Twisted (23 page)

75

THIS IS HOW IT ENDS

I was more and more on alert after my father came home from the hospital looking like Frankenstein. The message on my radar was clear: Danger. Madman going madder.

One night a series of violent slams rattled my door in its frame. Walls shook. The hardwood quaked. Things flew off shelves and crashed onto the floor.

Then, this.

“I’LL KILL YOU, GODDAMN IT! YOU HEAR ME? I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

I crawled under the bed and held my face to the floor, the only thing beneath me, a puddle of tears.

This is it. We’re here. This is how it ends
.

The door crashed open and with surprising force, slammed into the wall—but that paled in comparison to the view of my father’s feet, furiously stomping toward me. There was nothing to do except wait for what was coming next. I knew it would only be a matter of seconds before he killed me.

Instead, his angry howls descended into dull and helpless whimpers. Then he spoke again, but this time his tone was weak and pleading.

“Please . . . Please . . .”

I swallowed air, turned my head toward him, and tried to listen.

“Please . . . don’t . . . ,” he murmured through tortured sobs. “Please don’t take him from me. Don’t take my boy.”

I peered out and saw my father sitting on the floor. Body hunched over, arms wrapped around knees, face pressed against them. Moaning and weeping.

And in an instant, it all made sense. The towel crammed down the drain. The nightmarish receiving tower constructed of knives. The charts, the diagrams. The stern warning he’d given through the window glass.

The man in the drain.

Through all his madness, there was only one desire left in his shattered mind, one determined need. To keep from losing me.

Even after I’m gone, my love will still be with you. You’ll always feel it deep inside your heart.

I crawled out from under the bed and scrambled to him.

He looked at me, and beneath his tearful eyes, I saw it—I saw love—pure and whole and real.

My father and I embraced, holding tight to each other before this moment could slip away from us, as we both knew it would.

With his face pressed against mine, our tears and sobs mingling, he whispered into my ear.

“Christopher . . . you are my everything.”

76

I come to with my face flat against the floor, and it takes a few seconds to ground myself in the moment. Then my bruised neck delivers a harsh reminder. I lift my head and look at the papers still covering the walls and scattered throughout the room.

One thing I can feel grateful for is that this time I know it was simply a matter of passing out from injury and exhaustion, rather than losing minutes that become more precious all the time.

I heave my body off the floor, and memories of what happened here rise to the surface, nearly bowling me back over.

I tried to kill my son last night.

It wasn’t intentional, just a product of misunderstanding. I was only trying to protect Devon, but through my mind’s jumbled jigsaw of skewed perceptions, I did just the opposite.

I became my father.

No, I was worse than him, and as that reality settles, a boundless and exponential ache swells within me. It doesn’t matter what I tried to do—it matters what I did. Fear is indelible, it’s irreversible, and once inflicted, you can never take it back. That kind of damage, I know so intimately, because more times than I could count I was victim to it. Damage that is now intricately woven into my wiring. Damage I’ve now handed on to my son. Jenna said I worked long and hard to prepare Devon for the possibility of losing my mind, but in a matter of minutes, I managed to reverse that process.

I’ll never get over this one. Never.

Donny Ray.

I saw him. He seemed so real. But seeing Devon materialize beneath me—my hands clenched tightly around his tiny neck as he choked for air—says otherwise.

Then comes the ultimate and most brutal shot of reality. My wife and son are gone. They have left me, and now I am truly and unequivocally alone. Just my unraveling mind and me as we continue to helplessly whirl through this terribly broken world, struggling to draw a flimsy line between reality and fiction.

I look out through the window at my world of pain, everything so monochromatic, so desolate, mere shadows of what I once loved, all of it stripped away.

How do you walk on faith when there is none left?

I try to put one foot in front of the other, but as I move through the house, with each step, nothing but emptiness greets me, both from throughout and within.

Bridge burned.

But maybe not, because there’s one thing that I know for sure. Donny Ray Smith still poses a true and present threat. He wasn’t in this house, but he’s still out there, and he’s still after my son. If I can save Devon, perhaps I can save this family from ruins, and then maybe, just maybe, I’ll be remembered not for my rapid descent into insanity but for the powerful love that drove me to such extremes. Then they’ll know that, all along, my intentions were pure and good.

I’d really like for that to happen.

Not that I’ll ever get to see it. By then, I’ll probably be locked up inside some institution, warehoused away like the spent human cargo I’ve fought most of my life to rescue.

There will be no time left for that, either.

Another item for my growing list of failures, but I’ll happily give that one up. I’ll give up everything as a price for saving my son.

This is all his fault. Donny Ray did this to you.

“No . . . I did this to me.”

That’s what he wants you to believe. It’s not just your world Donny Ray wants to tear down.

“Huh?”

Think about it. In the car, right here in this house. Donny Ray is drilling deeper into your mind. Soon, he’ll have complete control.

And in a flash, it all makes sense. “That bastard . . . he tried to make me do his dirty work. The one thing I’ve been attempting to prevent. He tried to make me kill my son.”

The one thing he knew would finally push you over the edge.

“And it almost worked.”

And he’s going to keep infiltrating your psyche until every thought belongs to him.

Panic sizzles through me, with seething outrage fast on its trail.
“I have to stop him.”

Donny Ray lied to you last night. The battle hasn’t moved here—it’s still alive and thriving at Loveland. You have to change up your strategy, think fast and act even faster.

“But how?”

You know what you have to do.

77

WHEN EVERYTHING ISN’T ENOUGH

My father told me that I was his everything, but the statement would have more impact than even I could have known.

It was his good-bye.

I found him the next morning in his basement shop, hanging from the rafters.

The coroner said he’d been dead for hours. More than likely, he’d hanged himself just after our tearful embrace. A final attempt to keep me safe. Not from the man in the drain, but this time, from his dangerous mind.

My father’s most drastic—most heartbreaking—move of all.

About six months later, at the age of seventeen, I became an orphan when my mother also passed away. The doctors told me she’d suffered a massive heart attack, but I’ll always believe they got that wrong.

She suffered a massive heartbreak.

Now I understand the agony they both must have felt.

78

Sorrow bursts into rage.

It’s raw, hard-driving, and knows exactly where to land. Seeing my son’s pain and knowing I caused it—that was the last straw. I’m declaring war on Donny Ray Smith with every intention of becoming the victor.

I eject the magazine from my gun, fill it with rounds.

“This one’s got your name on it, motherfucker,” I say, snapping in the last bullet. “The others are for anyone else who tries to stand in my way.”

I slam the magazine back in, grab the waistband holder, insert the gun into it.

Within a matter of seconds, I’m peeling out of my driveway. As I wheel down the road, my mind snaps into a state of hyperfocused awareness, thoughts more lucid than they’ve ever been, but it’s not just that. Every sense has taken a definitive and determined shift, far above any state of normal human capacity. My vision is razor-sharp, and even though the car windows are closed, I hear sounds that I normally shouldn’t.

A conversation between two people as they walk along the sidewalk.

A leaf, rustling across the grass and carried off by the wind.

I don’t know from where this gift of penetrating, extrasensory perception derives, but I’m grateful for its help.

Faster. You don’t have much time. You have to take out Donny Ray before he takes over your mind.

My foot strikes the gas pedal. My car throttles forward at breakneck speed.

The parking lot is less than a quarter full when I arrive at Loveland, the remaining cars scattered about like Matchbox toys.

Donny Ray is snatching up bodies even faster now. You know who he’s going after next.

“Not a chance.”

You’ve got very little time to turn this around.

I reach down to make sure the gun is snug to my waist, then pull my blazer down over it. Moving toward the building, my pace is accelerated, my thoughts are urgent. Rage is mounting.

Closer to the entrance, I spot workers wheeling equipment onto a truck. With premonitory heed, I stride toward them and see the trailer is packed to the edge with machinery, file boxes, and scores of computers.

They’re absconding with the evidence.

A drop of sweat rolls down the center of my back. Nerves rattle like pennies in an old, rusty tin can.

“This is not good,” I say, watching one of our security guards pass by. He shoots me an ugly gawp.

Don’t look at him. He’s one of them.

I study the guard with suspicion, then turn and walk away. “Things are getting more complicated than I’d expected. I need help, some kind of backup.”

There is nobody.

Another truck pulls up behind the last. More workers get out and roll dollies toward the building.

You have to hurry.
The entire operation’s gearing into full swing. Donny Ray’s army is about to move in and clear everyone out of Loveland, then he goes next.

I break into a run toward the hospital entrance.

Inside, only a handful of people occupy the main floor. I move past the employee lounge and take a peek—nobody there. I run by the administrative offices and find only two people working. I walk toward my office, and just one person passes me along the way. Awareness steps up: bumping into the wrong person could stop me from getting to Donny Ray, and even more, place Devon directly in the path of danger.

But I don’t know how to act. I’m carrying a loaded weapon.

Play it very cool.

Adam and Jeremy step out of Adam’s office. Even from this distance I know they’re not engaged in casual conversation—both wear expressions serious enough to raise my concerns.

They’re talking about you.

I take tentative steps forward and observe both men as they continue their discussion. I can’t help but notice the tension. I’m unsure what’s causing it, but I do sense it’s not between them.

At about ten feet away, I go for cover behind a stack of boxes and keep watching. Adam tosses a glance at my office door and says something. Jeremy looks too, then responds with a frown and shakes his head.

You’ve got some serious trouble brewing there.

Two doctors walk up behind me. They’re speaking too loudly and make eavesdropping impossible. I pretend to inspect some boxes, then once they pass, return my attention to Adam and Jeremy.

Adam just gave Jeremy the red folder.

Fury rips through me. That folder again.

It’s filled with the information Adam’s been gathering on you. He also handed over the tapes.

“What tapes?”

Of all your conversations with him.

I lower my gaze to Jeremy’s hands—one holds the red folder, the other a brown paper bag with his name on it.
I should have known. Jeremy’s in on this, too. Now I’ve got the top dog working against me as well. The two men nod to each other, then Jeremy walks away.

Adam just ratted you out. Now Jeremy knows your mind is slipping. He’s going to put you on psych leave.

“That bastard . . . ,” I mumble, vitriol burning in my throat as Adam heads in the other direction. I reach for my gun, aim it at his skull, then cock the trigger.

Don’t waste your bullets. Donny Ray is your target—anything else will only keep you from getting to him.

I lower the gun.

More obstacles. In addition to time ticking away, now I’m a marked man. I bound toward my office, dash inside, then lock the door behind me.

I’m safe.

But not for long.

79

Things have become significantly more complicated than I’d expected. I had no idea they’d be tightening the screws all around. Getting to Donny Ray will be much harder with Adam, Jeremy, and God-only-knows-who-else watching over me.

Every camera in this hospital is monitoring you.

I have to offset this new wrinkle, move about silently to avoid detection.

A fast-moving target is the hardest to hit. Get out of this office.

I feel for the gun at my waist, straighten out my blazer.

I’m ready to roll.

I head for Ground Zero.

On my way to Alpha Twelve, I approach Security Checkpoint One.

Stay calm. Act normal.

The hospital’s been too cheap to invest in metal detectors, and the guard doesn’t know I’m packing heat. Besides, Adam told Jeremy about me just moments ago, so I doubt the news has trickled down to security yet.

At the gate, I pull out my card, swipe it through the slot, then after passing through without incident, quietly exhale my relief.

But after opening the door to Alpha Twelve, my jaw plunges. This place is in the process of being cleared out. Workers cart furniture from rooms. A maintenance guy stands at one of the circuit breaker boxes, flipping switches and looking down the hallway as lights flash on and off. Two patients wander slow and aimless amid the confusion, vision set ahead, faces nearly expressionless. Mystery Nurse sits at the station mindlessly typing away. As usual she’s oblivious to what’s going on all around her.

A loud
thwack
off to my side startles me. I jump back and see workers tossing debris into a construction bin, but beyond that, something far worse regenerates my worries.

Oh, no.

Jeremy stands about fifteen feet away, head bobbing in every direction, eyes wandering the floor, and when he’s not doing that, he’s busy talking to staff members.

He’s looking for you.

Slowly, I back myself around the corner.

And he just came from Donny Ray’s room.

“What was he doing there?” I whisper.

They’re getting ready to take Donny Ray out of Loveland.

“And handing that crazed lunatic a license to kill again.”

I set my sight on Donny Ray’s room. The door is wide open, light shifting across the floor, with unfamiliar voices wafting out. Butterflies batter inside my stomach. Nerves climb the ladder to jittery.

They’re strategizing on how to stop you.

I look both ways, wait for the path to clear, then zoom across the hallway and into a vacant patient room across from Donny Ray’s. I peer out from behind the door. I keep watching.

Several minutes later, a shadow drifts up the hallway, then a guy wearing an orderly’s uniform materializes. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen him here before, but there’s no question he’s got
dirty
written all over him. He walks into Donny Ray’s room, and about three minutes later, a second unknown man enters, also wearing the uniform.

Outside reinforcements
.

I swallow hard, then people start filing out of Donny Ray’s room at an urgent pace.

Hurry! They’re on the move!

Just as I storm the hallway, Donny Ray himself comes walking out of his room. He wears freshly pressed jeans and a pinpoint oxford, his hair neatly styled, his shoes brand new. Two very large and disagreeable looking thugs in plainclothes flank each side of him as all three head straight toward the exit.

MOVE! Jeremy gave him his walking papers—they’re back-dooring him out of here.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins like dirty motor oil as I rush toward them. I won’t allow Donny Ray to leave this building alive. I cannot. My son’s life depends on it. I’ve got to keep him safe.

They continue walking him forward. I pull out my gun and spring toward them, heart jackhammering against my rib cage as the distance between us narrows.

At about eight feet away, I raise my weapon, but one of the thugs locks onto me.

“He’s got a gun!” the man cries out and points.

From behind me, I hear a stampede of feet beating a path my way. I aim my gun at Donny Ray, spit my words out like poison. “YOU’RE NOT LEAVING HERE! I’LL KILL YOU FIRST! DO YOU HEAR ME? I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

Just as Donny Ray and his clan duck for cover through the doorway, I get a clear line of sight to him. I firm my hold on the trigger, but before I can pull it, an overpowering weight against my back hurtles me forward. My gun accidentally goes off, then I rapidly and repeatedly keep squeezing out more rounds.

A volley of gunfire flies across the room, ricocheting off the floors, the walls, everywhere. Plaster and tile crack and explode all around me. As I crash facedown, the gun flies from my hand and slides across the floor. Not a second later, I feel more crushing weight barrel down on me, so heavy it knocks the wind from my lungs. My forehead and cheeks are throbbing and numb, my nose and mouth oozing with blood. I hear frantic commotion, footsteps and voices all around me. A few heartbeats later, someone roughly yanks my arms back, slaps cuffs on my wrists, then pulls me sharply into standing position. Two men grab hold of each arm and fling me forward, and I stumble along with them.

“Sure!” I shout at the men. “Let a child killer walk the streets, and take
me
away! That makes a hell of a lot of sense! You people are depraved! You’re a disgrace!”

The men answer with a backbreaking jerk as they fling my body forward.

Then, with a face full of blood and chuffing for air, I at last get a glimpse of Donny Ray Smith.

Lying motionless on the floor.

Face to tile.

A puddle of blood rapidly spreading around his body.

Dead as dead can be.