Devil's Playground

by D P Lyle

  He smiled. “Not bad, anyway.” He took a sip from his drink. “What happened when you found him? Did he try to get away or resist arrest?”

  “No. Just stood there like he was expecting us. The kids were dead. Hanging in the entry way to an abandoned mine shaft by their ankles like sides of beef. Their hearts were lined up on a crude stone alter. A silver cup half filled with their blood. Garrett covered with blood. The stuff of nightmares.”

  *

  When Sheriff Charlie Walker tossed the Rodriguez brothers in jail, it wasn’t the first time. Not even close. But, it was the first time in five months, which was a record for the two. Judge Westbrooke had promised “a couple of years in the slammer” if they stood before him again. His threat had worked, until tonight.

  The Sheriff’s Department was an old and tired, single story wood and stucco structure. Its weathered gray paint needed attending, but the budget didn’t allow for such niceties. The front door opened into the reception area, where Thelma Billups’ desk sat. Thelma was secretary, custodian, PR director, and part-time jailer rolled into one.

  Along the sidewall, a door led to a short hallway and Charlie and Sam’s offices. Each was small but had a window that faced Main Street, which made them less claustrophobic.

  Two locked doors cut through the back wall. One led to the Evidence Room, where twenty years worth of finger print cards, police reports, and a few knives and guns filled floor to ceiling shelves. The fact that two decades of crime could be stuffed into one 10 by 10 foot room with space left over, spoke volumes about how quiet things typically were in Mercer’s Corner. The other door opened to the jail area, where three cells awaited lawbreakers.

  It was through this later door that Charlie led Juan and Carlos.

  Charlie held the iron-bar door open as the brothers stumbled into the cell, each falling onto a bunk. “Damn it, Juan,” Charlie said. “You promised the judge, and me, that you boys were going to clean up your act and now you go and wreck Red’s again.”

  Red’s, the local bar, pool joint, honky tonk all in one, attracted the country music, shit-kickin’ crowd and hosted frequent fights, an occasional knifing, and rarely small arms fire.

  “Sheriff Charlie, we was just drinking and minding our own business.” Juan rubbed his blood-shot eyes with heels of his hands. “It was that trucker dude that started it. Then, he run off.”

  “I’ll let Judge Westbrooke decide that tomorrow.” He clanked the door closed and twisted the key, locking them in for the night. “You boys get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  *

  Juan, older than Carlos by three years, taller by four inches, and heavier by seventy pounds, most of which hung over a wide, strained leather belt, swung his legs around and sat on his bunk, eyeing his brother. “Maybe Judge Westbrooke will let us off again. It’s been awhile since we seen him.” He inspected his left shoulder. “Besides, that son-of-a-bitch hit me with a pool cue. What was I supposed to do? I’ll tell Westbrooke that it wasn’t me that started it.”

  Carlos looked past Juan into the adjacent cell where a man in orange prisoner’s garb sat cross-legged on his bunk.

  “Who we got here?” Carlos walked to the bars that separated the two cells. “What’s your name, boy?”

  No response.

  Juan turned and looked at the man.

  “You hear me? What’s your name?” Carlos said.

  The man remained motionless, cross-legged, eyes closed, breathing slowly with a slight rocking motion, hands resting on his knees.

  Juan stood and joined his brother at the bars. “Maybe he’s deaf?”

  “Hey.” Carlos shouted.

  The man remained frozen.

  Juan snatched a metal cup from the corner sink and raked it across the bars. Nothing. He hurled the cup at the man. It sailed past his head, struck the far wall with a clank, and fell harmlessly on the bunk near the man’s left hand.

  No movement, not even an eye flutter.

  Juan tolerated being ignored about as much as a pool cue to the head. He gripped the bars, blanching his knuckles.

  “Look at me, asshole,” he shouted. “Who the fuck are you?”

  The man remained impassive, neither opening his eyes nor turning his head. He calmly raised a hand and extended his index finger toward them. “Silence.” The hand returned to his knee.

  Juan recoiled as if struck. No one, not the Sheriff, not Judge Westbrooke, not his old man, not his nagging wife, not anyone told him what to do. Ever. His eyes flashed with rage. “Listen, you little shit, come over here and say that. I’ll snap your geek neck.”

  Again, the finger impaled them. “Silence.” The voice, calm and quiet, slapped him, mocked him.

  Juan’s anger flared. He wanted to rip the bars apart and slam the man’s teeth into his lungs. The frustration of seeing this arrogant prick so close, yet out of reach, fanned the flames of his rage. With clenched fists, he paced back and forth like a tiger in a zoo, which searched for some way to reach the gawkers, who loitered beyond his cage.

  “Hey, I know who you are,” Carlos said.

  Juan whirled, eyeing the man, then his brother. “Who?”

  “That’s that dude killed those kids. I seen his picture in the paper. He’s that Garrett creep.”

  “You kill those kids?” Juan said.

  The man remained inert, no sound, no change in expression, no movement except the slow rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

  “He’s a fucking psycho,” Carlos said, flopping back on his bunk.

  Juan watched the man for several minutes before stretching out on his own bunk. The alcohol that coursed through the brothers soon pulled them into a deep sleep.

  *

  After finishing their meal, Sam and Nathan talked for nearly two hours. To her surprise, Nathan proved easy to talk with, casual, interested, not the high voltage grilling she had expected. Maybe it was his relaxed demeanor, the two beers she had drunk, or his smile, but for whatever reason, she regretted her earlier abruptness. Maybe he wasn’t a bottom-feeder after all.

  “When you heading back to LA?” Sam asked.

  “Tonight. Unless I have some reason to stay?” He flashed his perfect teeth at her again.

  Good genes or capped? Sam couldn’t decide which.

  “I don’t think so,” she frowned. “Besides, I bet you have a covey of quail waiting for you in LA.”

  “I have a deadline waiting for me in LA.”

  She noticed he didn’t deny the covey. In spite of herself, she found him attractive. Not the life partner type of attraction, but more the one night fling variety. Another time, maybe. Here, now, not likely.

  She walked out with him. As he opened his car door, he turned to her. “Now that the trial is over, I doubt I’ll get back this way. I’d hate to think this is goodbye. Why don’t you come to LA sometime? We could take in a play or go to the beach.”

  She eyed him. A casual grin split his model perfect face. “We’ll see.”

  “Who knows,” he said, “maybe I will come back.”

  “We don’t have beaches or theater. But, we could sprout a three-headed baby at any moment.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I’ll call you. If that’s OK?”

  “Sure.”

  He climbed in his car and cranked the engine.

  “Be careful,” Sam said. “There are a lot of crazies on the road.”

  “I will. See you soon, I hope.” He drove out of the lot and turned north toward the freeway.

  *

  Juan Rodriguez woke with a start. A knife-like pain shot through his right eye and exploded in his brain. He sat up, clutching his head between his massive hands, attempting to squeeze the pain into submission. It eased slightly. When he opened his eyes, the dark cell flashed a brilliant Day-Glo orange, then pastel green, indigo, soft yellow, the colors changing and swirling and melting and dripping. Wherever h
e looked, the colors consumed everything. The bars flashed a brilliant coral, the walls a scintillating green, and the floor a kaleidoscope of silver, gold, and red.

  He struggled off his bunk, amazed he could stand on the wildly undulating colors beneath his feet. He looked at Carlos, who slept undisturbed, apparently oblivious to the transformation occurring around him.

  As Juan approached his brother, Carlos’ eyes, though half closed, showing only a sliver of white, flashed as if a bloody laser had struck a perfect diamond, releasing shards of ruby light in every direction. Juan towered over his brother, shielding his eyes from the glare.

  Again, the pain ripped through his head, causing him to cry out, but the sound lodged in his throat like gravel.

  Juan wrapped his thick fingers around his brother’s throat, pushing both thumbs into his larynx.

  Carlos awoke, eyes wide, confusion and fear etching his face. He tore at Juan’s powerful hands, excoriating his flesh, attempting to pry his fingers loose. Twisting, writhing, legs flailing, he couldn’t escape his brother’s vice-like grip. He lashed out, slamming one fist and then the other against Juan’s face.

  Juan saw the blows, sensed their impact, but did not feel their pain. He heard the sharp crack of his nasal bones as they fractured under Carlos’ onslaught. A tooth fell from his mouth and in slow motion tumbled onto Carlos’ chest. Iridescent orange blood erupted from his nose and mouth, ran down his arms, and dripped onto his brother’s face.

  Juan tightened his grip.

  Somewhere, deep in his brain, shrill voices arose, screaming at him, pleading with him to stop, to expel the insanity that drove him. The chorus of protest rose to a wail that reverberated in his skull, but he could not escape the compulsion that drove him.

  He pressed his thumbs downward, using his body weight, until he felt a sharp snap as Carlos’ windpipe shattered. He released his grip, stepped back, and watched as Carlos ripped at his own throat, seeking to open a passage to his lungs, his body bucking, his chest struggling to pull air through his collapsed airway. Their eyes met, Carlos’ beseeching him for help.

  Again, the voices swelled in Juan’s brain, imploring him to help his brother, but he could not respond, could not move. He stood impassively as Carlos’ frantic gyrations weakened, slowed, stopped.

  Juan turned from his brother and unbuckled and yanked free his wide leather belt. Standing on his bunk, he looped it around his neck, then tied the end to the upper most cross bar of the cell, and stepped off.

  The belt strained; the knot slipped but held, dangling his body against the bars.

  Again, the chorus rose to a shrill crescendo, attempting to capture his focus. The voices should have induced fear and panic and frantic activity, but they sank unheard into the chaotic colors that swirled in his head.

  He made no attempt to save himself. No kicking, gasping, or clawing. No twisting, screaming, or climbing the bars to slacken the noose. Juan hung quietly, his arms limp at his sides, his life slipping away.

  Chapter 6

  After the first good night’s sleep in three months, Sam crawled out of bed, showered, and slipped on a sweatshirt and pants. She fed Scooter a half can of Friskies Seafood Platter, which he inhaled while she munched on instant oatmeal and a banana. Then, she settled in her bay window with a second cup of coffee. Scooter joined her and went about his post-breakfast bathing duties.

  Another gray day greeted her through the panel of twelve-inch square panes of glass, which she had intended to wash two months ago. Before Garrett. Maybe later this week, she thought.

  Despite the dismal day outside, she felt energized, as if an oppressive weight had been lifted from her. No more trial, no more sleepless nights, and soon, no more Garrett. Death penalty or life in prison, either way he was off to the big house and out of her life. Things could return to normal. Window washing and other neglected chores could be completed. She could finally get her Christmas shopping done. She and Scooter could sleep in.

  Then, Sheriff Walker called.

  Fifteen minutes later, she stood over the bodies of Juan and Carlos, shaking her head. Carlos lay across one bunk, frozen in a contorted pose of agony, while Juan’s massive form lay face down on the cell floor, his belt around his neck.

  “What happen, Charlie?” Sam asked.

  Charlie Walker, leaning against the cell door, gnawing a toothpick, shrugged. “Looks like Juan strangled Carlos, then hung himself.” He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “He was hanging from the bars there when I came in this morning. I took him down; couldn’t let him just hang there.”

  “Why’d he do it?”

  “Don’t know. Those boys were as close as any two brothers I’ve ever seen. Maybe they were afraid Judge Westbrooke would send them away like he said.”

  “He wouldn’t have. You know that and I’d bet Juan and Carlos knew it too.”

  “Probably.”

  “Then why?”

  “Beats me.” Charlie lifted his Stetson, ran his fingers through his hair, and settled the hat into place once again, giving the front brim a tug, his eyes sinking into its shadow. “Strange that he didn’t jump off nothing, just hung there. Must have taken awhile to die.”

  “Has Ralph seen the bodies?”

  Doctor Ralph Klingler, the pathologist at Mercer Community Hospital, served as County Coroner.

  “Yeah. Said it looked like a murder-suicide to him. He’ll do autopsies later today. Vince Gorman is on the way to take the bodies to the hospital morgue.”

  “What about him?” Sam jerked her head toward Garrett, who sat on the edge of his bunk, staring at the floor.

  “Says he didn’t see anything.”

  “That true?” Sam asked, eyeing Garrett through the bars of his cell. “You didn’t see or hear any of this?”

  Garrett raised his head, looked at her, but said nothing.

  “Not much to say now, Slick? Not like in court yesterday.” Sam locked her eyes with his, refusing to give him the high ground.

  “Matters of this world are of no interest to me.”

  “I know three kids and their families who would say otherwise.”

  “Merely tools. A means to an end, nothing more.”

  “You are one cold blooded son-of-a-bitch,” she said, turning away, shaking her head.

  “Sorry about Mrs. Beeson.”

  “What?” Sam whirled to face him, noting that a faint smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. “What about Connie Beeson?”

  Garrett said nothing.

  “Listen up, jerk,” Sam spat. “What do you care about Connie Beeson?”

  “It’s sad, is all. One of those unfortunate twists of fate. Or so it would seem.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” His calm arrogance infuriated her.

  “It was an accident, wasn’t it?” His eyes narrowed. “Big truck, going the wrong way, driver full of alcohol and speed, ball of fire? Something like that?”

  How could he know the details of Connie’s death? Who would have told him? Was the trucker intoxicated? She hadn’t heard any confirmatory reports. Just Charlie’s and Cat Robert’s suspicions. In fact, she doubted if Ralph Klingler had completed the autopsy yet. But if he had, how would Garrett know the results? She glanced at Charlie and raised a quizzical eyebrow, but Charlie merely shrugged. She returned her gaze to Garrett. “How do you know that?”

  “I know everything.”

  “Look, Slick,” Sam said, “don’t try your mind games here. They didn’t work on the jury and they sure as hell won’t work on me. How’d you know about Connie Beeson’s accident?”

  “There are no accidents. All is predestined, scripted.”

  “Listen, Garrett, don’t fuck with me. I’m not in the best of moods right now, so answer the question,” Sam said.

  “Are you threatening me, Deputy Cody?”

  The sarcasm in his voice drove her to the edge of control. She wanted to shoot the smug son-of-a-bitch where he sat, but decided against it
. The paper work alone would probably kill her. She forced herself to remain calm.

  “No, Mister Garrett. I’m not threatening you. Wouldn’t be fair since you’re already dead.”

  “So it would seem to the casual observer,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting further.

  Their eyes locked in a dance in which neither lead, neither followed, like two Sumos wrestling for leverage.

  Garrett walked to the bars and spoke in a low, almost seductive voice. "I've often wondered what would have happened had we met under different circumstances."

  Sam stared at him in disbelief. Was he hitting on her? Richard Earl Garrett, psycho, child killer, flirting with her? Her mind went blank, her jaw slack.

  Garrett's eyes moved down her body, then back up. "I find you incredibly attractive. So much so, that I've often dreamed of you."

  She glared at him. "When exactly did you lose your mind? Were you born crazy or did you work to get that way?"

  Garrett laughed. "Anger, lust, passion. They're so close to one another don't you think?"

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Emotions. Strong ones. They co-mingle so often. And we have no control over them. Like dreams, they are what they are."

  "OK, Slick. Here's a dream for you. You, strapped in a chair, metal cap on your shaved head. Me, throwing the switch."

  Again, he laughed. "See? You do love me after all."

  Sam wanted to punch him. Or shoot him. Instead she turned and walked away, leaving the lock-up area, Garrett's laughter trailing after her. Charlie followed.

  She paced back and forth in Charlie’s office. He flopped into his chair.

  “I hate the way that son-of-a-bitch gets to me,” she said.

  “That’s what he tries to do.”

  “He’s just so arrogant. So sure of himself.”

  “That’s all he has left," Charlie said. "He knows he’s a dead man. The only thing he can do now is piss you off.”

  “How’d he know so much about Connie’s accident? Has Ralph done the autopsy or gotten any of the toxicology back yet?”

  “He said he wouldn’t have anything until later this morning.”

  “So, how does Garrett know the trucker was drunk and drugged?”