the sound of the shower behind him and the machine puffing her lungs in front of him, he couldn’t pick it up. Instead of trying to hear, he concentrated on her lips and tried to read them.

  Just as he thought he understood, Angelina started to cough. Only this wasn’t a normal cough, a deep grumble with designs to expel mucus from one’s throat. No, Angelina Reynolds was far too frail for that. The woman’s entire body trembled, something that made her eyelids, which were thin as wax membranes, shudder, and her eyes to jog about in her head like loose ball bearings.

  Drake was frozen in spot as he watched this terrible cross between a cough and a seizure. He was terrified, scared in a way that he had never been before. As he stared into her eyes from the doorway, which had since rolled back into her head, he knew that she was dying. And he knew that if he did nothing about it, she would soon be dead.

  The machine started to beep, a high-pitched noise that carried with it an ominous reality.

  The scene was so provocative, so captivating in its horror, that Drake didn’t hear the shower shut off, nor did he hear his friend running down the hallway toward him, shouting at him, yelling and cursing for him to tell him what he was doing in there.

  Even when Ray pushed him aside and ran to his mother, Drake didn’t move.

  It was the scene, yes, but it was more than that.

  It was also what Angelina Reynolds was saying before she broke into the coughing fit.

  Drake thought he recognized the words that those pale, cracked lips made behind the mask.

  Two simple words, repeated over and over again.

  Kill me, Angelina Reynolds had said. Kill me, kill me, kill me.

  Chapter 8

  “Jesus Christ, Drake!” Ray shouted as he struggled to remove his mother’s mask. “Give me a hand here!”

  Drake finally snapped out of his stupor and ran towards his friend.

  “The clasp is stuck!” Ray yelled. He was fumbling with the clip that joined the two sections of rubber and held the mask to Angelina’s face. As she struggled to cough, the machine continued to force air into her, making it impossible for the woman to expectorate.

  Drake watched as her body went febrile and then, without thinking, he simply grabbed the mask and pulled as hard as he could. Ray cried out when the strap snapped, and at long last Angelina was free.

  Ray quickly rolled his mother onto her side, but she was so frail that he almost flipped her completely off her bed and onto the floor. At the last second, Drake’s hand shot out and he held her in place.

  As Ray slapped her back in an attempt to loosen the mucus that kept rolling around in her throat, Drake felt a strange sensation on his hand. Never in his life had he felt anything so bony, so hard, or so visceral. With every one of Angelina’s tiny coughs, he could literally feel her heart beating through her rib cage, her digestive system contracting and rolling beneath his fingers.

 
With the next slap, Drake applied gentle pressure to her rib, in the opposite direction of the blow. There was an audible snap like dried kindling set alight as several of Angelina’s ribs cracked. The entire left side of the woman’s frail body contracted and this, coupled with Ray’s hand on her back, finally forced the mucus from her throat. The wad, which was about the size of a quarter, landed on the floor with a sickening thwap. Drake grimaced and looked away.

  Angelina bucked one final time, and then a thin gruel oozed from her mouth and coated her pillow.

  “Mom? Jesus, mom, are you okay?”

  Angelina’s eyes rolled forward, but she said nothing. Her body was still quaking, and it became apparent that she was having a hard time taking a full breath. She started to gesture with her hand, a confused, limp wrist flopping that was impossible to interpret. Her lips started to move then, and Drake once again averted his eyes.

  He didn’t think he could handle seeing her mouth those two words again.

  Kill me, kill me, kill me, kill me.

  Realizing that she was on the verge of passing out from lack of oxygen, Ray reached over and grabbed the mask. He pressed it against her face, and the accordion inside the glass tube to Drake’s right deflated. Angelina’s eyes widened like a person who unexpectedly drank too much, but then they slowly closed again.

  Drake helped his friend gently turn Angelina onto her back, where she became still.

  For a long while, neither of the boys said anything; they just stared at the poor, sad woman lying in the bed.

  Eventually, Ray turned to face Drake.

  “Help me clean this up,” he said, tears in his eyes. “Please, we need to clean this up.”

  Drake didn’t hesitate; he nodded and then hurried to the kitchen to get something to soak up the vomit.