Dark Omen: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel

by Erickson, J. R.

  “It’s Meeks,” she shouted, diving for the remote and jamming her finger on the volume button.

  Weston ducked his head and shielded his face as a reporter snapped his photograph. The flash of the bulb was followed by voices as several other reporters ran up to him.

  “Is it true you were having an affair with the missing woman?” one man yelled, thrusting a microphone in Wes’s face.

  “Was Crystal Childs pregnant with your baby, Professor Meeks?” a woman shouted.

  Bette watched, frozen by the sheer terror on Wes’s face. He looked like a little boy who’d stumbled into a room full of monsters. No one appeared to help him, no lawyer or officer or friend shielded Wes or ran with him to his car. He ran alone, his face a shade of gray that matched the sidewalk beneath him.

  He climbed into his jeep and pulled from the curb, sending a plume of stones back toward the reporters. More bulbs flashed as they caught his desperate escape.

  “That was him?” Lilith murmured.

  Homer, too, had turned away from the window, eyes glued to the screen.

  His cheek twitched, and for several more seconds he stared at the television.

  A photograph of Crystal appeared on the screen.

  “Crystal Childs is a twenty-two-year-old co-ed at Michigan State University,” a man’s voice announced. “She was last seen on the morning of Friday, June fourteenth. If you have any information about Crystal, please call the number at the bottom of the screen.”

  A reporter standing at Frasier Gorge replaced Crystal’s image. The woman was young, not much older than Crystal and Bette, with curly blond hair and fashionable black glasses perched on her strong nose.

  “Crystal Childs’ pale blue Volkswagen Beetle was discovered at the bottom of this gorge eight days ago. The car was driven off the cliff behind me and landed in the woods below. Although search-and-rescue teams scoured the woods for more than two days, no trace of Crystal has been found. Police suspect foul play and have named Weston Meeks, a poetry and writing professor at Michigan State University, a person of interest in this case.”

  “Yeah,” Bette said as the news shifted to the weather report. “That was Weston Meeks.”

  Lilith put a hand on Homer’s shoulder. “I’m flying home today, Homer, but I’m only a call away. Don’t hesitate.”

  He dragged his eyes from the television and looked at Lilith, nodding as if slowly comprehending her words.

  “Home,” he murmured. “Thanks so much for coming, Lilith.”

  He hugged her, but his eyes had taken on the distant glaze they had often held in the weeks and months after their mother’s death.

  At the beginning of Joanna’s sickness, Homer had gone into fix-it mode. He drove all over the country buying mushrooms, tinctures and oils to save his ailing wife.

  When the cancer progressed, despite his best efforts, Homer began to shut down. In the final days of her life, he rarely left the chair by her bed. He didn’t shower or eat unless Lilith forced him to.

  It took years for Homer to emerge from that dark place, and Bette was terrified he might slip into it once more.

  “Dad.” Bette stood directly in front of her father. “I’m going to Traverse City. I want to talk to Weston’s wife and see if I can’t find out more about that girl who disappeared a couple of years ago.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he said.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “You’ve got to keep the pressure on the police. Plus, that reporter from the Lansing State Journal wants an interview. I should be back in time, but if I’m not, you’ve got to talk to him.”

  Homer’s face remained rigid. He blinked and nodded. “Okay. Call me, though. I want to know everything you find out.”

  “Of course.” She hugged her dad. “Lilith needs a ride to the airport.”

  Bette kissed Lilith on the cheek and headed for her car.

  31

  Now

  Hillary Meeks’ white-blond hair framed her angular face. She was pretty in a sterile way, all sharp edges and narrow features. She wore sunglasses and walked with her chin lifted as if she were a movie star, and the paparazzi might descend at any moment.

  And they might, Bette thought, to question her about her husband’s mistress.

  “Hillary! Hillary Meeks?” Bette shouted, hurrying to catch up with the woman as she walked briskly to her car.

  The woman didn’t acknowledge her. She pulled open her door, as Bette caught up with her, and dropped into the front seat. Bette grabbed the door.

  Hillary’s eyes flicked to her hand and Bette saw she intended to wrench the car door closed on it. Bette winced, preparing for the pain.

  Another nurse from the hospital walked to a green pickup truck parked next to Hillary’s car. Bette saw the woman’s eyes narrow at her co-worker. Hillary released the handle of her car, apparently not comfortable crushing Bette’s fingers with a witness present.

  “Please, I’m not a reporter,” Bette whispered loudly. “My name is Bette Childs. I’m Crystal Childs’ sister. Please talk to me.”

  Hillary’s lips flattened into a line, and she threw Bette a withering, almost hateful look. After a moment, the look slid away, and she smiled coolly.

  “I’m sorry for your situation, Bette, but I’ve already spoken with the police. I’m sure I can’t help you.”

  “Please,” Bette said again, still holding the door.

  Hillary stared straight ahead through her windshield, putting both hands on the steering wheel and squeezing.

  “Fine. There’s a park on Union Street. You can follow me there.”

  Bette ran to her car and jumped in. Hillary was already pulling from the parking lot, and Bette had to jam the gas pedal to catch up with her. The woman drove fast and barely paused at stop signs, slamming on her breaks when a lady walking her dog stepped off the curb in front of her.

  Bette found the whole experience unsettling. The woman was clearly angry, and Bette tried to approach the situation in the way Crystal would have, finding compassion for the scorned wife. Instead, she felt her own mixture of emotion: anger, but also fear.

  Hillary whipped her car down a side street and pulled to the curb. She stepped out, and walked down a steep hill toward a slow-moving river. She perched on a bench at a picnic table, her eyes trained on the dark water.

  Bette followed her, glancing both ways. It was a cloudy June day in the middle of the week and not another soul occupied the park.

  Bette sat across from Hillary at the picnic table. She felt as if the woman’s steely gaze passed right through her.

  “I just want to know about Weston. The police said you provided his alibi,” Bette explained.

  Hillary Meeks said nothing. She continued to stare through Bette with cruel indifference.

  Finally, she shifted her eyes to Bette’s face.

  “I told the police Weston returned home on Thursday June thirteenth. He became ill. I saw him the following morning, Friday the fourteenth. He was still vomiting in the morning. I visited a friend further up north and returned in the late evening. Weston was still in bed. What he did in the interim, I can’t say.”

  “How long were you gone?” Bette asked.

  Hillary shrugged. “I left around eight a.m. and didn’t get home until after ten that night. I have a sick friend in Petoskey who I spent a good deal of the day with. Since Weston had been violently ill the night before, I assumed he slept most of the day.”

  “Did you have any idea that—”

  “He was having an affair?” Hillary asked, her mouth turning down. She shook her head. “No, not a clue. He’s a clever man. He knows how to tell a story. Writers usually do.”

  Bette swallowed. “Do you think he did something to Crystal? To hide the affair?”

  Hillary rubbed her eyes. She looked tired, suddenly. Bette noticed small lines fanning like spiderwebs from the corners of her eyes.

  “I found out a few years ago I can’t have children,” Hillary c
onfessed. “Weston loves children. I think that hurt him. Sometimes I wondered if he’d stay, but I never really believed he would, except for the money, that is. Men never veer far from that.”

  “Wes doesn’t have his own money?” Bette asked.

  Hillary sneered.

  “Oh sure, his salary at the university, but it’s not the money he’s become accustomed to.” Hillary sighed, and her shoulders slumped forward. She put her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands, pushing her fingers into her delicate, pale hair.

  Bette almost touched her, some show of empathy, but instead kept her hands close to her own body. The woman probably wouldn’t appreciate comfort from the sister of her husband’s mistress.

  “Do you think he killed her, Hillary? Do you think Wes murdered my sister?”

  Hillary didn’t look at her. She trained her eyes on the picnic table, and after a moment they filled with tears.

  “I hope not. I truly hope not.”

  “Are you going to leave him?” Bette asked.

  The woman looked up sharply and for an instant, her face contorted with rage. The expression turned her instantly ugly, her thin lips pulled away from a snarling mouth.

  She looked away from Bette, seemed to compose herself, and turned back.

  “That’s all the time I have, Bette. Best of luck.”

  She stood and stalked back to her car, not giving Bette a second glance.

  * * *

  Bette stepped into the Traverse City Library and smiled at the woman behind the desk.

  She was a square woman with glossy dark hair parted in the middle. Her shoulders were broad and almost gave her the appearance of wearing pads under her dark blouse.

  “Hi, I’d like to look at old newspapers. Can I do that without a library card?” Bette asked.

  The woman smiled. “Sure can. I’ll need to hold on to your driver’s license, but I can set you up in the computer lab. We have the microfilm in there.”

  Bette followed the librarian, Julie by her nametag, to a little room with three desktop computers.

  “I’d like the years 1989 and 1990, please.”

  Julie loaded the microfilm into the machine and left Bette alone in the room.

  Bette scrolled down, reading headlines.

  She found the story of Weston Meeks’ former assistant on the front page of the Traverse City News from May tenth, 1989: Woman Vanishes from NMU Campus.

  Bette read the article. The girl’s name was Tara Lyons, and she’d disappeared from the NMU where she worked as a teaching assistant for Professor Meeks, who taught poetry and prose classes. Tara was working towards an associate’s degree in English. The girl had last been seen in the student lunchroom, purchasing a bottle of lemonade and a bag of chips.

  Bette studied the Tara’s photo. She had long dark hair pulled over one shoulder. Her head was tilted as she smiled at the camera. She was pretty and wholesome-looking, with big dark eyes.

  Tara was originally from Farmington Hills and had moved to Traverse City with a girlfriend after they’d graduated from high school. Her family was offering a reward of ten thousand dollars for any information that led to their daughter’s whereabouts.

  The next page made a brief reference to the missing nineteen-year-old. The paper a day later had nothing about Tara.

  The following week, on page two, Bette found a short article: No New Leads in the Case of Missing Student, Tara Lyons.

  After that, the paper went dark regarding Lyons until a front-page article on the one-year anniversary of the disappearance. The reward had been raised to fifty thousand dollars.

  The article outlined the handful of hopeful leads that had come in over the previous year, including a tennis shoe found in the Boardman River believed to be Tara’s, which later turned out not to be hers. The police had identified one person of interest. He had a criminal history involving aggravated rape, but produced an alibi for the day in question.

  None, except the first article, mentioned Weston Meeks.

  Bette wanted more information, but didn’t know where to turn. She scanned the original article where Tara’s best friend, the girl she’d moved to Traverse City with, had been quoted.

  “Tara’s one of the most reliable people I’ve ever met. When she didn’t show up for dinner at Mo’s, I knew something was wrong right away. My boyfriend and I drove to the school, but we never found her. Tara wouldn’t just leave. Plus, her car was there. She obviously didn’t run away without her car.”

  The girlfriend’s name was listed as Molly Ward.

  Bette grabbed a phone book and searched, finding three numbers in Grand Traverse County for Molly Ward.

  Bette jotted all three numbers down, thanked the librarian, and walked outside to use the payphone.

  Bette dialed the first number, but received a notice that it had been disconnected. On the second call, a man picked up.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi, my name’s Bette. I’m trying to reach the Molly Ward who was friends with Tara Lyons.”

  “Molly’s my wife,” the man said. “She’s at the store and I can’t tell ya if she’s friends with a Tara Lyons.”

  The man sounded older, in his fifties at least, too old to be married to the now-twenty-one-year-old Molly Lyons.

  “Can you tell me how old your wife is, sir?” Bette asked.

  “Not unless I want a swift kick in the ass,” the man laughed.

  “I understand. Can you just tell me if she’s twenty-one?”

  The man guffawed as if Bette had told the joke of the century.

  “If she is, she has not aged well.” He continued laughing.

  “Okay, thank you. Wrong Molly,” she told him, hanging up the phone.

  She dialed the third number and a younger woman with a small, squeaky voice answered.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, is this Molly Ward?” Bette asked.

  “Yes, it is,” she said.

  “The Molly Ward who was friends with Tara Lyons?”

  The woman didn’t respond for several seconds, and Bette worried she’d hung up.

  “Yes, this is her,” she responded, slightly breathless. “Have you found Tara?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Bette admitted. “I’m calling because my sister has gone missing. Crystal Childs is her name. We live downstate.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Molly said, and she sounded genuinely sorry.

  “Molly, could you tell me about Tara’s relationship with Weston Meeks?”

  Again, the pause.

  “Were they involved?” Bette continued. “As more than teacher and assistant?”

  “No, not technically,” Molly said. “Tara… well, Tara had a bit of a crush on him, but I don’t think he ever reciprocated.”

  “So, as far as you know, they weren’t having an affair?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think Weston was involved in her disappearance?”

  Bette heard a small grinding sound and wondered if Molly had begun to chew her nails.

  “Not Weston, no,” Molly admitted, “but… and I shouldn’t say this because my parents' attorney told me not to, but it’s been two years. Two god-damned years, and nothing.”

  Bette waited.

  “I think Weston’s wife had something to do with it,” she said.

  “Hillary Meeks?”

  “Yes. Right before Tara disappeared, she’d found out some disturbing shit about Hillary. She didn’t tell me what, only that she was afraid for Weston. She thought he didn’t have a clue who he was married to.”

  “You have no idea what she found out?”

  “No. I tried to figure it out after she disappeared, but I ran into a brick wall trying to get any information about Hillary. People are tight-lipped about her. Money and power and all that crap.”

  “But she’s a nurse. Where’s the money and power coming from?”

  “Beats me,” Molly admitted.

  “Any clue where Tara mig
ht have discovered something about Hillary?” Bette asked.

  “Kind of. Tara went to visit her cousin in Marquette the week before she disappeared. She came back all keyed up, like she’d stumbled on something that really freaked her out, something that had to do with Weston’s wife.”

  “Did you tell the police all this when Tara vanished?”

  “Oh yeah, absolutely. But word around town was that the police were on Hillary’s side. She has connections there, maybe. I don’t really know. I was in way over my head, and when I started insisting they look at Hillary, someone contacted my parents' lawyer and told them I’d be getting sued if I kept slandering her. I’m pretty sure they threatened my dad’s job too. He works for the Road Commission. My parents told me to stop talking about it.”

  “Molly, do you have contact information for Tara’s cousin in the UP?”

  “Yeah. Her cousin’s name is Whitney. I still talk to her every couple of months. Staying connected to each other helps us feel closer to Tara. Hold on just a second, and I’ll grab her number.”

  Bette wrote down Tara’s number and promised to call her if she discovered anything.

  Whitney’s boyfriend answered the phone when Bette called. He explained that Whitney was working at a pub in downtown Marquette and wouldn’t get off her shift until late that night.

  “What’s the name of the pub?” Bette asked.

  “Maury’s,” he offered.

  Bette hung up and looked at her watch. It was just before noon. Whitney worked for another eight hours; the drive to Marquette would take five. Bette hadn’t intended to drive further north or to stay overnight, but once the thought popped into her head, she couldn’t shake it.

  She dialed her dad.

  The phone rang and clicked to voicemail after several rings.

  “Dad, it’s Bette. I’m chasing some leads up here. I’ve decided to drive to Marquette so I’m not going to make it home until tomorrow—”

  “Hello, Bette. Hello?” Her dad picked up mid-way through her message. “Sorry, I was outside. My neighbor just brought Teddy over, and wouldn’t you know, he chased Chai outside and up a damn tree. I’ve been out there for a half hour trying to coax her down. My shoulder looks like I’ve been attacked by a jungle cat.”