Hand Me Down Evil (Hand Me Down Trilogy) (11 page)

“We will be giving you updates throughout the day about the search for Amber Lawrence, the child who disappeared from Grayling yesterday following a car explosion, and about Catherine Singleton, who was assaulted early this morning in Grayling and who remains on life support at the local hospital,” the Sheriff announced. “As you may have already heard, we are treating both incidents as being connected due to the relationship between Amber and Catherine. Catherine’s son, Peter, was married to Amber’s mother, Scientist Victoria Lawrence. The couple divorced about a year ago. There is also some evidence that Catherine may have seen Amber shortly after the abduction,” he said.

The Sheriff cleared his throat again, glanced down at a notepad on the podium and continued, “Several hours ago, Catherine Singleton lapsed into a deep coma after someone tried to suffocate her with a pillow right in her hospital bed. Medical personnel have concluded that she has no cognitive ability, no sensory perception, and no hope of recovery. In short, she is permanently brain dead. Doctors have decided to remove all life support apparatus. Hospital personnel received the appropriate authorization from her son Peter, who also authorized us to talk to the press.”

Then the television broadcast cut to a live view of my house. A reporter, a tall, slim woman in her late twenties with dark straight hair and pleasant features was standing on the dirt road just to the rear of my bungalow. “The police, working closely with the Crawford County Sheriff, have not been able to locate Amber who has been missing since yesterday evening,” the reporter announced. The camera zoomed to a close up of the rear of my house and clipped to a photograph of Amber that I had given the police officers following the explosion. “We will keep you updated as developments come in on this story,” the reporter said. “Anyone with information is urged to call the Grayling Police Department or the Crawford County Sheriff.”

“Hurry up, Celia. We have to go,” Mark said, grabbing my hand. I hopped out of my seat and ran after Mark.

“Where are we going?” I asked, as we made our way out of the bar and headed for the beach house.

Absorbed in his thoughts, Mark jogged ahead of me, still clutching the bag with the hamburgers and fries, and I trailed close behind. I had forgotten just how difficult it was to run on the beach, and I could feel small granules of sand swish around in my sneakers.

Mark paused for a moment, whirled around, and waited for me to catch up. “We’ve got to go to the hospital, got to convince them not to take Catherine off of life support,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

And then he started running again, with his hand grasping mine. The fierce wind blew my hair in all different directions. Everything seemed so loud, disjointed, terribly in flux. The waves crashed upon the shore with violent blasts. With the wind tugging at me, I let go of Mark’s hand as I staggered up the beach, and my breath came in short gasps. Mark was barely audible as he yelled at the top of his lungs, trying to tell me something while he hobbled on the sand. I struggled to keep up with him. The anxious look on his face had intensified.

With the sound of the waves and ominous thunder roaring in our ears, Mark and I finally reached the beach house, moved around to the front, and climbed into the pickup. Mark stuffed the key in the ignition and threw the truck into reverse, and the vehicle bolted out of the driveway and onto the dirt road.

I was still gasping for air, and my heart beat furiously in my chest. But now that we were in the truck, I was able to ask him why it was so important for us to head to the hospital.

“Catherine is not brain dead,” he said. “The doctors think that she is, but she is very much alive. If they pull her off of life support, she won’t be able to breathe, and she will die. Catherine knows the doctors are in her room right now. She is trying to tell them she is fine, trying to move a limb, a finger, utter some sound to catch their attention. The old lady is trying very hard to tell them that she has to warn you about what happened to Amber,” he said.

“Caution me about what?” I asked. I could feel the adrenaline shoot through my veins.

As he drove, Mark closed his eyes for a split second and then reopened them abruptly. He clutched the wheel and gave me a sharp look. “Catherine sees the eyes of the person who kidnapped Amber,” he said. “She knows those eyes, knows who the eyes belong to. Even with makeup smeared all over his face, the person who kidnapped Amber is a man, not a woman. She knows this, realizes at this very moment that it had always been him. She sees him in her mind’s eye, peering at her with those dark, intense eyes. It had always been him.” Mark’s voice was passionate. “She knows those eyes,” he repeated. Then his voice trailed off, became a whisper, “Catherine has just realized that this person has an imbalance, a chemical imbalance, and that he will continue to torment her until her last day.”

“W
ho?” I screamed. “Who is this person?”

“I can’t tell, but she is starting to remember. Her mind is searching through decades of unconscious memories, locked away in the filing cabinets of her brain. She is thinking about her youngest son Brandon now, remembering how she used to take him and Peter for walks. How she used to love him so much, how she misses him, how she still loves him, thinks about him every day. But then the person with the chemical imbalance, with the wretched soul, wretched little soul, her tormenter, takes Brandon from her and she remembers his eyes, sees them clearly now, sees darkness and then in the midst of a black void, sees two intense eyes peering out at her. It was always those eyes. Catherine is thinking that nothing has changed much in her life. Her tormentor has followed her around for decades. She now knows who killed Brandon and who kidnapped Amber. They are one and the same person. She is beginning to remember everything. The memories are all rushing back to her now like a steamship blasting through the night fog.”

I sank back in my seat quietly, mesmerized by Mark’s words. I did not want to interrupt him. I yearned to hear more, craved to comprehend what really happened to Brandon that night. I wondered what Catherine was trying to tell the doctors. What did she want to warn me about? Who was the person whose eyes Catherine recognized?

I was so deep in thought that I did not realize that the truck had stalled. Mark jumped out of the truck and kicked the tire. “Darn it,” he said. Mark ran over to the passenger side and swung the door open. “We’re out of gas. Come on, we’re not that far from the hospital.”

I hopped out of the truck, and we started running as fast as we could down the dirt road. But I was tired and cold and I found it increasingly difficult to even drag myself up the lonely path.

Mark glanced at me but did not seem to notice that I had run out of energy. He held on to my arm, and I struggled to keep up with him as the chilly wind stung my cheeks and nose.

When the hospital was only a few yards away, Mark suddenly relaxed his grip on my arm. He bent down and clutched his knees with his hands, out of breath.

Across the street from the hospital sat a frozen yogurt shop, a small diner, and a gas station. Without any explanation whatsoever, Mark slowly, deliberately moved toward the yogurt shop and collapsed on a bench near the front door. I crumpled next to him and threw him a quizzical glare.

A young couple in their early twenties strolled past us and entered the diner. Mark did not seem to notice them as he rested his cheek on my shoulder and closed his eyes, his mood despondent.

“Why did you stop? The hospital is just across the street,” I said, pointing toward the red structure.

Mark said nothing.

I felt that I should dash toward the hospital, bolt into Catherine’s room, and beg the doctors to give Catherine a chance. Bewildered, I glared at Mark, giving him a searching look. He did not sense my stare or my presence, for that matter. He appeared to be deep in thought.

Mark sat up straight, his eyes still shut. “We won’t make it up to Catherine’s room in time. The doctors removed the breathing tube from her mouth, and they shut down all of the machines,” he said glumly. He clutched his shirt near his chest, twisted the cloth, and grimaced. “She feels a crushing weight on her chest. She’s gasping for air, but air won’t go down her throat. Everything is dark.”

Mark’s eyes popped open. “She’s gone,” he said.

W
e bought a five gallon fuel container at the station across from the hospital, filled it up with gasoline, went back to the pickup, and poured it into the tank. Then we climbed inside the vehicle, drove back to the station, and pumped more gasoline into the truck.

Afterwards, we drove in silence to the hospice to give Catherine’s former husband, Sylvester Singleton, a visit.

The hospice was tucked away neatly about a half of a block off the main road at the edge of Gaylord. Had we not been paying attention to the road, we would have missed it altogether since the sign pointing the way was nearly covered with grape vines. The building, a single story yellow brick structure, stood alone in the middle of a great garden, and the scenery was as beautiful as the gardens depicted in Claude Monet’s paintings. Off to the side was a pond with ducks swimming in it, and flowers in assorted colors flourished near the entrance.

“What a lovely place,” I said under my breath.

“What a terrible place. It’s a hospice,” Mark shot back.

“Hopefully, Sylvester will shed some light on Brandon’s death,” I said, as Mark parked the pickup. “Now that Catherine is gone, he might be our only hope.”

“You know we could have made it to the hospital in time if I had not run out of gas. I have been so preoccupied ever since yesterday evening that I did not even realize that I was almost out of gas. It totally slipped my mind,” he said, ashamed.

“After all you’ve done for me, you don’t need to beat yourself up over things like this. Besides, where would I be without you?” I asked.

Mark gave a fake smile. He had sounded sad, and I was beginning to appreciate his soft, concerned side.

We entered the building and were greeted promptly by a nurse at the information desk. The woman, a middle aged brunette with dark eyes, a slender nose, and lots of makeup, asked us who we were visiting.

Mark explained that we wanted to speak to Sylvester Singleton for a brief moment.

The nurse informed us that Sylvester was in the courtyard in the rear of the building and that he should be coming in soon due to the approaching storm.

“Sylvester insists on sitting outside regardless of what the weather is like,” the nurse explained. “He even enjoys sitting in the rain, now figure that.”

She led us down a narrow hall and through a door in the rear of the hospice into the courtyard. There were only a few people outside. The nurse pointed to a thin elderly man with gray hair which looked like it was blond at one point in his life. He was sitting alone in the wheel chair next to a picnic table, his hands folded on his lap. He was wearing an old brown corduroy jacket over a flannel red and black shirt, black slacks, and a pair of furry slippers.

The wind was much calmer in Gaylord than it had been in Grayling but the air was just as chilly. I gritted my teeth. Once again, I began to feel both eager and anxious at the thought of meeting Catherine’s former husband.

The old man was looking down and did not sense our presence. He appeared to be sleeping.

“Good luck,” the nurse told us. “Sylvester is stubborn, forgetful, hard of hearing, and paranoid.” She twirled around and went back into the building, shutting the door behind her.

A
s Mark and I moved toward the old man, I noticed that Sylvester was mumbling something to himself. He seemed upset.

“Good evening,” Mark said to Sylvester.

Startled, the old man looked up and shifted his gaze from Mark to me, and back to Mark again.

“Sylvester, we’re friends of Catherine’s,” Mark said.

Sylvester narrowed his eyes and threw a scornful glare at Mark.

“What does Catherine want?” Sylvester asked. His voice was shrill, hoarse. When he sat up straight, I noticed that his eyes were gray, hollow, and weary looking. He bore a stark resemblance to the young child I had seen in the photographs at Catherine’s house in the morning.

“What does Catherine want?” the old man repeated. “Is she still trying to put me in prison after all these years?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, as I sat down at the picnic table next to him.

The old man ignored my question. Or it could have been that he simply did not hear me. He glowered at me and Mark with obvious disdain.

“Are you from the prosecutor’s office? I told you everything I knew years ago. Why are you still after me? I did not kill Brandon. I would never kill my own child, my flesh and blood. I did not, I tell you.” The man started stomping his feet on the footrest on the wheelchair like a child. “I didn’t do it. I did not!”

I cleared my throat and swallowed hard. “We’re not from the prosecutor’s office,” I assured him. “I’m Celia. I’m just a high school student. My mother was married to Peter, your son.”

Sylvester’s expression softened a bit.

“Oh, your mom married Peter?” he asked, cupping his hand around his ear and learning forward.

“Yes. But they got a divorce a year ago,” I explained.

The old man looked confused. “How could Peter be married? He never confided in me about marrying your mother. Surely, he would have told me. He has been coming to visit me every single week for years.” Sylvester threw his head back and roared with laughter. “How is it possible that Peter married your mother but never told his own father? Now you tell me that, young lady.”

“Sylvester’s got Alzheimer’s,” I told Mark, under my breath. Or maybe Peter really did not tell Sylvester about having married my mother. That was a likely explanation since Mom and Peter eloped and never had a wedding party or any fuss, for that matter.

Mark sat at the picnic table, leaned over toward me, and whispered, “I guess he is living in the past. His short term memory is probably bad. His long term memory may be really good. Let’s ask him about the past. I’ve heard that elderly people who have memory loss can remember events from 50 years ago but can’t remember what they ate for breakfast.”