by Rachel Lucas
Don’t Slay The Dragon
By
Rachel Lucas
Forward
This book is inspired by actual people and events. Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Which parts of this book are fact and which are fiction? It is up to the reader to decide.
Dedication
Thank you to all those who loved and believed in me. For Jordan, my Rock and my Strength. How I look up to you (literally). For Tara, finally to have a daughter. What blessings you have brought to our family. Thanks for being my editor. For Miles, my Spirit, my Example, my Compass. You constantly inspire me. For Spencer who did such an amazing job on the cover. What talent! You are my Light and my Laughter. And for my little Lucas, you bring me so much Joy and Happiness. I’m so proud of all of you!
And for Daniel Muhlestein who introduced me to the wonderful world of Kindle Publishing and gave me hope.
Chapter One
Rolling down the driver’s side window next to me, I could barely sense the musty smell of autumn decay in the breeze. I should have been enjoying the multitude of bright fall colors splashed across the jagged mountains flying by to my left. This was usually one of my favorite times of the year. October in Utah was always an interesting combination of cheerful yellows, oranges and reds mixed with moody overcast days of slate gray clouds. Against the majestic backdrop of the Wasatch Mountains to the east and the silvery Great Salt Lake to the west, traveling south on I-15 was a route I would usually enjoy. Not today.
I fought to keep the ghosts of the past at bay on the drive southward, but it was a battle. So many memories that I had tried to suppress over the years were coming back to haunt me.
When I had left Utah eight years back, young and naïve, to follow my new husband as he began a military career, I wasn’t sure when I would be back to see these mountains again. Blissfully happy and in love, I thought I would spend the next twenty years of my life being the supportive spouse, traveling the world with him and seeing new things and places, building a family together. It took four years to realize that Lewis’s priorities were his military career and the countless other women in his life. It took me another four years of mental and physical abuse and trying everything to keep my marriage together before I left and came back here to my hometown and family.
The highway took me further south, past all the growing suburbs that seemed to multiply and expand faster than technology and resources could keep up with them. I continued past the state prison on my right, around the Point of the Mountain, and closer to my destination. The newer and bigger subdivisions seem to branch out from every highway exit. Fast food drive-ins and grocery stores fought for room from sprawling strip malls and public schools. Up the mountain benches to the east and stretched out to the western desert, the housing grew over every available real estate.
I tried to concentrate on starting my new life. After all these years I was coming back to familiar surroundings, starting fresh. I had found myself a small apartment near campus and was getting back into college to finish my degree. With the strong interest I had in psychology I thought of becoming a therapist or a social worker, but I wasn’t sure yet. Both could be very stressful occupations. Did I need more stress in my life?
Even as I tried to distract myself, I realized that the closer I got to my destination, the more it consumed me. I was both concerned and fearful as I traveled south. I watched carefully for the right exit. It had been years since I had been back here, and even then I was just a passenger and more worried about where I was going than how I got there.
The sun peeked randomly through the overcast afternoon sky as I found the exit and began the gradual climb up through the avenues. The Provo/Orem area was much like many other expanding Utah cities. It had changed a great deal since I had been here before, but still had that small town feel. I drove up through the residential neighborhoods and small businesses, towards the tall buildings not far from the local university campus spread out at the base of the mountains.
I looked for a large, rusty colored brick building seven or eight stories tall. My guess was that it had probably been built in the 1940’s or 50’s. There was nothing stately or impressive about the building, nothing to make it stand out in any way. I remembered a large brick arch over the double glass doors of the front entrance. Very few doors were on the ground level and small, iron-meshed covered windows were at regular intervals on the upper floors.
I spotted the building easily. My hands started to sweat on the steering wheel that I still gripped tightly in my hands, even though I was now parked in the large parking lot. I looked at the few bare trees scattered throughout the grounds and fought off the encroaching memories, knowing my heart was racing and dread was filling me.
I must have sat in my used Toyota Camry for a good fifteen minutes, struggling to get the courage to get out and walk up to the building. I found that I could still visually walk through the building even though it had been years since I had been back here. Some memories, no matter how deeply buried, come back with crystal clarity when you put yourself back into the environment.
Now, standing before the aged building, I gazed up at the orange-brown brick arch of the entranceway, through the heavily-locked, thick glass doors, and searched for signs of life on the other side. I knew there would be a sentry inside, watching me from a security camera, buzzing me through the doors once I came to their notice.
I stood for a moment on the threshold of the double doors, realizing this was my last chance to turn around and go back to my car. It would be so much easier if I could just turn around and walk away. I could be in my car and back on the freeway headed north in a matter of minutes. It was so tempting.
The door made a noticeable click as it unlocked and I was allowed through. The metal detectors were new, but security seemed to have increased everywhere these days.
A cold shiver ran up my spine that had nothing to do with the over-active air conditioning in the building. I knew what was beyond the front desk. I didn’t need to see the plaque at the front door or the instructions typed out on a sign before me to know where I was.
Welcome to the Utah State Mental Hospital.
Chapter Two
“Caitlyn Stewart, visitor.”
At the sterile front desk I showed my ID, signed in, and waited for my small black purse to be searched by the security official. He was an older man, with salt and pepper hair and mustache and a kind smile. He handed me the visitor’s badge with a polite nod and buzzed me through the second set of security doors.
I noticed that things hadn’t changed much as I walked down the cold, bare hallway. My black leather boots echoed on the drab brown and beige tiled floor and I drew my long black jacket more securely around me. No matter how many times they cleaned and waxed it, this floor would always be dull and caked with the age and the presence of the people here. I struggled not to flinch at the strong metallic odor of disinfectants and industrial cleaners, faintly covering the smell of urine and body odor. It was a smell I could never forget.
My mind fell back to the first time I walked down this hall. A scared seventeen-year-old girl, shy and terrified. I had tried so hard to be brave as I looked through the small windows of the weathered wooden doors placed at intervals down the long hallway. In each window I searched for a certain familiar face among the many in the larger rooms beyond.
Back then, as today, the souls beyond the doors haunted me. Some faces stared right back at me, others were distracted by a television or book or craft. Still others just stared off into the distance, lost somewhe
re between this reality and one of their own making. The faces ranged through every age, race and creed, but no matter how old they really were, there was something about this place that made them all look old, worn, weathered. These were the forgotten, the lost populace sent here to be kept hidden away from the rest of the “normal” world. It was a sad, depressing place and the smell and atmosphere stayed with you long after you left.
Ward D was my destination. Medium to high security. Those with the potential to hurt either themselves or others. Or both.
Again another security screening before I was allowed through the doors and into the ward. Once through, I looked around the bare wooden chairs and tables. There were dingy, fabric-covered couches in olive green and dark orange, cold tiled floor again but this time in a basic gray. Walls were painted in the same dull gray, meant to be soothing I guess, but to me it was just depressing. A little muted light came through the four iron-meshed windows, but most of the light came from the stark fluorescent lighting on the high ceilings. I searched through the twenty or so faces, trying to find the one among them I might recognize. The faces had changed since the last time I was here all those years ago, but somehow, they were all the same.
She sat in a small wooden chair next to a window, legs pulled up to her chest and balancing a sketch book on her knees. I’d recognize that red hair anywhere. Witch’s red her mother used to call it. Actually much more of a bright orange than a red. Her hair was longer than I last remembered it. It was limp and partly covered by a lime green knitted wool cap which I knew would bring out her light green eyes. She had on a colorful over-sized sweater with every color of the rainbow zipping through it and a pair of faded denim jeans so worn they had holes is several places. Her feet were covered only in socks, bright purple with orange seams. And even though she was only a year older than me, she looked a decade or more older. Life has a way of doing that to you sometimes.
Her back was to me as I cautiously approached. I learned years ago never to surprise her from behind, she was often given to split-second physical responses, and thinking usually came after the fact.
She must not have been allowed anything sharper than a charcoal stick. She had found the finest edge of it and was using it to draw the tiniest details of a mystical fairy. Lisbeth was a very gifted artist and fairies were some of her favorite creatures to draw. She was used to being surrounded by numerous pens, pencils and pastels, paints and brushes. Only having one charcoal stick was a sacrifice for her, I knew. So much talent and potential, such amazing intelligence. It depressed me anew to see it wasted in a place like this. Well, at least I knew who I would be talking to.
“Lisbeth?” I said quietly as I slowly walked around her and came into her view. She didn’t seem to hear me, so lost as she was in her work. “Lisbeth?” Was it Lisbeth present or was it someone else?
Gradually a light of recognition began to shine in her green eyes. Her face, once stern in concentration now softened as she looked up at me. I felt a slight wave of relief that it was Lisbeth I would be talking to. She was one of the easiest people to talk to. We had a lot of good memories together.
“Caitlyn?” Her voice had the low, rough timber of the chain smoker she had become but with the tiny edge of innocence of the high school girl she once was. Her face began to warm. “You came.”
I nodded and reached out to pull an empty chair over next to hers, careful to keep a few feet distance. As I sat down I searched her face, watchful for any sign of change in her expression or features. She looked so delighted to see me, like a child opening a gift on Christmas morning. All those years of friendship came flooding back. My best friend, my other self, my muse, my confidant. I had missed that sparkle in her eyes, the impish grin on her face. So much life and energy in one little body. Instinctively I reached across to cover her hand in mine, lost in the good memories.
Before I could touch the hand holding the sketchbook she jerked back and out of the way. Her thin, frail body was tensed from head to toe. What before was an expression of happiness was now a darkened, haunted look, changing and aging before my eyes. She plastered herself against the back of her chair and the wall, putting as much distance between us as possible. Her eyes squinted as she glared at me, her face drawn and sharp, mouth tight and lips thinned.
“Well, well, well. Long time no see, Cate.” The voice was harsh and abrasive. Like nails down a chalkboard. Dread filled me and left me with a hollow, dead ache. I didn’t expect this to be easy, but to be confronting this so soon?
“Hello Maxine. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
Chapter Three
How had I come back to this? I asked myself. How had I come back here to confront some of my deepest nightmares?
It had all started with a letter I had received two days ago. Just a simple letter that had ended up at my parent’s house, forwarded through several different addresses. I had looked at the Provo, Utah postage stamp, the vaguely familiar handwriting, and opened it up with hardly a thought, never realizing what a Pandora’s Box was before me.
“Caitlyn,
“Please, I need your help. You’re the only one that can save me, the only one that can help me. They’re telling me that I killed Barbara. How could they say that? I don’t remember anything, but they say I did it. They say they have evidence. You know I would never do such a thing, we would never do such a thing! Barbara and I didn’t always get along, but you know I would never do something like that. To kill my own mother?
“That’s why I need you. You’re the only one that can talk to the family. You’re the only one they trust, the only one they’ve ever trusted. They can tell you I didn’t do it.
“They’ve sent me back to Provo. You have to come see me. Help me prove I didn’t do this. I’ve cleared you for visitations. Please help me.”
It was signed “Lisbeth”, a simple signature with little flourish.
With a sense of shock, I had asked my parents if they knew anything about the “murder”. It had been all over the local news here just a month before I had moved back to the area. “Local woman found stabbed numerous times in her home, daughter considered prime suspect”. They had wanted to tell me at the time, but I was still living in North Carolina, going through a nasty divorce. They hadn’t wanted to add to my stress by telling me that my former best friend had been accused of killing her mother.
My dad had pulled out several news articles they had saved about the murder. I remember numbly sitting down at their kitchen table and pouring over the clippings. Barbara Marshall had been found in the kitchen-dining area of her small mobile home. She had been stabbed thirteen times, once fatally to the heart. It looked as though she had been having dinner with a guest at the time of the murder. The table was set for two. There was undisclosed DNA evidence pointing to her daughter Elizabeth as the prime suspect.
The clippings continued. Neighbors being interviewed and telling of a sometimes violent relationship between mother and daughter. Elizabeth being brought in for questioning then having some sort of a “mental breakdown”. The “suspect” then being taken to the psychiatric unit of the local hospital to be evaluated for trial. The articles hadn’t mentioned that she had been transferred down to Provo. Maybe the media didn’t know yet. It really didn’t sound good for her one way or the other.
My parents had been sympathetic but kept their usual hands-off approach. They weren’t ones to get involved in other people’s lives if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
I had waded through the hazards of getting caught up in Lisbeth’s life again, the danger, the stress. Just the pain of seeing what she had become was enough to drain me. How could I be the one to prove her innocence when I probably knew better than anyone just how dangerous she could be?
I had about decided not to get involved when I got a phone call yesterday on my cell. I didn’t recognize the number so I just ignored it and let it go to my voicemail. I was in my psychology class anyway and didn’t want to be disrupted. We we
re having an involved discussion on child abuse and the possibility of planted false memories. Professor Craig was playing devil’s advocate. He was forcing us to defend the validity of falsely planted memories and if they can be proven in a court of law. It was the kind of debate the entire class enjoyed.
Still caught up in the discussion, I exited the building and began walking across campus to my car when I remembered the earlier phone call. Dialing my voicemail, I listened to the message as I walked along.
“Ms. Stewart, this is Mark Jacobs. I hope you don’t mind that your parents gave me your cell number. I’m the public defender for Elizabeth Marshall. I’m at my wit’s end on how to defend this case. I’m sure you’re familiar with it. I want to go for the insanity defense but Elizabeth flatly refuses. She insists that she’s innocent and she says that you can prove it. I spoke briefly with your parents and they assure me that you weren’t even in the state at the time of the murder, so I don’t know how you can help, but Elizabeth is adamant. Please call me back. We go to trial in three months and I’ve never defended a first degree murder case, especially one as complicated as this. I could really use you help with this.”
He finished by giving me his number and again stressing how urgent it was that he talk to me. He sounded so young and inexperienced. It frightened me that Lisbeth’s fate and future could be in this one man’s hands.
After I got back to my apartment, I called him back. He sounded even more lost and desperate than he had in his message. How had this guy even passed the bar?
I searched my mind for a possible way to hire a better lawyer. Lisbeth had no extended family, just a father who had abandoned her and her mother when she had been a baby then gone off to start a new family in another state. There was no one I could go to for help. I was a student getting by on student loans and a part-time job. I had a few family members with some money, but no one I felt comfortable asking to go out on a limb like this.