Personal Effects

by J. C. Hutchins

  “I did my part. I stayed away,” he said. His voice was a dusky baritone, low and smooth. “But I knew you’d find me eventually. So curious, just like your mother.”

  I was trembling now. Yes, there was anger here inside me, and heartache, twenty years’ worth. And swirling confusion and fright. And a hunger, in my marrow. A need to know.

  “Why did you kill her?” I whispered.

  Henry’s eyes stared into mine.

  “I loved your mother,” he said. “I did everything I could to save her. Your home, the family, had been under attack for weeks. Will, proud and stubborn and skeptical Will, wouldn’t listen. And when it finally came for one of you—likely you or Luke, we’ll never know—it was … intent. It had been paid, paid in blood, and was there to collect.”

  I blinked. “Who?”

  “The Dark Man.”

  A tear slid down my cheek. This was my 4 A.M. nightmare, yes, I was still locked in the dream, locked in the lockbox, I could feel my head nodding now, stupefied, drunk and stoned all at once, nightmare, yes, Could you be mine?, yes, no. No.

  “No.”

  “It was there,” Henry said. “You saw it.”

  I shook my head again, more resolute. “No. I saw you. I saw you kill her. Killer.”

  “There were villains that day, son. I wasn’t one of them. I’m sorry you lost her. I’m sorry you came away marked, different. I saved your brother, if that means anything to you.”

  “No, it was you,” I heard myself say. Christ, was this really happening? “It could only be you. It must have been. I read the report.”

  “Gods as my witness, it wasn’t,” he said. “Claire was my best friend.”

  I leaned forward, wiping away my tears with a hand jittering so hard, it was nearly worthless. I wanted to pound through this barrier, pound at him.

  “Then who? Who did it? And don’t you talk to me about the Dark Man, don’t you dare say that to me again, fucking lie, you don’t know, you can’t possibly know what kind of misery …”

  He looked at me, his eyes sympathetic.

  “Of course I do,” he said. “Of course I do.”

  “All right. Why?” I asked. “If you’re innocent, why are you here?”

  “The same reason you are,” Henry said. “Dark art. I read the Times story about you and Martin Grace. I saw those words—’the Dark Man’—and I knew. I knew you were coming.”

  My mind frantically scrambled back to yesterday, to my office. Dad screamed at me about the Drake case. He tapped and tore at his copy of the Times. Taylor Family Loyalty … let it go.

  “Lie. No reference to the Dark Man,” I said. I looked up at him.

  “I’m talking about today’s story,” Henry said. “There’s a leak at The Brink. Somebody’s feeding the press. They want to sink you.”

  “Three minutes,” the guard said.

  “Listen to me, Zach,” Henry said. “The Dark Man is a mercenary. It’s a thing summoned from the black to exact vengeance. Terrible vengeance, not justice. Do you understand the difference?”

  It’s always personal, I heard my father say.

  “It isn’t real,” I said.

  “That’s what the atheists say, but God’s still up there.”

  He leaned toward the glass, meeting me halfway.

  “If Martin Grace is haunted by the Dark Man, then he did something unspeakable, unfathomable. Someone paid the black with blood. Someone wants your blind man to suffer. Just like they wanted us to suffer, all those years ago.”

  “It’s a psychological breakdown,” I insisted. “A super-fueled guilt complex, paranoid delusions, conversion disorder—”

  Henry smiled. God, I remember that smile now.

  “You’ll find the path,” he said. “Or the path will find you. Either way, know this: I’m proud of you. I read in the Post about your other patient, the quilter. You listened to her, you worked through her madness to right a wrong. You believe your patients, Zach. You understand that there is truth—sometimes only a speck, but always enough—in what they say. That is wisdom beyond your years.”

  He reached out and pressed his palm against the glass.

  “So very proud of you,” he said.

  My trembling hand met his. I smiled back.

  “‘Dore you,” Henry said.

  “What … ?” I squinted at my uncle, not believing.

  “Time’s up, Taylor,” the guard said. He took a step toward Henry.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, I adore you,” he replied. “I love you, son.”

  He stood, nodded goodbye and followed the guard to the metal door. I was out of my chair, walking down my side of the room, keeping pace, wishing for more time. The men paused as the guard tugged at his keys.

  “Gram … Gram’s dead,” I called.

  “I know,” he said. The guard was unlocking the door now, twisting its handle.

  “Why did she cover it up? Why didn’t she ever mention you to us?”

  Henry gave me a bittersweet smile. “Because I asked her not to.”

  The alarm bell rang. The door boomed closed.

  He was gone.

  16

  The Saturn’s tires slopped through the long, muddy driveway that led to Daniel Drake’s house. I downshifted, letting first gear do its methodical thing. It was a little after 10 A.M. I wasn’t in a hurry; Daniel was unemployed and would probably be home. Of course, that wasn’t guaranteed, but I couldn’t check because his phone was disconnected.

  I was happy to be away from Claytonville and my uncle. Our reunion had played over again and again in my mind on the way here. And the further I drove from civilization, the louder that one-man band became.

  The Dark Man is a mercenary, Henry had said. Someone paid the black with blood. Someone wants your blind man to suffer.

  I couldn’t believe it, not all of it. The demon plaguing my patient was a self-made myth, pure fiction. Wasn’t it?

  I loved your mother. That wasn’t your mother. You saw it.

  Yes, I had seen a dark man that day. But being four years old, I’d probably seen pink pterodactyls flying in the kitchen a week before. My past self wasn’t what I’d call a credible witness. I’d been in shock. The Administration for Children’s Services report from that day had said so.

  And yet, beneath this supernatural babble, I trusted Henry. He’d been a surrogate father to Lucas and I back then, according to my freshly excavated memories. And even when trapped in a place far more hopeless and wretched than The Brink, he’d followed my life the best he could, through pinprick-sized broadcasts in newspaper stories. He’d cared enough to watch me grow, from afar.

  Another side of me spoke up now, its Spock voice cool and logical: You can love a person and still do terrible things to him. A crime of passion. A murder of a mother.

  “She bailed him out of jail, again and again,” I whispered, slowing the car as it neared Daniel Drake’s home. “She was his best friend. Explain that.”

  Madness defies the microscope, Zach-Spock said. The evidence is there. He loved her, he killed her. Some things are inexplicable.

  But the devil’s in the details, I knew. Tiles slide without grout; houses tumble without nails. There were far too many details I’d read and experienced to condemn him in my heart. Dad’s mysterious restraining order … Henry’s waiting at the house until Papa-Jean arrived … my uncle’s sincerity during our conversation … No, I couldn’t do that, not yet.

  He said he was proud of me.

  I couldn’t remember the last time my father said that.

  I trusted Henry in that unquantifiable, ocean-deep way you trust a parent or a spouse. It felt true.

  I pulled up beside an ancient, primer-coated Chevrolet pickup truck. My canvas satchel was in one hand now. My other killed the engine and yanked up the Saturn’s parking brake.

  I stepped out into the crisp country air and eyed the sagging one-story wooden house before me. Like Brinkvale and Claytonville, this pl
ace was heartbreakingly lonesome, forgotten. A thin trail of smoke puffed from its chimney.

  I trudged through the muddy front yard, stepped up to the porch. An overturned garbage can pointed toward the house, undoubtedly the work of raccoons. Fat, sleepy flies buzzed over half-eaten TV dinners and sandwiches. I held my breath, and knocked on the splintered front door.

  It trembled in its frame, then bucked open. Daniel Drake stood in the dimness beyond, his pine-green eyes tight with suspicion.

  He pulled a smoldering cigarette from his lips and gave a loud, wet, rattling belch.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he said.

  I smiled and extended my hand. Daniel did not reciprocate; his right hand held a beer can. He brought it to his lips and took a long swig, his eyes never leaving mine. I lowered my hand.

  “Mr. Grace, my name’s Zachary Taylor. I’m a therapist at Brinkvale Psychiatric. I’m here about your father. He’s my patient.”

  His eyes widened a bit. He was tall like his dad, but far more stocky and muscled. The last ten years had not been kind to Daniel Grace. He was pushing 30 but looked more like 40. He sported the hollow-cheeked appearance of a heavy drinker: worn-down, perpetually nonplussed, run through a meat grinder. His greasy brown hair hung in his face, covering bloodshot eyes.

  I was again reminded of my Anti-Zach days, my personal road to ruin and my discovery of the art within me, my personal salvation. I wondered what I’d be like now, had I not turned that corner five years ago.

  Daniel belched again, this time blowing the stinky air out of the corner his mouth. His stubbled, sunken cheeks puffed as he did this. I noticed a long, pale scar along his jaw line.

  “From where?” he asked.

  “Brinkvale Psychiatric.” A fly buzzed between us in a half-assed loop-the-loop. The stench from the garbage was nauseating.

  “Brink’s not nearly deep enough for that sonuvafuck,” Daniel said. “But I bet you already knew that. What do you want?”

  “Next week, your father will be prosecuted in a homicide case,” I said. “He’s a suspect in a dozen killings, all told. I’ve been assigned to see if he’s mentally competent to stand trial—and, if I can, to learn if he committed the murders. Richard is being—”

  “Difficult?”

  “Yes, he’s resisting treatment.”

  Daniel gave a low chuckle. He raised his eyebrows, telling me to continue.

  “I need to know about his past. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Daniel killed the beer in his hand. He sucked down the last of his cigarette and flicked it past me, into the muddy yard.

  “Haven’t seen him in a decade. Past is all I got. Why’s he in The Brink and not in county lock-up?”

  “He suffers from psychosomatic blindness,” I replied. “He hasn’t seen in two years.”

  Daniel turned and stepped inside the house.

  “Good. Means the monster can’t hunt any more.”

  He glanced back, flashing a brown-toothed grin at my expression.

  “You coming or not?” he said.

  I followed him inside, shoving the door closed. Its underside scraped against the floor. I watched his gait, looking for an indication of the “burn leg” from which he qualified for disability money. There was none.

  Mid-morning sunlight streamed into the living room, past dusty curtains. Despite this, the room was a cold place, oppressive in its gloom. Everything here, from the walls to the worn furniture, seemed old and bruised. Empty beer cans and whiskey bottles rested on a nicked coffee table; more lay on the floor. An open bag of Rold Gold pretzels lay abandoned on the sofa, its remains strewn across a stained cushion. A meek fire crackled in the fireplace.

  An old boombox sat on the sooty hearth, surrounded by a dozen presumably dead “D” batteries. I didn’t recognize its brand. Static-filled classical music whispered from its speakers. Beside this was a small stack of hand-chopped wood and a hatchet. The place stank of cigarettes, body odor, beer and vomit.

  Several framed family photos smiled from a shelf above the hearth. The pictures behind the glass were awkwardly shaped things. Younger versions of Daniel Drake and his late sister were on display, as was their dead mother. A large hunk of each photo had been cut out. Magazine photos of Kurt Russell were taped over the absent father. This was Daniel’s own attempt to “retcon” his past. I felt a pang of sympathy for him.

  A cockeyed slab of wood hung above the shelf. GOD BLESS THIS MESS, its hand-carved letters said.

  No kidding.

  “Sit,” Daniel Drake said, motioning to a chair near the fireplace. “Beer?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Smoke?”

  I shook my head. He grunted and left the room. Above the music, I heard the tinny clank of aluminum cans, the click of a lighter, the thunk of the refrigerator door.

  He returned with two cans, a lit cigarette in his lips. He plopped onto the sofa. He opened one of the beers with a crack and slurped at its frothy head.

  “No lights,” he said, pointing to an oil lantern near the couch. “Didn’t pay the bill. Phone bill, neither. Beer’s warm, tastes like piss. Still does the job.”

  He exhaled, and tapped his ash into a nearby empty.

  “So. Daddy.”

  I nodded. He shrugged.

  “Fire away. Memory lane, fuck if I care.”

  I marveled as he chugged half of the Coors.

  “I’d like to connect with your father, and I think the best way is talking to him about the past,” I said. “But I’ve had a hard time learning about Richard’s early career. From around—”

  “Oh, I know,” he said. “From before the big shittin’ change, back when we were the Drakes and not the amazing Graces. When things were normal, whatever the hell ‘normal’ means.”

  “What did your father do? Before the ’change’?”

  “That’s classified,” Daniel said. He put a finger to his lips and gave a wicked grin. “Back then, Jenny and I thought he was a traveling bank executive or something. Never home.”

  He glanced out the window, surrounded in vaporous smoke. In this, Drake’s son and I were alike. Absent fathers.

  “But when he was here, it was good,” he said. “He knew just what to say, how to talk to us. He wasn’t hard on us, didn’t need to be. It’s like he knew we were gonna break the rules before we did. Heh. ‘Think about it,’ he’d say, just out of the blue. ‘Do the right thing.’ It was weird, like he was reading our minds.”

  He turned back to me. His eyes were glassy, a little angry. He finished off the can, crumpling it in his hand.

  “I learned a little more … later,” he said. His stomach lurched, and another burp hissed from his lips. “Mindbender. Fuckin’ sigh … cology. Prisoners.” His eyes squinted cheerfully, as if he’d heard a joke. “Detainees is what they call ’em now.” “I don’t understa—” I began.

  “Did you know he destroyed us?” he interrupted. “Did he tell you that? ‘Course he didn’t. He comes home from his six-month trip, spooked to shit, and then we had to leave, change our names, our fuggin’ lives. It was like that show, “The Pretender.” Brand-new identity, tear up the past, it never happened. You ever watch that show?”

  I told him I hadn’t.

  “Changed our names, man. Fuck him and his war. I changed mine back.”

  He cracked open the second beer, staring at the floor, saying nothing. A faraway symphony hissed from the boombox.

  “You said Richard was frightened,” I prompted, “when he came home. Came home from where?”

  Daniel hummed a melody I didn’t recognize.

  “Eh? Right?” he said, his eyes wide now. “National fuckin’ anthem, See-See-See-Pee. Moscow or something, I don’t know. We moved, it wasn’t explained. I thought he’d blown a whistle on some bank fraud or something. Witness protection, Dad was a hero, he thought about it and did the right thing. And then …”

  He took a deep drag of his cigarette.

  “ …
and then Mom and Jenny were killed, and it was just me and Dad. And he lost it, man, he just fuckin’ lost it, started obsessing about death, jumping at shadows—literally jumping at shadows—and then we moved out here to B.F.E. He said we’d be safe here.”

  “From what?” I asked.

  “From the monster … but … but I didn’t know that then.” Daniel blinked slowly now. The man was hammered. “Life in the fucking boonies. But people were nice, at first. One lady, Bethany Walch, dropped by a few weeks after we came here, introduced us around, took a—hah—a keen interest in the Widower Grace, if you catch my drift.”

  “They had a relationship.”

  “Depends on your definition. The next week, she got threshed right along with the hay.”

  His glazed eyes glittered.

  “It’s quiet out here. We heard her scream three miles away.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said.

  “Few days later, he sits there, right where you’re sitting, and tells me that he’s responsible, he killed her. Which is bullshit, and I said so, cuz he was standing next to me when she died. He doesn’t listen.” He opened a fresh can of beer. “Then he tells me something worse is coming. He tells me my girlfriend’s going to die on the Scrambler, he’s seen it, and he’s telling me about it now so he can stop it from happening.”

  “Scrambler?”

  “Carnival ride, pitches you around, makes you wanna fuh”—Daniel belched here, wiped his mouth with the top of his wrist—“fuckin’ puke. Here’s the thing, mister, the thing that’ll crack that fuckin’ brain of yours. I didn’t have a girlfriend when he told me that. And then a few weeks later, I did. And the carnival came, and I didn’t listen, and we went.”

  “And she died,” I said.

  He touched the long scar on the side of his face. “Yeah.”

  “Did your dad know the girl before he told you this?”

  Daniel Drake looked at me. The cigarette hung from his lips. Smoked streamed into his watering eyes.

  “He saw her picture in the paper. It was Ms. Walch’s daughter. Her picture was in the Sunday paper, the day after her momma died.”

  Daniel’s face twisted into a snarl. He plucked the cig from his mouth and pitched it to the hardwood floor, mashing it with his work boot. His voice was cold now.