Asylum Lake (6 page)

Deputy Frank Griggs didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he knew from the way Sheriff Tanner was white knuckling the steering wheel that it must be serious. More than once the cruiser had swept into an oncoming lane of traffic as it sped around slower vehicles. They were breaking every rule of the road, and Griggs could feel his stomach lurch at the thought of what they might be hurrying toward.

The Sheriff eased his foot off the accelerator as they entered the city limits. Their speed dropped from well over one hundred down to just over seventy. Bedlam’s lone stoplight hung dark and heavy over Main Street as the cruiser passed beneath it. Without power, storefronts and lawns were enveloped in a murky grayness. The flashing reds and blues of the lights atop the car cast eerily hypnotic shadows against the quiet backdrop of the sleepy little town. Somewhere in the storm clouds overhead the sun was nearing the horizon. Below however, Bedlam Falls was entombed in premature nighttime.

Buck Tanner’s voice cut through the silence, “I came into the station right after Johnny left.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Maddie took a call from Ken Reed, something about his babies being dead.” He spoke as if he were testifying at court, brief answers that revealed simple facts and little else. “Something happened and she lost him…Ken, that is. The line was open but all she heard was… a thump.”

The cruiser skidded from the pavement onto the rough and rocky gravel of Sigler Road as Buck cranked the wheel hard to his left. They could see the flashing lights of Johnny’s car in the distance through the sheets of rain. Once again, the Sheriff pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and then added in a rough whisper that sounded like sandpaper as the words scraped between his lips, “She spent fifteen minutes listening to Gilligan’s Island…till the storm knocked the power out,” a final pause as he set his jaw and turned to Griggs. “And that’s about the last time anyone’s heard from Johnny.”

Griggs swallowed slowly as the full impact of what was unfolding settled over him. He reached for the .38 at his side and brought it out from its holster. With the flick of his wrist the short-barreled pistol snapped open to reveal a full cylinder. It spun as he snapped it closed. In his three years as a Deputy, Griggs had never drawn his gun on a call. Now that he held it in his shaking hand with the very real possibility that he may have to use it, it felt heavy with the weight of responsibility.

“Every time you draw your gun you hold a life in your hands,” Sheriff Tanner had told him the day he pinned the badge to his chest. “Sometimes to save a life, you have to take one,” he added. And then giving his hand one firm shake he continued, “And as much as you try to convince yourself that it all balances out in the end, it doesn’t. It’s best just to let God worry about the math.”

The cruiser skidded to a stop at the end of the driveway announcing their arrival to anyone within earshot. Buck had the door partially open even before the car stopped rolling. “Cover the back,” he barked to Griggs as he drew the cannon he kept holstered on his hip. It was a .44 Magnum, the same gun Clint Eastwood would make famous in his Dirty Harry movies. He sprinted towards the house without looking back.

Griggs leapt from the vehicle with his .38 in hand. He leaned into the blowing rain and made his way through the yard as the Sheriff disappeared into the darkened garage. Wind and rain aside, the place felt too quiet. He crept to the side of the house and peered in a window. Shadows on top of shadows greeted him.

He continued along, slowly making his way to the backyard. The faint sound of banging and creaking could be heard. Griggs felt his stomach tighten and paused before rounding the corner, both hands clutching the gun. Through the rain he could see a tire swing dancing in the wind. The limb overhead creaked each time the tire struck the large maple. He exhaled slowly as he surveyed the back of the house. A gas grill stood alone on a small cement patio with what appeared to be outdoor furniture neatly stacked beside the grill.

The yard extended beyond the large maple tree into a densely wooded area.
State land
, Griggs thought, as he stared into the trees, it went on for miles all the way to the lake and old hospital.

His attention returned to the house as a shadow passed quickly behind the window. He approached and stood on his toes to look inside, nothing. He reached for the flashlight on his belt and brought it up to the window. As he contemplated whether to switch it on and alert whoever was inside to his presence, a streak of lightning illuminated the entire yard. It was followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that pierced the silence. The brightness lasted only a millisecond, but it was long enough for him to see the body of Kenneth Reed lying motionless on the floor inside. Reed’s eyes were open and his lifeless gaze burned through the window.

Startled, Griggs jumped away from the window and pressed his back against the house. His yellow slicker provided little refuge as the cold rain soaked him to his core. He shivered as he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

Fuck it!
He thought, switching on his flashlight. Its beam sliced through the darkness, yet provided little comfort. He ducked under the window and took four long strides to the back door. The locked handle jiggled in his hand.

Griggs stepped back and raised his heavy foot to the door and kicked it in. He entered like Jack Lord, full of confidence and ready to kick ass. Shattered glass and splintered wood littered the floor. Ahead, an open door revealed stairs that led down to the basement. As he swung the beam to his right the light fell over the kitchen counter; pooled blood covered everything. The darkened basement could wait, he decided, and proceed into the gruesome kitchen.

The cabinets, countertops and backsplash were encased with gore. Blood-soaked towels were strewn everywhere as if someone had tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to clean up. In the center of this gore sat a plate of chocolate chip cookies. As he stared at the cookies, Grigg’s attention was drawn to a lump of towels in the sink. He fought the urge to scream as he looked in horror at a pile of tiny feet and hands stacked in the sink, there were too many; three feet, four? How many hands? Griggs’s mind couldn’t register what he was seeing.

The Sheriff’s words echoed inside his head;
Maddie took a call from Ken Reed, something about his babies being dead. And then, something happened and she lost him.
Griggs turned quickly from the sink, retching, as a distant and muffled groan broke the silence. Johnny,” he whispered as he followed the bloody tracks and drag marks into the living room, “Sheriff, is that you?”

The light fell on Ken Reed’s bludgeoned body. His face, neck and chest were slick with blood. The phone rested on the floor beside his outstretched hand. It too was bloodied. The Deputy scanned the room and saw the streaks and spatters that covered the walls and furniture and even the television. Looking down at the lifeless body, he instinctively reached down to check for a pulse, although clearly, there was no need. As his fingertips touched the fresh blood and the cooling flesh, he jerked his hand back.

Griggs followed the trail of gore deeper into the house as it led down the hall. Thunder rolled overhead as the wind picked up intensity, sending sheets of rain beating down on the roof and against the windows. Occasional flashes of lightning accompanied the thunder. And, as much as Griggs cringed at the sight of the carnage those lightening flashes revealed, it was what may be waiting unseen in the shadows that sent a cold stab of fear into his heart.

Buck Tanner had seen a lot in his 20-plus years in law enforcement. As a young deputy in 1959, he had been the first on scene to a wintry twenty-three car pileup. The stark contrast of the warm blood melting into the cold snow had been almost more than he could take. Luckily, instincts and training took over and it wasn’t until hours later after he had returned to the relative privacy of the station that the shakes and tears erupted.

The worst, however, had been a farming accident. Although not uncommon in rural communities, this one had been especially grizzly. It was the summer of 1964, his first as Sheriff, and he had been called out to Dick Reynolds’ place. The old man had set off with his grandson in the combine harvester at sunrise. They packed jelly sandwiches, pears from the tree in the backyard and a jug of water. They weren’t expected back until late in the afternoon.

Shortly after 7:00 that evening Mrs. Reynolds had grown worried and put in a call to the station. By the time the Sheriff had rolled up in his cruiser, a group of five or so neighbors and friends were loading into trucks to drive the fields looking for the pair. Buck climbed into the passenger seat of Dale Watson’s truck and for an hour they drove down the dirt gullies and tracks of the farm’s four hundred acres. Dusk was falling when they stumbled upon the boy. He was walking aimlessly through the fields, his face red and wet with tears.

It took some time but as the boy led them back to where the combine was parked they coaxed the story out of him. His grandpa had run into a rock or something and got out to see if he could move it away. The combine was old and stubborn and, much like the old man himself didn’t take kindly to starting and stopping.

Dick left it idling and went to work digging the rock out of the dry earth. His grandson, just a few weeks shy of his eighth birthday, quickly became bored and restless in the cab of the great reaper. All of those levers and buttons started looking a bit too interesting and before he knew it the combine was roaring to life and once again spitting plumes of black smoke into the air.

In no time, the rotating thresher blades began to shuck the skin from Dick’s bones like so much ripened corn from their husks. His screams echoed across and in between the rows of corn, causing great flocks of crows to take flight with shouts of their own. The boy hit the kill switch and jumped from the cab only to find bits and pieces of his grandfather clinging to stalks of corn four rows deep in every direction. The reddened teeth of the reaper smiled menacingly at him as he ran screaming into the stalks.

Now, seven years later, Buck stood staring down into a bathtub filled with…God knows what, and for the first time since that muggy summer night in the cornfield felt his stomach clench, and despite the cold rain clinging to him, beads of sweat spilled over his brow. He removed his Stetson and wiped his already damp forearm across his slick forehead.

The beam from his flashlight rose from the butchered remnants in the tub to rest on the single blood-scrawled word on the tiled wall above. The air whistled out of him in a whisper, “I’ll be God damned…”

His mind raced to connect the dots. At the sight of that word scrawled in blood an odd sensation of déjà vu washed over him. I’ve seen this before, he thought.

As he stood in the dimly lit bathroom on the verge of clarity his world went black, courtesy of a nine-iron to the back of his head.

Lionel’s world was quickly unraveling. Bodies and their assorted parts were now strewn across the entire house. He vacillated between tears and laughter as the voice inside his head screamed instructions. The man from the garage was still alive, although barely so. The steak knife had broken off in his chest. But the garage was full of tools and the screwdriver was sharp and fit nicely in Lionel’s small hand as it tore into the man’s flesh. The lad’s swinging arm had eventually tired from the effort.

The man moaned as Lionel dragged him by his ankles through the kitchen and to the basement steps. It took some effort but he found the strength to kick him down. His limp body rolled to the bottom where it landed with a moist and sickening thud.

Once the first deputy arrived, the voice assured him more would be on the way. Lionel hid in the linen closet and watched through the louvered door as the second officer slowly made his way through the house. The voice screamed in fury as the man passed in front of the closet on his way into the bathroom.
Her blood is on your hands! You let them take her! The price for blood is blood!

A short while later Lionel sat quietly on the floor in the twins’ room, careful not to further disturb their desiccated butterfly wings. The golf club rested beside him, its steel shaft twisted and slick with blood. The voice in his head had grown quiet, leaving him alone with his thoughts and quite exhausted.