The Gated Trilogy

by Matt Drabble

  “Well, I’ve got to be honest, Thirlby always freaks me out a little,” Emily said.

  “Likewise the sheriff,” Thom added. “When he caught me in the Beaumonts’ house, I didn’t know what he had planned but it wasn’t an after school special.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that he just wanted to scare you straight, young man,” Samuel said, with a slight reproach.

  “Oh, hey, I’m not denying that I deserved a little spook, but you didn’t see his eyes; the way he was dragging me out the door, he looked like he only had evil intentions. It was only when Michael surprised him that he stopped, and boy did he look pissed. Then there’s Mr. Stark,” Thom said in a small, quiet voice; the whole room dropped their eyes and looked down at the floor.

  “So what are we saying here?” Sarah-Jane asked, a little testily. “I’ve lived here all my life and up until this morning I thought that it was a pretty perfect place to live, and now all of you …” She paused and blushed furiously, but pressed on regardless, “…I’m sorry, but outsiders move in and start tearing the place down.”

  Samuel held her hand gently and looked deeply at her. “No one is saying anything, other than perhaps we should take a closer look. The last thing that I want to do is upset you, SJ, but I worry about you more than anyone else here; no offence.” He smiled at the room. “If people here are in danger then I want you to be safe more than anyone.”

  Sarah-Jane looked up lovingly at Creed. “So what can we do?”

  “Well, when I want to find out anything when I’m working, it all comes down to the writer’s least favourite word in the dictionary: research,” Michael said.

  “Where do we start?” Emily asked.

  “Well, Darnell told me quite a tale about the history of the town and of Casper’s twisted family tree. It probably doesn’t have anything to with today, but you never know. We should pull some skeletons out of some dark closets and take a look at the mouldy bones. Doc, see what you can drag up on Jessica’s medical history: what she was taking, what Lempke diagnosed her with, etc? Let’s also take a look at modern Eden; how many others have died mysteriously in accidents or unlikely suicides or just plain disappeared?”

  “My father!” Thom suddenly blurted. “My father just upped and left one day. My mother won’t talk about where or why; do you think…?” He looked to Michael with tears in his eyes for comfort, but Michael had none to offer.

  ----------

  Casper called the meeting to order.

  The faces that greeted him were filled with eagerness and anticipation.

  They were waiting to be fed and led. The room positively crackled with hope and eagerness and Casper held the news that they were all dying to hear within the yellow folder.

  The pages held the very prosperity of the town and all of their futures and presents within the printed word; so much rested on so little and all rested upon his shoulders.

  ----------

  Deputy Kurt Stillson hung his uniform inside the plastic body bag, ready for cleaning; the shirt and pants stared at him from across the room.

  The festival was only days away and his attendance in full uniform was apparently mandatory.

  He had given serious thought to burning the clothes as soon as he had taken them off; it was only his stubbornness that prevented him. He knew that it was only his imagination that fed him odours of death clinging to the fabric.

  The teacher had been hanging from the banister and although he had never actually touched him, he could feel the very presence of fatality buried in the cloth.

  Kurt bristled at his own shortcomings; Tommy Ross had taken over with a natural leadership, shaping the situation into one of order amidst the chaos.

  Kurt, however, had stumbled around like a tourist. He had dreamt of a real crime falling across his lap for months and when one finally had, he had been found wanting.

  Tommy had presented the sheriff with a full rundown when he’d appeared on the scene and Quinn had taken over, quickly dismissing both of them outside to look for witnesses. For reasons that Kurt was still unsure of, Eden seemed to operate almost entirely on its own authority.

  There had been no state cops arriving on the scene, taking over the investigation, as you might expect - no outside interference ever seemed to breach the town walls. Quinn had quickly announced that Mr. Henry Stark, biology teacher and apparent paedophile, had taken his own life.

  Quinn had not deigned to furnish them with any further details. Kurt had spoken to the surrounding neighbours - surreptitiously of course. After all, this was Eden and maintaining the balance was always the priority.

  No one had seen or heard anything: no one coming or going from the house.

  Apparently Mr. Stark was a quiet, well-mannered man, pleasant to his neighbours and all round nice guy. Apart, of course, for the large stack of grotesque and highly illegal child porn material that the sheriff had pulled from the house, carefully concealed in a brown paper bag.

  Kurt knew that Quinn had only been searching the house for a matter of minutes before he’d emerged with the exceedingly guilty material, along with a more troubling suicide note.

  Kurt had stepped closer to the body than Tommy had, although he had not admitted such to the sheriff. Kurt had not seen any note, either on or near the body.

  Normally, Kurt was very much in favour of going with the flow as a life philosophy, and the apparent suicide of a teacher with monstrous tendencies should not alter that. But somehow it still itched inside, somewhere deep.

  ----------

  Michael was rolling his bike out onto the road when the sheriff’s car pulled up alongside him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Torrance.” The sheriff’s tone was friendly and open, but his deep voice boomed with authority.

  “Sheriff,” Michael said, fighting the impulse to tip an imaginary cowboy hat. “What can I do for you?”

  “Perhaps we should talk inside, sir?” The question was posed, but never really existed.

  Michael led the hulking man back inside the empty house and into the kitchen. “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Why not.”

  Michael poured two cups from the machine; despite his usual preference for tea, he was gaining a taste for the bitter caffeine rush.

  He laid the cups on the counter and sat on one side on a stool facing the sheriff.

  Quinn eased his massive bulk onto a metal stool on the other side of the counter and used it to support his knee off of the floor with a wince.

  “Old football injury,” he said catching Michael staring. “Plays up from time to time.”

  “Must be tough, you know, in your line of work.”

  “Well it’s not really like the TV; we’re rarely called upon to chase killers through the streets of Eden.”

  “Just graffiti artists,” Michael joked.

  Quinn’s face darkened. “Crime is crime, Mr. Torrance, and we take all kinds extremely seriously here in Eden.”

  “Hey, me too,” Michael said in an appeasing tone. “Hang ‘em all, for all I care.”

  Quinn stared for a long time and Michael was glad for once that Americans seemed to have trouble telling when he was joking or not. “Well, I wouldn’t quite go that far, sir,” he smiled.

  “So what can I do for you today, sheriff, only…” Michael looked down at his watch.

  “It’s about young Mr. Bray.”

  “Thom?”

  “Exactly. I am aware that young Thom has spoken to you and your wife about, um, his experience at school.”

  “You mean when he was nearly molested or worse?” Michael snapped, annoyed at the sheriff’s tactful manner.

  “Exactly.”

  “Have you arrested the teacher, this Stark?”

  “There was no need.”

  “NO NEED?” Michael exploded. “After what he tried to do, there’s no fucking need?”

  Quinn’s plastic smile faded. “I would appreciate it if you would refrain from using that kind of language, sir.”

&
nbsp; “Are you kidding me?” Michael near shouted incredulously. “There’s a paedophile teacher on the loose and you’re worried about my language?”

  “He’s not on the loose, he’s dead,” Quinn stated.

  Michael was suddenly shocked into silence as he processed the information. “Dead? How?”

  “Suicide; he hung himself.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  “That must be the writer in you, Mr. Torrance, asking such pertinent questions.”

  Michael could feel the barely suppressed anger that bubbled under the sheriff’s surface. The large man was all smiles and politeness, but it all seemed a little too forced: a little too perfect, a little too Eden. “Was there a note?”

  “Yes, yes there was,” Quinn stated.

  The sheriff’s face was granite. His expression was impassive and impenetrable; only his eyes seemed full of life.

  “What did it say?” Michael asked snappily, growing tired of the dance.

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential; suffice to say that the note was, shall we say, appropriate.”

  “What happens now? What happens to Thom?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, I think that it would be best for the boy if he didn’t have to go through a long drawn out investigation. From what Thom says, there was only the suggestion that something might have happened. This is a small town, Mr. Torrance, and word would soon spread about the embarrassing details, and that surely cannot be good for the boy.”

  Michael wanted to argue, if only for the sake of it. Something about Quinn just rubbed him the wrong way. But there was no doubt that with Stark dead, it would only bring about humiliation for Thom, however unfairly.

  “What about the school board, the principal? Surely someone must be responsible for employing Stark. Someone didn’t do their homework.”

  Quinn’s eyes suddenly blazed as though Michael’s accusations were directed at him and Michael felt extremely nervous. The house suddenly felt very empty and deserted and his closest neighbours were gone. No-one would hear his shouts if the bear opposite him reached over and snapped his neck like a chicken bone.

  “Well that is something that we will be looking into, sir, rest assured.”

  Michael did not feel assured. “What exactly is it that you want from me, Sheriff?”

  “Only your utmost discretion, Mr. Torrance. We’ve spoken to the boy and his mother and I have personally guaranteed them that all of the details will remain strictly confidential. I only ask that both you and your wife would honour the family’s wishes as well.”

  “Then you have it.”

  “Marvellous, then I will be on my way. See you at the festival, Mr. Torrance,” Quinn said as he heaved his vastness up and out.

  Michael walked him to the door; the sheriff walked a little too closely, seemingly enjoying his immense size and the natural intimidation that it brought. The sheriff walked with a slight limp and paused in the doorway. The sun streamed in through the gap and Michael raised his hand to shield his eyes.

  “We’ve got ourselves a nice town here, Mr. Torrance. We aim to keep it that way,” the sheriff said with a friendly tone that Michael didn’t quite buy, before adding, “No matter what,” in such a tone that he did.

  ----------

  Dr Samuel Creed sat thoughtfully at his desk. The office was quiet today and appointments were scarce.

  His receptionist had taken a half day with his blessing as he’d wanted the place to himself. This town was an enigma to him, much as Michael had stated to him. The whole “Heaven on earth and twice as nice” motto was wearing a little thin by now.

  He had been seduced by the thoughts of a town free from the horrors of the outside world.

  The first year or so had been a whirlwind of pleasures; calm and peace reigned over his world and he’d bathed under its warm glow.

  The depression of his time drowning under the yoke of the various, but always similar, emergency rooms of LA had slowly drained from his thoughts and mind.

  His LA days had become mired in hopelessness and self-medication. Each day had dawned darker than the last and no matter how much he slept he was always tired.

  Eden had indeed been true to her name; she had offered him a way out, a chance to become a doctor again rather than a pit stop mechanic.

  In this small, pretty town, he had found his calling once again; he was a helper and a healer. Polite and friendly people called into his office during civilized business hours and they chatted over coffee calmly and with social graces.

  His finances had grown, along with his peace of mind, and he’d made acquaintances rather than friends, but that suited him fine.

  His life was so full of people during the day that he often longed for solitude after hours. That was until he’d met Sarah-Jane.

  She was a bubble of happy joy, one that was far more infectious than any disease he’d ever encountered.

  Their dates had progressed charmingly slowly. For all of his growing desire, slowly was just fine with him. His life had been a closed book for so long now that he knew it would take time to open the pages again.

  With a final look around outside the office to make sure he was alone, Creed headed downstairs to the basement.

  The doctor’s office was on two levels, with the lower floor given over to storage for all of the town’s hard copy files.

  He thought back to his early days in town when he had taken over from Dr Lempke.

  The old man had been a strange one, to be sure. Lempke was a small, skinny man who did not project an aura of health and vitality.

  He was around five feet four with a slightly hunched stance; he had a crooked hawk nose and deep set eyes that had made Creed uneasy just to be looked at.

  Lempke was close to seventy when they’d met and had insisted on staying on for an additional six months - that grew to eight - in order to ensure a smooth transitional handover.

  Creed’s initial interview had been before a town council that had consisted of Casper Christian as town manager, Malcolm Lempke as the town’s outgoing doctor and Sheriff Quinn, for reasons that he was never entirely sure.

  The interview had been intense and all encompassing. His life had been pulled apart. His records, education and his private life - every corner had been examined under the brightest of spotlights.

  It had actually been a relief to find that the town took his appointment so seriously. If it was indicative of their interview techniques and acceptance standards then he would fit in here just fine.

  Despite the town’s reputation, he had never felt able to leave the records’ room unlocked.

  He opened the large padlock that he had personally installed and swung open the basement door. The fusty smell radiated from the room; cardboard boxes sat upon large metal filing cabinets that lined the walls, encasing the entire room.

  The metallic sentries stood guard, holding the entire town’s medical history. He knew that he was breaking all kinds of rules - both personal and professional - by planning to share any information that he found on Jessica Grady.

  He knew that Casper would fire him on the spot for such a breach, but his job no longer seemed as important to him as the truth. He knew deep down, in the places that we don’t like to visit very often, that something was rotten here.

  Eden was perfect, but that very perfection must come at price somewhere along the line, and what worried him the most was just who was footing the bill.

  Unbeknownst to his new friends, and even Sarah-Jane, he held his own secrets, as several times he had patched up mysterious injuries to townsfolk that the sheriff brought in. A broken arm here, a bloody face to be stitched there, and, to his shame, he had never asked the origins of these wounds.

  It was an unspoken rule that he was merely to perform his duty in silence and without question.

  The strange thing was that the injured parties had always seemed more ashamed than injured. Heads were bowed and gazes
averted and the sheriff had stood tall in the examination room, his massive frame dissuading all conversation. His powerful arms were folded across his broad chest and his eyes were dark and cruel.

  Creed knew that something was wrong and he should be more troubled than he’d acted. His intentions had been eroded by time; the sun always shone and his days were happy.

  His life was far removed from the days of crushing depression in LA and he had found that a man would do almost anything for a sound night’s sleep.

  So he splinted the occasional arm and stitched the occasional wound. He didn’t know just what these occasions had meant, but he knew that he should have asked and his shame was intensified by his new friends' concerns.

  Michael and Emily were new to town and Thom was just a boy, but they were all unwilling to turn a blind eye to whatever was going on here.

  Creed knew that it was about time he stood up and asked a few questions of his own, starting with Mrs. Jessica Grady.

  He began scanning the cabinets, checking for surnames. He ran his finger along the cool metallic surfaces; the room was gloomy but, despite his being alone, he felt a strange aversion to turning on the lights.

  His ears were constantly attuned to the building around him, listening for any telltale creak of a floorboard announcing unwanted arrivals.

  The filing system appeared to be alphabetical, but when he got to the G’s there was no Grady to be found.

  He checked and double checked. He scanned the files all around the room; only one cabinet was bereft of labelling and he pulled the top drawer open.

  It was resistant at first and the drawer moved with a soft, tight squeak and Creed had to jiggle it all the way open.

  The files were of various ages; some were yellowed with time and the dust irritated his nostrils, whilst others were newer and brighter.

  His fingers flicked over the paperwork until his eyes caught on the name Grady. He plucked the folder from the cabinet and pulled it out into the low light.

  A sudden noise from above him made him pause. A creak on the floor. The door to the basement room swayed gently as a soft breeze brushed against it. Creed knew that the breeze must have come from the outside door being opened.