by Jack Dey
The sheriff’s frustrated response to Cleaver’s riddle demanded a simple communication, making it easy for Ballard to understand what was taking place without the need to decipher police radio codes. Although Cleaver was ordered to spell out the communication in plain English, he wisely had left out the P.O.I.’s name.
Ballard checked his watch and calculated the sheriff would be back in town in twenty minutes; everyone knew of his intentions with Maggie Morrison and like clockwork, today was his scheduled visit to her farm some distance from town.
There was just enough time to get a news crew and cameras in place before the sheriff parked his patrol car back in his reserved space out the front of the sheriff’s office.
*~*~*~*
Sue’s Bridge County Sheriff, Morgan Barnett, turned sharply off the street into the office parking lot only to be met by a circus of camera crews and news teams blocking his parking space.
“What’s the meaning of this?!” Barnett bellowed through an open window, barking so fiercely it caused a number of the news team to jump out of his way. Then with the fender of his police vehicle, the sheriff slowly forced his way into the space marked SHERIFF, parked the squad car and pushed reporters out of his way with his car door.
Kirt Ballard turned towards a television camera and nodded to the operator, then turned his attention back to the escaping sheriff. “Sheriff Barnett, my sources indicate that you have found the offender responsible for the murder of Police Deputy Amanda Bayer on the town’s running track just a few nights ago.”
Barnett pushed his way through the crowd of media and called out as he went, “No comment!”
Ballard followed the sheriff as he tried to escape the spectacle and pushed a microphone into his face. “Is it true the offender is connected to the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club and is currently incarcerated in Bairnsworth Mental Hospital?”
Again the sheriff responded with a deadpan face. “No comment!” Then finding the office door, he pushed it open and disappeared inside, forcing the media circus to remain outside.
Ballard turned to the camera and recapped his interpretation of the sheriff’s interview. “There you have it, folks, straight from the horse’s mouth. A dangerous motorcycle gang member incarcerated in Bairnsworth Mental Institution has murdered Deputy Amanda Bayer and a murder trial is set to begin in the next few weeks. The judge is tipping a capital punishment verdict; maybe this will be the first hanging in Sue’s Bridge for many years. You heard it first on SBCTV News. This is Kirt Ballard signing off, live from Sue’s Bridge County Sheriff’s office.”
*~*~*~*
Chapter 55
Denizen ambled into the television room. He had taken his morning medication after the usual battle with Doctor Cavalier, but he wasn’t happy. She always won and after the drugs took effect, he was too drowsy to offer any resistance and spent the day passively spaced out while his mind hovered above the images dancing on the television screen. Many times he had tricked the hospital staff by holding the sizeable pills under his tongue and then had spat them out once staff were out of sight, only to be betrayed by his own boisterous actions and pranks he played upon the other inmates.
Denizen’s troublesome personality boiled over into a neat psychiatric diagnosis of extreme Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Born to elderly parents with no time for a baby, and a careless diet of junk food and entertained by long hours of television and video games, it seemed his destiny had been etched into history even before he understood what a parent was supposed to do. Fearing they had mistakenly created a monster in their autumn years, Denizen’s parents were all too keen to accept the psychiatrist’s determination and supposedly shut him out of harm’s way in Bairnsworth’s rehabilitating environment for his own good and for the duration of his disturbed life.
Denizen would have been an inmate in Bairnsworth for ten years at his next birthday. He was four when his parents relieved themselves of their sticky responsibilities and delivered their son to the institution’s care before reverting back to a rich, pampered and selfish lifestyle, unperturbed at the needs of a special little boy with a problem, fixable without the need for strong brain-injuring medical suppressants.
Today was like any other day in the institutional environment: a continuing monotone of endless sameness, stuck stupefied and helpless in front of a talking box surrounded with people claiming to be hunted by the CIA; or the incarnate appearance of the world’s saviour; to criminals too dangerous to leave in prison and part way through extreme behavioural adjustment in the form of a now rarely used frontal lobotomy treatment, of which Bairnsworth was still a world leader.
That morning, Denizen had been attracted to a loud, thunderous noise that had rattled the windows on the third floor and he had waved at the figure of a large man responsible for the disturbance, before being wrestled away by Cavalier’s henchman; after which another round of drugs was thrust down his throat, forcefully altering and damaging his young, developing brain while gaining the desired submission required from the hospital hierarchy.
Denizen stared at the images flickering violently across the television screen, barely able to follow the changing story as the drugs interfered with the cognitive signal pathways of his brain, riveting him quietly and stupidly to the armchair now supporting his growing weight. It took a few seconds for him to register that a stranger had been shown into the room by one of Cavalier’s staff. He eventually recognised the large stranger as the man riding the motorcycle and even through the stupefying drugs, he felt an affiliation with the exciting tattooed man already.
Denizen rolled his head, resting lifelessly on his right shoulder, to the left, like an out of control boulder rolling down a steep hill, to get a better look at the man. A long drool hung over his lips and pooled on his chin, gathering a river of saliva until surface tension gave way under the strain and a strand of stupefied liquid dropped helplessly onto his green hospital gown. He watched the man shaking hands with some of the shy inmates, overawed by the big figure in biker fatigues. He caught a glimpse of the words emblazoned across the biker’s jacket and their meaning confused him: Jesus... Don’t leave Earth without Him.
When Denizen finally came face to face with the stranger, he managed to blurt out, “Who is Jesus? And why is he going to leave earth without me?”
The biker broke into a huge smile at the curiosity displayed by the young boy and turned to his hospital escort, signalling his intention to engage the boy and that his minder could safely return to his work.
Denizen was confused when the male orderly left the biker to sit and talk with him. He wasn’t clothed in the usual hospital greens, so that meant he wasn’t an inmate.
“What did you do?!” the boy asked in an excited tone, too loud for the intimate room, eyeing the biker’s unusual uniform and obviously struggling with the medication.
“I’m the new hospital chaplain,” Cutter admitted in a tone that matched the boy’s while his gentle smiling eyes, framed by fiery red hair, caught a crack in the boy’s defences.
Denizen’s face suddenly dropped at Cutter’s admission. “Are you going to dob on me like that last man did and get me sent to Alcatraz again?”
Cutter’s face took on a half smiling, half disturbed demeanour, wondering what his previous counterpart had done to the boy and what and where Alcatraz was. Then an infectious desire to laugh tickled his tonsils and Cutter broke into a loud, welcoming guffaw. Soon the room was turned into a jolly atmosphere as patients gathered around the charismatic biker, competing for his attention. The question Cutter had been waiting for finally escaped the lips of a curious inmate and his story stole the conversation from the room, hushing the audience into a mesmerized awe.
The total absence of arguing voices coming from the television room caught the attention of the staff and they hurried to the supposed crime scene to investigate the disturbing new behaviour. When they heard Cutter’s gentle tone echoing like a lullaby throughout the room, it was hard not
to get caught up in his soothing influence. Assured there was nothing untoward happening, the staff trickled back to their business and reported the curious situation to Doctor Cavalier who undoubtedly would be watching the unbelievable scene unfold on closed circuit television.
When Cutter finished his story, the room erupted once again in giggling questions aimed at him by fancying female inmates, all vying for his attention. Watching from her position perched in front of a monitor and fearing the effects of the powerful influence Cutter was having, Doctor Cavalier ordered the staff to break up the gathering and usher the female patients, in particular, back to their rooms.
A loud expression of disdain filled the room as the staff enacted the doctor’s orders but Cutter calmed the distress by promising he would return next week. The late morning had drifted quickly into midafternoon. His audience was hungry to hear about the effect Jesus had had on his troubled life and the significance of the words emblazoned across his jacket.
Denizen couldn’t explain the warmth the big biker was exuding, but felt like he could trust him with anything. He didn’t like talking about how he was feeling; he had had years of doctors prying into this secret part of his life, and refusing to answer their questions gave him some control over his very exposed emotions. In a moment of anxious pondering and feeling like he knew Cutter after his story, Denizen came to a decision and leaned across to Cutter, sitting in the chair next to him.
“I’m in love,” Denizen cautiously whispered.
“Hey, that’s great, Denizen!” Cutter’s enthusiasm assured the young boy he’d made a good choice. “Was she in the room?”
Cutter’s eyes were sparkling as he searched, sure that the desire of Denizen’s eye was hiding behind some piece of furniture close by. Denizen responded with a shy shake of his head, almost making Cutter laugh at his matter-of-fact description.
“These people are all fruit cakes; you can’t fall in love with a fruit cake.”
Cutter understood that the boy wanted him to guess at his secret love, releasing him from an embarrassing description. “Does she live in the hospital then?” Cutter started the guessing game with the obvious.
Denizen nodded his head. “Yup!”
“Is she older than you?”
Denizen stared at the ceiling with an unsteady gaze. “I dunno?” The thought kept his attention while Cutter searched for another clue.
“Well, is she about your age?”
Denizen responded with a steady nod.
“I don’t know much about the hospital, Denizen, so you will have to help me,” Cutter finally conceded, his gentle eyes searching the boy’s.
Denizen leaned in and whispered, “I saw her when I was sent to Alcatraz a month ago and she was asleep in a cell. When the guards left her for a moment, I snuck into her room and she is beautiful.” Denizen’s eyes twinkled with the look of infatuation.
“How did you escape from your room to get to hers?” Cutter mused.
“There are ways,” Denizen uttered, not prepared to divulge his secret.
Cutter’s next question took Denizen by surprise; he thought everyone in the world knew.
“Where is Alcatraz, Denizen?” Cutter pressed.
Denizen’s cloudy eyes stared at Cutter. “It’s on the north wing and it’s where the naughty inmates go for... readjustment.” Denizen sighed heavily, trying to picture his love’s face in his shaky memory while his next statement stole Cutter’s breath away.
“Her name is Shayden.”
*~*~*~*
Chapter 56
Jaimon hadn’t seen Salena for a couple of days, since the episode at their secret hiding place when he’d failed to protect her from his player and the stunt with the flying tree. He’d checked the site as soon as the player had calmed down and reluctantly given Jaimon control of his body again, but there were no signs of an injured Salena. Her extended absence concerned him and he could only hope she hadn’t decided that his friendship was too costly a price for her to pay.
It was also odd that Monette wasn’t at school either and without her influence the other students avoided him, not sure of his mental state and his ability to turn violent at the slightest provocation.
His dreams over the last few nights had been tormented by arguing voices and lewd images of Monette, suddenly morphing into Salena and her stern warning: ‘Monette’s party will change things forever, dude!’
He blasted awake, trembling in the near dark and shot bolt upright, kicking the huge pile of blankets off his quaking body and grasping desperately for understanding. The red digital numbers of the bedside clock reflected an eerie light across the room, adding another dimension to his confused mind and reminding him there was still a handful of hours before the safety of morning’s light.
There seemed to be an intensifying war going on inside his head and as Friday morning drew closer, the war erupted into a savage frenzy of images flashing across his mind. It was as if a video player was rewinding all the past destructive incidences of his life and tormenting him with deep feelings of violation and a rapidly escalating hatred.
Most of all, he struggled to contain his anger towards his father and the image of the leather belt falling deftly across his tiny frame, with all the force the angry adult male could muster. The painful memories of each stinging assault brought a fresh round of tears, while images of his father lying motionless on the floor at his feet tantalised his thoughts.
The desire to commit justified murder dogged his psyche into a state of urgency and he fought against the strong craving to seek out and stamp out the man sleeping in the nearby room who had tormented his short life.
As he struggled to regain control of his anger, his back contorted into a tightly stiffened arch, locked into a paralysis that stole all the strength from his body while fighting desperately to ward off the murderous commands the voices were demanding and eventually, falling back to the mattress, exhausted and unconscious.
As the door slowly closed on his consciousness, he heard a faint, angry voice call from his throat and into the deepening darkness. “You useless freak... wake up!”
*~*~*~*
In a nearby room, Jaimon’s mother was shaken from her sleep by something that seemed out of place in the dark, quiet house. She checked the snoring form of her husband, but he didn’t appear to be the culprit. She glanced around the darkened room for signs of unidentified motion or sounds, but her husband’s snoring blocked out any indicators of anything threatening. Still feeling uneasy, she cautiously sat up and peered around the room again, certain the disturbance was real and not imagined. She held her breath for a moment, listening intently and waiting for the inevitable intrusion while her gaze settled upon the black opening leading from the bedroom into the passageway and down into the dark kitchen.
But the gasping snores from her mate confounded her efforts and in a bid for self protection, she lay back down and cuddled closer to the man asleep next to her, hoping he would take the brunt of any intruder’s actions.
The sudden stirring of her husband brought instant relief, even if it was at the sound of his annoyed voice. “You pick the strangest times to become amorous, Jaylene! I’ve gotta go to work in a few hours.”
She wondered whether she should tell him of her concerns, but she decided he would probably just ridicule her anyway.
“Go back to sleep, Hank,” she tried to match his annoyance and used the moments before the snoring began again to listen to the noises of the sleeping house. But before the detective in her brain could complete her task, tiredness intervened and she drifted off into an uneasy sleep, her subconscious on high alert and her dreams disturbed by an imaginary foe lurking in the uneasy recesses of her mind.
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