Storberry

by Dan Padavona

  For a long time he lay awake, thinking about the mistakes he had made. The way he screamed at her. How he abandoned her through neglect, no different than the bitch that had left them both. At least he had stayed. As shitty a job as he had done, he hadn't run away without so much as an explanation.

  The nagging fear that she may not return this time gripped him. Finally he drifted into sleep.

  In his dream Dell is searching the streets for Katy. A sky of slate stretches across the horizon. A gentle breeze builds to a gale, rolling out of the forested hills to the southwest. The wind carries the stench of carrion, and Dell fears that something terrible has happened.

  He checks the Red Lion and The Watering Hole. The bars are empty.

  He runs faster along a deserted Main Street. He knows where the boy lives. He kicks in Jeff Branyan's door but finds the bedroom vacant. The shower is running, steam pouring out of the bathroom like fog over marshland. Cautiously he approaches, but a screaming terror inside him makes him flee what hides unseen in the fog.

  He turns back, descending the stairs two at a time and is surprised to find the sun has set during the short time he had spent in Branyan’s apartment.

  He is running, faster now, through the southwest side of town, following a beaten dirt path that takes him from Maple Street to Becks Pond. The night air is cool, and a full moon reflects in silvery light off the water.

  Dell sits for a moment by the water. The sound of crickets fills the night.

  A shrill scream breaks the calm. The pond has disappeared, and now he stands in the dark. It takes him a moment to realize he is at the forest edge.

  Despite his disorientation he is sure the scream came from deep within the trees. He walks forward into the forest, ignoring the voices in his head warning him to turn back.

  He stops and listens, but there is only silence.

  Was it Katy’s scream?

  Footsteps approach out of the darkness, and leaves and small twigs crackle underfoot. Dell's fear overwhelms him, and he begins to back away.

  The steps grow closer, and he turns to run. He breaks through the tree line into the meadow, away from the forest, away from the dark presence.

  He stops and listens.

  Nothing.

  From the darkness of the forest, the cry of a little girl's voice haunts him.

  “Daddy.”

  Six

  As she stood inside the dark room where no one could see her, the stench of urine and antiseptic cleaning solution filled the air, making her sick to her stomach. This is where people come to die, she thought to herself.

  The odor brought back the memory of watching her grandmother die years ago. It had been a simple broken ankle, she recalled. An easy fix despite the brittle bones. But the diseases which haunt the halls of Armstrong General Hospital like silent reapers had found her grandmother, and soon her lungs had been suffocated by pneumonia.

  Only immediate family was allowed to see the boy, but she had crept past the orderly making his rounds and the nurse who fought a losing battle with the sandman at the main desk.

  Leaning on each other for support, his parents had fallen asleep in uncomfortable looking plastic chairs outside his room. She moved on tiptoe past the parents, opened the door without so much as a creak from the hinges, and slipped inside.

  The metronomic beeps of his life monitor cut through the white noise produced by the low hum of machines and air conditioning. The awful smells from the hall were stronger here.

  A cry built at the back of her throat. Not because she loved him—she certainly did not, though she admitted to caring—but because this had been her fault. Perhaps she cared because he treated her decently. He had a good heart, all things considered, and he didn't deserve this.

  Katy Lawrence leaned her back against the smooth wall and slumped to the floor. Someone was badly hurt because of her, and it was too much to handle. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Don't you dare die,” she whispered.

  Jeff Branyan's face was covered with splotches of purple and red, which formed grotesque mounds, like the surface of an alien planet. His breathing was assisted by respirator, and she could hear him wheeze. Wires were attached to his body—so many wires, fixed to him by pieces of white tape.

  She could not believe her father would go this far. But he had. And ultimately, it was all because of her.

  Footsteps approached from the hall. Her eyes searched the dark room for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to conceal herself. A cracked door a few feet away offered her potential refuge, and she darted inside to find herself in a shared bathroom. A locked door blocked access to the neighboring room.

  She crouched down and held the safety bars near the toilet, listening as the orderly from the hallway went about his business. She spied him through the crack in the door, writing numbers on a clipboard. The man was dressed in green scrubs and looked young—probably in his twenties or early thirties.

  The orderly turned to leave, then he stopped outside the bathroom door.

  Does he know I'm here?

  Katy's heart thumped in her chest. She could feel the man's presence on the opposite side of the door. Could he feel hers? At any second the door would swing door open and he would have her.

  She could hear the muffled beeps of the machines. Somewhere down the hall, a man coughed a phlegmy cough.

  The orderly pushed the door shut, and the sound of footsteps faded down the hallway.

  Sitting quietly in the gloom, she noticed for the first time how confined the bathroom was, much taller than it was wide. There was barely enough room for her to squeeze between the toilet and the side wall, and the confined space made her claustrophobic.

  She pulled herself up and carefully opened the door. She was alone in the room with him once more.

  Her eyes had fully adjusted to the dark. The green numerals of the digital readouts illuminated Jeff Branyan's body in an alien glow. Thick bandages covered his midsection.

  Shockingly, he looked strong, and she allowed herself to believe that he would pull through. If he didn't, her father would be looking at a murder charge.

  The son-of-a-bitch deserves to pay.

  As she moved closer and watched him sleep, it seemed impossible that they had been together half a day ago. His breathing seemed easier now.

  She understood how little she meant to him. The attraction had been physical, not emotional, but lately there had seemed to be more than just a physical attraction. Something she hadn’t expected.

  He made her feel...safe.

  But as long as she was around, he would never be safe. Now she looked upon what she had brought down on him.

  Jeff Branyan's body began to waver, drifting into a blur, as tears welled up in her eyes. Katy placed her hand on his arm.

  “I'm so sorry.”

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, the sun returned with the promise of hope on the eastern horizon. The talk in the barbershop, the donut shop, and Mary Giovanni’s café centered on the terrible beating that had occurred in front of The Last Stop Friday night. There wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s mind as to who had administered the beating.

  It was Saturday morning, and it promised to be another beautiful spring day. The Virginia sky was ocean blue, with just a hint of wispy cirrus to add character. Greg Madsen had planned on a morning run before coming on duty at 10 a.m., but he came in as soon as the office informed him that Jeff Branyan was awake. The remainder of his morning would be filled with frustration.

  Katy awoke on a padded couch in the hospital lobby, unaware that Jeff had awoken an hour prior. Her back ached, her hair was mussed, and sleep had crusted over her eyes. It took her several seconds to remember where she was, and as she lay concealed by the backrest of the couch, Greg Madsen hastened through the lobby toward the elevator without seeing the missing girl.

  Greg found Jeff groggy but lucid. He hadn't seen a thing. He had been attacked from behind and knocked unconscious before he
could put up a defense. He confirmed what Greg already knew—that The Last Stop security cameras were fake.

  No memory of what happened. No physical evidence. No recording. No witnesses.

  No shit.

  Greg would send an officer to grill Dell again, but there was no use for it. Unless Dell was stupid enough to brag about the beating over a few beers, they had nothing on him. Dell Lawrence was a drunk, a piece of trash, a terrible parent, a horse's ass. He was a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid.

  By mid-morning Madsen was back on his bicycle,and the fresh air lightened his mood. A steady stream of cars crawled toward the town center.

  He began his rounds on Court Street, circling the block. The police bike turned west at the library onto Washington Street, south on Main, east on Jensen, and then north again on Court. Downtown was active, as the residents of Storberry took advantage of the warm Saturday.

  When he stopped outside the library, Renee Tennant had a cardboard box of books in her arms. She had been in Storberry about the same length of time as he but wasn't a lifer. She was college-educated, ambitious, and not so tied to the town residents that she turned a blind eye toward a wrongdoing for fear of alienating herself. He valued her opinion.

  “'Morning, Miss Tennant,” he said.

  “Good morning, Chief.”

  “Can I give you a hand with those books?”

  “I've got'em, but if you could pop the trunk on my car, that would be great.”

  Greg opened the hatchback, and Renee slid the box into the trunk, taking care not to crush a flat of tulips near the back.

  “Looks like you are ready for spring,” he said, nodding at the tulips.

  “Can’t wait to get these in the ground. Best colors I’ve seen in years.”

  “Hey, while you are out and about, can you do me a big favor?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Can you keep an eye out for Katy Lawrence? She's in the wind again. I just saw her yesterday, and wouldn’t you know it, her father reported her missing a few hours after.”

  “Sure. I'll look for her. Speaking of which, I was at the café yesterday with Evan Moran and we saw Dell at the window.”

  “Dell Lawrence,” he said with disdain. “How did he look to you?”

  “He looked...irritated. He literally punched the window before he left, like he was angry at one of us. It got Mary Giovanni's attention, but he was gone before she could chase him off.”

  “That's interesting, because someone put Jeff Branyan in the hospital last night.”

  “Branyan? The kid who played football?”

  “The quarterback. That's the kid. Works over at The Last Stop these days. He was outside the shop last night when someone hit him from behind. Beat him pretty bad. No witnesses, though.”

  “I hope he is going to be all right.”

  “He's awake over at Armstrong. Broken ribs, busted nose, nasty concussion. Tough kid. Doesn't remember a thing about who did it though.”

  “You think it might be related to Katy Lawrence?”

  “I know she has been seeing the Branyan boy.”

  “And maybe Dell doesn't like him?”

  “More likely he doesn't like anyone who is seeing his daughter.”

  “Seems hard to believe that anyone in town would do something like that. Even Dell.”

  “He's always had a temper. I've had him in the cage a few times for fighting. But as far as I know he's never done something quite this violent. He's on our radar, though.

  By the way, how is Mr. Moran doing with the farm?”

  “I think he is settling in now. He has Randy Marks helping him.”

  “That's real good. Make sure you tell him to look me up. The first beer is on me.”

  “I will. And I'll let you know if I see Katy.”

  “Thank you kindly, Renee.”

  “See ya, Chief.”

  As he chained his bike to the rack in front of the library, he watched her drive off, the air above the blacktop rippling in waves. The sun burned down on his shoulders.

  “It’s too early for this kind of heat,” he said to himself.

  While he walked his beat on Main Street, foot and vehicle traffic increased through the town center. Shop-keepers pushed weekend sales to attract customers. A few set up tables for their wares on the sidewalk.

  And the unnatural heat continued to build.

  It suddenly occurred to him that Katy Lawrence might try to visit Jeff Branyan in the hospital. He stopped at the corner of Main and Jensen and radioed the station to call the hospital. He wanted the staff to have a photo of the missing girl and to watch closely for her on Branyan’s floor.

  As of 11 a.m., nobody had seen Katy Lawrence.

  Two

  “Shit on a stick!”

  Rory Dickson removed his old white beach hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The 64-year-old Navy retiree had kept his diminishing hair military-short until this year, when he realized that genetics were kicking his ass and he might as well shave the darn thing bald. He was a big man, a shade over six foot, and physically fit. And superannuated according to his wife, whatever the hell superannuated meant.

  He rather liked being the groundskeeper for Liberty Cemetery. It kept him outside in the fresh air for most of the year, and there was never a supervisor telling him how to do his job. His wife, Evelyn, worked him harder at home than this, and this job paid more than Evelyn did. As for the morbid nature of burying his neighbors, Dickson was a pragmatist. Somebody had to do it. Eventually someone would put him in a tidy box and bury him six feet under. Neighbors helping neighbors.

  He had tackled persistent weeds in the past but nothing like this. A day prior he had first seen the mass of saplings invading the southwest corner of the cemetery. The growth was so thick that he had originally thought it to be a rogue ivy cover.

  He had lowered the deck on the riding mower to cut the saplings to the ground, no matter how loud their protest. The thick wooden stems had clanged against the underside of the mowing deck, as if his head was stuck inside a calypso drum. He had mowed them until they were microscopic stumps in a sea of grass.

  But here they were again, as if he hadn't cut them at all.

  Now they spread down the gentle slope, springing up amid thick grass like camouflaged insurgents. A cluster had formed over three newly-dug graves. Two maple saplings stood particularly tall twenty yards down the hill, as if taunting his inability to contain the advance.

  He considered mowing them down again, but a lot of good that had done him so far. A large dousing of weed killer wasn't the answer either. It might burn the grass and piss off the environmentalists. Then he would have a real frigging mess on his hands.

  As he fixed his hat so that it blocked the sun from his forehead, he remembered how easily his face and head always burned in early spring, and he’d be damned if he was going to end up looking like a ripened tomato over this mess.

  The ham radio on his hip was tuned to an AM band station out of Virginia Beach, which said that today's temperatures would hit the upper 70s along the beach and the upper 80s inland. He guessed it was almost that warm already.

  Maybe this warm spell is causing the vegetation to go haywire.

  Rory ran the ham radio network from a cubicle in the back of the Storyberry Police Department. The network was activated several times per year, mainly for severe weather situations. When the phone lines went down in high winds, ham radio provided a reliable means of communication for emergency crews. Volunteer operators on the network provided storm damage reports to his post, which he in turn relayed to the police and fire department so they knew where to best allocate resources.

  Earlier he had passed the time listening to the morning ham radio roll call. Today the signal traveled well, and he had heard people check in from South Carolina, Georgia, and northern Maryland. For now he contented himself with news from the coast while he decided what to do about the runaway saplings.

  He had experienced ov
erseas combat for a brief period during World War II, and developed a sixth sense of recognizing unseen danger. It was rare that his senses had activated since the war’s end, but here under a placid blue sky he felt an unshakeable feeling of danger.

  He flicked the radio off.

  The wind whispered through the meadow below, carrying the faint growl of motors grinding up Blakely Hill.

  He was alert now, the strange overgrowth forgotten. His muscles tensed, and his eyes scanned the horizon. He was certain he was being watched.

  As the tall grass reflected off the waters of Becks Pond, their image wavering across the wind rippled surface, he thought that the grass could have potentially concealed a skillful enemy, as could have the headstones or the lone mausoleum down the hill. But he didn’t think anyone was hidden in those places.

  He turned to the forest.

  The noon sun exposed the first layer of trees, but the growth deeper inside the perimeter was cloaked in shadow. Tree tops danced with the wind.

  His skin crawled as he recalled the heightened sense of awareness he had felt when enemies were concealed nearby. Damn if he didn’t feel it now. But that was crazy.

  Why would anyone hide themselves in the forest outside of the cemetery boundary?

  The breeze built to a sudden gale, keening through the tree tops like a train whistle. He gripped the beach hat to his head before the wind ripped it away. The front-line of trees swayed as though laughing.

  Towering trees threw samaras to the wind, which helicoptered toward him like enemy aircraft. Rory blinked and looked between the forest and the invasive saplings overtaking the southwest corner of the cemetery. His intuition told him that he was missing something important, that there was a larger issue than the saplings taking root in his graveyard.

  The wind faded to a gentle breeze, and the front-line stood rigid like guards at the gate. No enemy had materialized. His mind was playing tricks on him.