Dark Omen: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel

by Erickson, J. R.

  They would have gone further. They nearly did.

  A phone rang in the office next door. The shrill sound startled them both.

  Weston paused, his mouth hot on her shoulder. He continued lower, kissing her chest, moving toward her breast.

  But then it rang a second time and someone answered.

  “Hello?” The wall between the offices muffled the woman’s voice.

  Weston stiffened and stood.

  His hands slid away from Crystal’s back.

  She didn’t reach for him, though she wanted to. His nervous, dazed expression told her the magic of the moment had slipped away.

  He peered at the floor and rubbed his jaw before returning his eyes to hers. He looked ashamed.

  “I—” he started.

  She watched the apology forming on his lips and placed her hand over his mouth.

  When she took it away, she put a finger to her lips.

  She slipped the MSU sweatshirt over her head and stepped close to him, kissing him fiercely.

  Without another word, she walked out the door and down the hall.

  The rain had subsided, and Crystal ran across campus to the Union, where she ordered a coffee and sat in a little plastic booth watching the traffic crawl by on Grand River Avenue.

  Her body seemed light and fluttery. If she stood naked before a mirror, she imagined she’d witness all the little atoms popping and whirring. She reached beneath her sweatshirt and touched the space on her shoulder where he’d last kissed her. She could still feel the impression of his mouth, not on her skin, but in her, as if for those drawn-out moments they’d melted together.

  After an hour, when the buzz had worn off, she called Bette.

  8

  Now

  Bette sat elbow to elbow with her dad in the little dive bar called Captain Mike’s. Prior to that, it been named Captain Kurt’s, and before that Captain Craig’s.

  Despite the change in ownership and a slightly modified name; the nautical decor, the dim lighting, and the rank smell of beer spilled onto old carpeting remained.

  “Why’d you choose this place, Dad?” Bette asked, grimacing when her arm stuck to the grubby table.

  He looked at her, surprised.

  “Captain Craig’s? This place is great. Your mom and I used to come here all the time. She went into labor with you at that table right over there.” He pointed to a table in the corner, occupied by a group of middle-aged men drinking tall glasses of beer and arguing about the baseball game playing on the little TV above the bar.

  “How charming,” she grumbled.

  “Plus, this place puts people at ease,” Homer added. “Lots of cozy corners. It’s loud enough. Setting is important when you interrogate someone.”

  “Interrogate?” Bette asked, surprised.

  “I think it’s an appropriate description,” he replied.

  The waiter, a middle-aged man with the weary gaze of a guy who’d spent too many years working in a bar, stopped at their table.

  “What can I get ya?” he asked.

  “A ginger-ale for me,” Homer said.

  “I’ll have water, please. With lemon,” she added.

  Homer shook his head. “Make hers something dark, Coke or Pepsi.”

  “Eew, no,” she argued.

  Homer put a hand on his daughter’s arm.

  “They look like alcoholic drinks. We want to put him at ease, Bette. I want him to order a drink and he’ll only do that if he thinks we’ve done the same.”

  “Fine, Cherry Coke, then,” she told the waiter.

  “And put them in short glasses, please,” Homer added.

  The waiter brought their drinks, sliding them onto the table as Weston walked in.

  Bette did a double take when she saw him. His long hair had been sheared above his ears and his beard was gone.

  “That’s him,” Bette mumbled under her breath. She saw her father train his eyes on the man who had entered.

  He looked like a clean-cut college boy rather than the scruffy hippie-type Bette had met weeks before. He wore dark jeans and a green Michigan State University t-shirt. The removal of his facial hair made him look younger, more like a student than a professor.

  He spotted Bette and smiled tensely, waving.

  Sliding into the booth, he held out his hand.

  “Hi, Mr. Childs. I’m Weston Meeks. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Homer extended his own hand, shook Weston’s, and then signaled to the waiter.

  “What will you have?” Homer asked as the waiter returned.

  Wes glanced at Homer’s and Bette’s drinks.

  “Ummm… I guess I’ll have a scotch and soda. Thanks.”

  The waiter nodded and left.

  “Let’s get right down to it,” Homer said. “Crystal was supposed to meet Bette yesterday at five for the anniversary of Joanna’s death. This is a big deal. They do this every year. They go to dinner and then to the cemetery. Were you aware of that?”

  Weston blinked at Homer.

  “Umm… yeah. No. I didn’t know they went to the cemetery every year. I knew the anniversary was coming up because Crystal told me last week.”

  “But she didn’t show,” Bette said. “And she’d never miss it.” Her voice was rising, and Homer rested his hand over hers, a silent signal for her to stop talking.

  “Crystal is spontaneous. That is true,” Homer relented. “But more than that, she’s considerate. Under no circumstances will Crystal hurt someone’s feelings or stand them up. So, when she missed her scheduled date with her sister, Bette was immediately alarmed.”

  “Yeah, of course,” Wes agreed.

  Bette gazed at the glass but noticed Homer kept his focus on Wes.

  Homer stared at the man intently. “Do you know where Crystal is, Weston?”

  The waiter returned with Weston’s drink and he took a sip before answering.

  Wes shook his head. “No, not at all. Like I said, I haven’t seen her since Wednesday.”

  “Have you spoken with her since then?” Homer continued.

  Wes shook his head again, picked up his drink and finished it.

  Homer signaled to the waiter.

  “Oh, no, I’m fine,” Wes argued, but Homer ignored him.

  “A refill, please,” Homer said, gesturing at Weston’s glass.

  “No, I haven’t talked to her. I tried to call her a few times, but—”

  “But she didn’t answer and didn’t return your calls?” Homer asked.

  Wes nodded.

  “Is that usual, Weston? To not speak with my daughter for three days?”

  Wes opened his hands.

  The waiter returned with his second drink, and he immediately clutched it.

  “Not really. We talk most days, but… well, sometimes we don’t. It just depends…”

  “On what?” Homer inquired.

  “I’m sorry?” Wes asked, and when he lifted his glass, Bette saw a slight shaking, though he tried to hold the glass steady.

  “What does it depend on?” Homer asked.

  “Oh, well. I mean if I’m busy or she’s busy.”

  “So you’re saying it has happened before since you started dating? You’ve gone three days without talking to Crystal?”

  Weston’s eyes shot towards the bar, scanned the other people, and returned to Homer before flicking down to his glass.

  Bette realized Weston was struggling to look Homer in the eyes.

  “No, not really. We talk almost every day.”

  “I see. And where do you think Crystal is right now, Weston?”

  Wes’s gaze jerked up and he glanced at Bette before taking another drink.

  “I… we sort of had an argument. I thought she needed a couple of days to cool off. Maybe she took a drive somewhere. She has friends out west…”

  Bette sputtered, planting both hands on the table. “Are you kidding me? Crystal would never hop in her car and drive out west without telling any of us. That’s insan
e!”

  Again, Homer’s hand crept to hers. He gave her finger a little pinch.

  She shot him a furious look.

  Wes looked back and forth between father and daughter.

  “I didn’t know you hadn’t heard from her,” Wes explained. “I assumed she was only ignoring me.”

  “And what exactly did you fight about?” Homer asked.

  Weston blushed and looked away. “Nothing really. Just… The usual couple stuff.”

  “No, I’m sorry, you must elaborate,” Homer insisted. “Couples are very unique after all. I’d imagine the arguments myself and my wife had were very different than those between you and Crystal.”

  Weston shifted his hands into his lap.

  “I had to go out of town next weekend, and that bothered Crystal. Her friend is in a play at the Wharton Center and she hoped we could go together. She got upset about it and left.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Crystal,” Bette interrupted.

  “I have to agree with my daughter there, Weston. Crystal is not one to get upset about such things.”

  Weston sighed. “She did. I don’t know why. Maybe there were other things she didn’t say.”

  * * *

  Officer Hart met Homer and Bette in the lobby.

  “Come on back,” he told them, leading them to his cubicle. He dragged an extra chair from a nearby desk. “I put Crystal’s information in the system as a missing person’s case yesterday and there’s a Be On the Lookout for her car. No sightings have come in. Based on the information you’ve provided we’re going to escalate to a potentially endangered missing person, but this can be deescalated any time if we receive information that implies Crystal left of her own free will.”

  “She didn’t,” Bette insisted, “and we just questioned her boyfriend. He cut his hair and shaved off his beard, and he was clearly lying.”

  Hart frowned. “You questioned him?”

  “We simply had a drink with him to ask if he’d spoken with Crystal,” Homer clarified.

  “Okay. Well, that’s our job from now on. Got it? I need a list of her co-workers, last people to see her, friends, everyone,” Hart said.

  He handed a sheet of paper and pen to Bette and she started writing.

  9

  Then

  Crystal didn’t see Professor Meeks until class that Wednesday.

  He kept his gaze carefully averted from her own, but slipped once, and when their eyes met, he lost his train of thought as he’d done previously in his lecture. He apologized, returned to a stack of notes on his desk and veered into a topic about opening lines.

  “Unlike books, poems do not have to make their intentions known in the first line,” he told the class. “Though I challenge you to do so. Consider Merciless Beauty by Geoffrey Chaucer: Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly. Their beauty shakes me who was once serene. From those two lines, what do you think the poem is about?”

  A girl in the front row raised her hand.

  Weston nodded at her.

  “I think it’s about unrequited love,” she said.

  “Good. Why?” he asked.

  “Well, he writes that her beauty shakes him when he was once serene. So, he’s in love with her, but it’s not reciprocated because he’s using words like slay and shake.”

  “Very good.” He pointed to another student with his hand raised. “Tell us your thoughts, Ronnie.”

  “I thought maybe he was facing down a dragon,” the student said. “Or a Medusa. I mean, Medusa turned men to stone when they looked at her, right? Maybe he’s talking about a literal she-monster.”

  The students laughed, Weston included.

  “We know from history that Chaucer wasn’t talking about a literal she-monster, whatever that is,” Weston explained. “But I like where you’re going, Ronnie. Poetry is meant to ignite something in each of us. We don’t need the poet’s reason for writing the poem. We need to discover what the poem reveals about ourselves.”

  Weston’s eyes flicked up to Crystal as he spoke.

  “The love might not be unrequited. Perhaps it’s merely a love so passionate it threatens to burn the writer alive.”

  He glanced away from her, but Crystal felt the weight of his words.

  When class ended, she packed her backpack slowly, slipping out the door as Weston quickly ended a conversation with a student, promising they’d talk more during his office hours the following day.

  She left the building and walked across campus.

  The cool April sun turned the puddles of melted snow into thousands of shimmering mirrors.

  Crystal heard Weston’s footsteps behind her.

  She strode into the library, pausing to glance back at him. He still followed, his leather bag slung over one shoulder. He pretended not to see her, though a little smile played on his lips.

  She took the staircase at the back of the building, going to the fourth floor. The rows were mostly empty. The only sounds came from the heat pushing through the metal vents overhead.

  Crystal walked into an aisle and pretended to look at a book.

  She didn’t turn when he entered the row, stopping beside her and studying the shelves.

  Crystal didn’t move. Her shoulder pressed against his. She waited, the seconds stretching out until finally his hand slipped around her waist.

  “My nights have been centuries since I last touched you,” he whispered, leaning so close she felt his breath in her ear. “A jumble of endless hours with your face, your breath, your smile violating my every thought.”

  He stepped in front of her, sliding his other hand to her back.

  “I missed you too,” she murmured.

  He kissed her, and some part of her collided with him in a space beyond their physical bodies, as if her soul had stepped out and embraced his.

  They were in the annex, a rarely used section of the library that was filled with narrow aisles, between shelves and books that looked like they hadn’t been checked out in decades. The annex had the musty, woody smell of ancient books.

  As she tilted her head back and Weston pressed his mouth into the hollow beneath her throat, she saw an ocean of dust sparkling in the single beam of sunlight coming through the tall window at the end of the annex. The dust, more like a thousand sparkles, shifted as if all the tiny particles were on a journey out of the annex and into the daylight.

  “My flame-haired goddess,” Wes whispered, kissing her collarbone now, pulling her blouse open and moving lower. “You’ve put a spell on me.”

  An aisle over, someone pulled a book roughly from the shelves. A woman’s high, annoyed cough followed.

  Crystal clamped her mouth shut, straightening as Wes paused with his lips on her chest.

  The moment was reminiscent of their last encounter in his office and, for a moment, Crystal feared Weston would get spooked a second time.

  He looked up at her, biting his lip to keep from laughing.

  Relieved, Crystal’s own laughter gurgled and burst forth before she could rein it in.

  The woman made an irritated sighing sound as if she’d just discovered two children drawing nude pictures in the books.

  Crystal heard her move down the carpeted aisle.

  Before the woman passed their row, Wes grabbed Crystal’s hand and dragged her deeper into the annex.

  “Come on,” he whispered.

  He tugged her down a narrow hallway.

  “What’s back here?” she whispered.

  She’d only ventured into the annex a few times and had never noticed the dark hallway in the back of the section.

  “Storage,” he said trying doors, which proved mostly to be locked. The third one wasn’t.

  When he opened the door, they discovered a tiny room, not stuffed with books, but containing several worn armchairs.

  “A daydreaming room,” she whispered.

  “A dream-making room,” he corrected, his lips tickling the sensitive contours of her ear.

  She shiv
ered, and goosebumps rose along her arms.

  He sat in a chair and pulled her onto his lap. As they kissed, he buried his hands in her hair, massaging her scalp, tilting her head back to run his fingers over her delicate throat.

  They kissed for an eternity until the bright light of day softened and flowed in amber rivers across the shabby carpet.

  “Come home with me,” she whispered.

  He pushed her long hair away from her face and studied her.

  She saw something in his eyes, that murky secret crawling into the recesses, taking refuge from her gaze.

  “Yes,” he murmured.

  10

  Now

  Bette stood in the crowd of people. Police officers and volunteers swarmed the dirt parking lot that lined the wooded expanse behind Crystal’s apartment building.

  It was likely to be a futile search. If Crystal had wandered into the woods, her car would be sitting in the parking lot, but after four days and no leads, Bette managed to convince Hart to organize a search party.

  Hart stood next to Bette, watching other officers dividing searchers into groups.

  A bearded man, wearing a cowboy hat and a stained white t-shirt, broke from the throng of people and ambled over to Hart and Bette.

  “Are you Officer Hart?” the man demanded.

  “Yes. What do you need?” Hart asked, his eyes barely registering the man as he continued to scan the group of people.

  “My name’s Alvin,” the man told him. “I found something.” He shifted his bloodshot brown eyes from the officer to Bette and then back to Hart.

  “I’m sorry, just now?” Hart asked, paying closer to attention to the man before him.

  “Last night,” the man said. He spoke in a deep gravelly voice. “Real late. I called the police station, and they said the man working the missing girl’s case would be here. So here I am.”

  Hart glanced at Bette and she thought he might ask her to leave.

  She wouldn’t go.

  “I was parked up by Frasier Gorge last night around midnight. I sleep in my truck most nights and there’s a gorge up there, a nice little spot to park and look out over the trees. I was sittin’, havin’ a smoke, when a little girl stepped out of the road and onto the dirt lot.”