I clutch the armrests of my seat hard that the lady knitting next to me gives me an odd look. The magazine sprawls across my lap. The cover is nothing but a picture of Angelina Jolie in huge sunglasses along with her children, the image making me even more nervous. For the thousandth time I wonder why parents have to be present at weddings.
Calm down, Trey, I tell myself. Just go to their house, tell them and then take the red-eye back to LA.
It wasn’t really my parents I was worrying about, actually. It’s the town they live in that creep me out. All I can remember growing up is the dismal gray hospital across the road. I remember waking up every morning and the first thing I see is the sign announcing the purpose of the building, the sign shooting out of a well-tended lawn. Too well-tended for a damn hospital. And everyone knows what the largest building really contains.
The main attraction of my hometown is an insane asylum.
My knuckles turn white as the wheels grate against the concrete of the runway. I peer out at the square buildings, nothing but metal and paneled glass. I wet my lips. A shaky sigh from my lips seems to make me sag, to make me shrink back against the seat.
Fifteen long agonizing minutes later, I’m walking out in McKay Local Airport. I go to the nearest Starbucks, buy my favorite drink, take two sips and then throw it away. A waste of 4 dollars.
I follow the arrows to car rentals and I find myself staring in the green eyes of a coffee-perked, clean, sweet lady with a voice like syrupy honey. She’s the opposite of me. I lease out a Toyota van that’s about five or six years old. The growling buzz of the engine makes me wince as I drive out of the parking lot.
I kill time meandering around McKay. Don’t go five blocks within the hospital. I recognize my dad’s favorite hang-out, the park that I used to walk the family golden retriever, the church where Olivia was buried…
I pull over when I see the church. It’s exactly as I remember it. The white marble carved with naked cherubs and robed old men. The dark wood of the heavy front doors. But I’m debating about if I should go in or just go straight to my parents’. I check the time. 7:24 in the morning.
It can’t hurt…
Before I know it, I’m walking towards the church entrance. I reach the door, open it. The door grates open and the hot, bittersweet smell of incense flood my nose to the point of pain. I’d forgotten how many candles this church uses.
Echoes clang in my ears as I step inside. The early dawn light provides enough illumination to inform me of the church’s architecture. And to tell me that nothing has changed in this church since my sister’s funeral ten years ago.
“Father Matthews?” the soprano voice cuts in my ears worse than the echo of my own footsteps. I turn and see the young lady army-stance in one of the countless doorways that line the walls of the sanctuary.
“What are you doing here?” the lady speaks again. A clack of heels against flooring and the woman approaches me. She’s maybe 24, a year or two my junior. Her rich brown hair tumbles about her shoulders, framing a pale, heart-shaped face with a full mouth and dark eyes.
“Is it wrong to see the church?” I ask.
The lady frowns at me, “The church isn’t open to the public until eight o’clock. How did you get in here?”
I gesture towards the ajar door and the woman’s frown deepens, “Shit! If Father Matthews finds out I left the door unlocked again, he’ll…”
“Hey, hey…” I pat the air in front of me. “Your secret’s safe with me.” Why not, right? In the town of my own personal hell, I need an ally.
The woman’s eyes fill with exasperation, “There’s a security camera in every room. Ever since Olivia Thamsen was murdered in that psycho lair, we have to be doubly careful.”
I wince as my sister’s name comes up. The woman notices it and the exasperation softens to guilt, “Oh, I’m sorry…did you know Olivia?”
“She was my sister,” my answer is terse. But it’s enough to make the woman’s eyes widen to the size of baseballs, “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry…”
But suddenly the guilt changes to recognizing. “Trey? Trey Thamsen?”
I nod cautiously. The woman is beaming at me now.
“It’s me! Kate! Don’t you remember me?”
“No, I don’t think I do…” I search both her face and my memory file. Suddenly something about her makes me gasp.
“Kate! Kate March?”
The woman practically jumps with joy. But I knew Kate as basically someone who was high on energy. Kate March and I had been friends for two decades before I had moved to Los Angeles. We had kept in touch at the beginning, but it soon dwindled to a stray letter once a year until our way of contact dissolved altogether.
“You look…different!” I note. The last time I had seen her, she was suffering from an abusive marriage with her high-school sweetheart. Her hair had been pixie-short and dyed vibrant purple and her dark eyes had been lifeless. Now, Kate looked the opposite.
She giggles, “I broke up with my ex-husband. A relationship change can do wonders.”
“You’re with someone else?” I assume.
“No. I’m single and loving it.” A high squeak of a laugh follows the last phrase. The echoing of Kate’s laugh reminds me of where I am. Why Kate came in the first place…
“I’d better get out of here before Father Matthews finds us.” I start for the entrance and Kate falls in step with me.
“I’ll walk you out,” she replies. We walk outside and down the steps. The morning air is a welcome alternative to the burn of the incense. Kate inhales beside me and voices my thoughts, “Thank God you came, actually. I didn’t think I could stand the stink.”
“You just started working here?” I ask.
She shakes her head, “No! I started like 4 freaking years ago after I moved here.”
“Really?” I ask. But then again, she was always a bit picky. I change the subject, hastily, “I thought you were moving to Miami or something…”
“Well, I did that after my divorce,” Kate explains. “But then my father died…”
“What? No…” I interrupt. I had known Kate’s father as the closest thing to a lovable, slightly grumpy uncle. We had been close when I lived here. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We had fallen out of touch by then.” Kate replies before plowing on. “Anyways, so my father died. I was chaotic. I really was a wreck. Basically Brody, my ex, had ruled my life and even though I had took his every penny and left him practically homeless…”—a cackle stops her babbling for one millisecond—“…I didn’t know what to do with all the money. I mean, Brody was pretty upper-class and I was a bit poor. Remember that? A lot of people used to call me Hand-Me-Down Girl.”
“Oh, yeah.” I chuckle.
Kate plows on, “So, I talked to Father Matthews after the funeral and he offered me the job of receptionist. I took it and right now, I’m pretty happy.” She shrugs. We’ve already reached my car and we’ve been standing by it for two minutes.
“Well, that’s good…” I trail off.
Kate breaks the awkward two-second silence, “Why are you here anyways? I mean, there’s no one here to grieve for that you know. Not that I know anyways—”
I interrupt her again, “I’m here to ask my parents to come to my wedding.”
“You’re engaged, Trey?” she squeals. “That’s so great! Congratulations! When is it? Who’s the lucky lady? Can I come?”
“The lady is someone I worked with. Her name’s Selena.” I reply.
“Ooh. That sounds nice.” Kate is practically bouncing. “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you! Is it gonna be here?”
“No, my parents are going to come to Los Angeles.”
For the first time, Kate seems to deflate. Her bouncing stops. “Oh…”
“Something wrong?” I ask, more than a little uneasy by the worry blazing in Kate’s eyes.
She wets her lips, “I’m not sure…”
“About?” I prod.
“About your parents leaving their home.”
I’m the one to frown now, “What do you mean?”
“Well. We tried to put them in a nursing home, but they didn’t budge. Your mom—Mrs. Thamsen, she said that she would either be in her house or in the asylum.”
“Oh…” my voice is nothing but a puff of breath.
But Kate tries to cheer me up, “I’m sure you’ll get them up and out!”
The encouragement doesn’t work. It makes me only dread seeing my parents more.
“Your mom said what?”
The last word is a screech; and one loud enough to make my eardrums pop.
“Selena, breathe. I’ll try to get them. I’m sure I can.” I find myself repeating Kate’s words.
“I know, but…” Evidently, it didn’t work for Selena either. An image flashes in my mind of my fiancée anxiously twisting the phone cord as she talks to me, her blonde hair pulled back and her light-colored eyes framed by square tortoiseshell glasses.
“Look, baby. I’ll try to get them there. I know them better than anyone. And I’ll try to be back.” With that, I hang up and growl a sigh.
The clock above the door in the restaurant reads 8:10 in the morning. I’m idly munching on a stack of flapjacks and a pile of crispy bacon.
It’s nine when I finally finish. I give the waiter a ten-dollar bill, tell him to keep the change and I stalk out. Kate’s news has made me worried, angry and defiant.
I get into the Toyota. The tires squeal as I drive away from the curb and I’m speeding towards the place I hate most. The asylum.
I zip by the church. Buildings are a blur. My hands tap out a tattoo on the steering wheel. 17 years of living in the same house makes you remember the house for some time. Even if you want to forget it. I ease up on the gas. The speed inches down to 20 miles per hour and descending. It’s crawling to a full stop when I get my full view of my house post-kids.
At once, I wince at the sight and know that this image alone proves that what Kate said was true.
The house is neat, clean. And when I was growing up, it was the opposite. The lawn, once choked with weeds and flowers, is the picture of perfection. The paint is crisp, white; the roof neatly shingled. When Olivia would come over for our weekly visits, my mom wanted our house to look the opposite of the mental institution. And the institution was the cleanest place in the world. This meant that I developed a natural sense of untidiness. It was only when I begun living with Sarah did I start to clean up—literally.
I dare to look at the asylum, lurking a little bit behind McKay Local Hospital. It’s all rusting metal and filthy windows. The windows are bulletproof; no psycho can get through. I learned that the hard way, when I watched Olivia slam herself against the window of her room again and again, finally stopping when a smear of blood marked itself on the glass.
A sharp exhale whooshes through my lips. I turn off the idling engine, get out and lock the car.
It seems like an hour before my shoe makes contact with the opposite curb, when my foot sinks in soft, dewy green grass. I stand there for a minute, hands shoved in my pockets. The caw of a crow makes me shudder.
As it did so many years ago. I remember coming here as a child, holding my mother’s hand as I gazed straight down the hall. Never at the patient’s doors. And when I arrived at Olivia’s meeting room, I never looked in my sister’s eyes. When I was young, I thought Olivia was a monster.
I wet my lips. I turn away from the buildings. I check the time. 9:52. I glance at my parents’ house. There’s a light on. But are they awake? I decide to check it out. I cross back to the car. Continue on up the walk and to the front door. There’s a twenty-year-old Cadillac in the driveway. Reach the front door. I ring the doorbell. I wait.
Hands are shoved in my pockets. My feet shuffle on the stoop. I’m unsure of what to say…
I hear the door creak open. My gaze moves from the cracks of the steps to my mother’s washed-out blue eyes. At once, I fight the urge to gasp.
When my mother had me twenty-six years ago, she was twenty-nine. Forty-five is not a time to have hair become white or gray. But that’s what Mama had. The mix of salt-and-pepper with the remnants of golden blond makes my heart twist in regret.
Mama didn’t want me to go to Los Angeles. I went against my own family’s will, against my mothers pleads. Hence the ice in Mama’s gaze and her voice when she asks, “What do you want?”
I don’t blame her for being cold. I defied my own family. That’s worse than a charge of homicide, to my parents. A smile tugs nervously at my lips—maybe I should be kindly, meet her ice with my warmth.
“I’m waiting, boy,” Mama speaks again.
“Can I come in?” I manage.
She’s resolute for a second, and then grudgingly steps aside. I enter the house and I almost back out by the smell of decay—the smell of rotting food. The kitchen before me is strewn with silverware and cans both empty and half-full, the sink full of water the color and smell of sewage water. I’m sorely tempted to ask how the hell does the outside look so neat!
Mama shuffles past me. She grasps a bean can in one knobbled hand, sticks a spoon in it and then thrusts a cold, muddy-brown spoonful in her mouth.
“Who is it, Lois?” the wheeze of my father makes me jump. A second later, he’s in the doorway. His flickering, dark gaze knifes in my own eyes. His hair is thinning; all gray sprinkled with white. I give him the same nervous smile and he squints at me.
“So, you’ve come back,” he rumbles. I nod, stand as meek as I did when I was six.
“Why did you come back?” he asks.
“I want to ask you a favor.” I reply.
“A favor,” he repeats. “A favor…Why the hell should I give you a favor when you didn’t have the decency to return ours? To stay here.” He shuffles from the doorway and slumps in a chair, his gaze still on me.
“I’m getting married.” I let the bomb fall and wait for the agony to come.
A pause. The silence stretches on too long. It’s only broken by Mama’s spoon making contact with the wooden countertop. My father has sat up, his sharp, squinty gaze now twice their size, whites showing all around.
“Married?” Mama is the one to speak, the syllables coming out in a gusty whisper. I nod.
“Who’s the lady?” my father cuts in.
“Selena Rankle.” I speak her name. “She’s a major in art. And…she wants all the family to show up at the wedding.”
My father’s eyes narrow. He gives a little scoff and a shake of his head.
“I’m not leaving this house!” he declares. “Either you bring the wedding here or we don’t come at all!”
“Why?” I reply.
There’s no answer. A barrage of crow caws leads me to say:
“Is this about Olivia?”
My mother’s knuckles turn white and the skin is stretched tight.
My father sits up, eyes nothing but slits, “I don’t want to leave Olivia. I don’t want to leave her.”
“She’s dead!” my cry cuts through the tension clogging the air. Mama gives a little gasp and starts to cry. My father is the very definition of rage. His hands work at the buttons of his shirt. Finally when he talks, his words come out tight and cold around his gritted teeth.
“She. Ain’t. Dead. Long as we remember her, she ain’t dead.”
Five seconds later, I’m tramping down the driveway like a petulant child. The gravel crunches under my feet and every crunch seems to echo my father’s words. Olivia isn’t dead. Olivia isn’t dead.
Olivia.
Isn’t.
Dead.
“Well, look who decided to charm the town tonight!”
I focus foggy eyes on a smiling Kate March. The smile she has is too big. I acknowledge her presence with a nod, and then turn back to my pint of beer.
“How many pints have you had?” Kate asks. The bartender answers instead and Kate gasps. Finally, she’s lost that damn smile. I find myself grinning at the thought.
“Two pints?” Kate asks. “What happened?”
“My parents are bull.” I say.
“What?” Kate doesn’t understand.
“He come in here bad-mouthing his parents. What brats they ware and awl that. And theen he ordered awl pints to come dis way,” the bartender leaks too much information for my taste. I give him the bird.
“They’re not coming to your wedding?” she asks. I shake my head, staring at the swirls of mahogany countertop instead of the swirls of chocolate in Kate’s eyes. A murmur of sympathy comes my way and Kate’s warm hand is rubbing my shoulder.
“Fuhgetboutit,” I mumble. “They ain’t my life no more.”
The scrape of a stool’s legs against flooring makes me wince and I hear Kate’s light voice asking for a glass of red wine.
“You chose the right place to get pissed,” she notes. “Any local who’ll remember you will haul your drunken butt to your place. Congratulations. Where are you staying by the way?”
“I dunno,” I reply.
“You didn’t book a room?” Kate asks. I shake my head.
“I’ll put you up at the Hilton.” Kate says. “It’ll make you comfortable.”
“More theen comfortable. Dese are nice digs,” the bartender chuckles. I don’t hear Kate’s reply. I’m falling off the stool and into a cocoon of blackness.
The next thing I know, I’m swimming out of the blackness and at once when I surface, a headache starts torturing me. I roll over; smash my face in a pillow.
“You awake?” Kate’s voice greets me.
“Define awake.” I groan.
“Are your eyelids open and are you aware of the fact that you got inordinately pissed last night?”
“Mm.” I roll over and my eyesight focuses on Kate, standing at the foot of the bed.
“You stayed here last night?” I ask.
Kate shrugs, “I had to. You were barfing by the time we got to your room and I didn’t want you to choke on your own vomit while you were asleep.”
“That’s nice of you…” I prop myself up. I’m in the clothes from yesterday, minus the shoes and socks. Kate thrusts a cup of coffee towards me and I gratefully drink. Colombian blend. Pretty good too.
“It was by the coffee maker,” Kate explains before raising her own cup to her lips. I notice a newspaper rolled up in her hand.
“Can you give me the news?” I ask. Instead of going towards me, the paper goes out of sight behind her back. Confused, I look at Kate’s face. She’s stiff, lips in a thin line, eyes tight with worry.
“What’s the deal?” I ask. “Give me the newspaper!”
Kate hesitates. The rolled-up paper is by her side. I make the decision for her, crawling across the bed and snatching it out of her hand. I unroll it and my life is turned upside down.
Murderer of Thamsen family member released
There’s no picture. I scan the article, going to A11 to read the ending. It just said a load of crap about the murderer “serving his time.” Bullshit. If I had it my way, he would be locked up for life.
I look up at Kate. She’s looking everywhere but directly at me.
I sigh and say, “I know what you’re thinking.”
Now Kate looks at me, “What am I thinking?” Her tone is more curious than cutting.
“You’re thinking I’m gonna track him down. Avenge my sister’s death.” Kate’s shocked expression proved I was right.
“I’m not gonna do that,” I reassure her. “I’m going to sit back and not get involved in any more crimes.”
“How can you be sure?” Kate turns away from me.
I get out of bed, approach her. My hands slip in hers and she looks up with those large dark eyes probing mine.
“I’m the last of the family. If I want to live my life then I’m going to stay out of this. The revenge thing isn’t what I’m going to do. I promise.”
On an impulse, I kiss her forehead. And then I gather her in my arms. And the embrace is enough to keep the trauma at bay.
For now.
I’m at breakfast with Kate when the call comes. The news that the policeman has makes my jaw drop.
“We found your parents’ bodies,” the policeman says. “In their front yard this morning.”
I’m numb as I hang up. When I stammer out enough for Kate to get the situation, she leaves our breakfast half-eaten along with a pair of fives and drives me over to my parents’ as fast as she can. We get there in five minutes. The reality of the situation only begins to sink in as I clamber out of Kate’s Toyota.
The property is bordered with the yellow police tape you usually see in police shows. An attractive young brunette meets me as I stride up to the scene.
“Who are you?”
“Trey Thamsen,” I reply. “What happened?”
“You’re their son?” the brunette asks.
I nod.
“I’m Carrie Jacoby. I’m with the police department,” she explains. “Can I ask you a couple of questions?”
I shrug, “Sure.”
Carrie launches right away, “We found your parents an hour and a half ago. Where were you at that time?”
I blush, “I was sleeping off a hangover.”
“You were drunk the night before?” Carrie’s eyes narrow to slits. Not a good start. But I still nod, cautiously.
“Did you have any contact with your parents yesterday, Mr. Thamsen?”
“I did. I stopped by around 10 in the morning.”
“For?”
“I wanted them to come to my wedding. I’m engaged.” A silence fills the void between us and I hurry to break it. “And they refused to come.”
“I see.” Carrie mused. “What was your reaction?”
“I just walked out. But I was angry so I took a drive, then I had a late lunch. And then I ended up drinking.” I ended the explanation with a shrug.
“Thank you, Mr. Thamsen.”
I smile and nod towards Carrie. I turn away and walking towards the car when the asylum looms up. And it all starts coming back…
“Trey!” my mother screamed. “Trey! Stay there,”
I stayed. I was too afraid to move. The mix of the red and blue lights on the police cars painted the landscape an eerie purple. I watched my mother and father flit across the street. I heard their tortured screaming, their cries of grief...
And then I saw the killer.
He was being dragged out to a car. He struggled, his long-haired head tossing this way and that. On one throw of the head, his gaze locked on mine and a bestial smile spread across his shadowed face…
“Trey?” Kate’s voice, saturated with concern, jolts me into the present. I feel her arms around me, her concerned voice saying that I’m trembling. I’m cold, sweaty. I tear my gaze away from the building across the street; fix my gaze on Kate’s large brown eyes.
“I’m fine,” I manage to say. The concern twists Kate’s face, giving her a furrowed brow, a narrowed gaze, a pursed mouth.
“Are you sure?” she asks. I don’t reply.
Kate grabs my hand, drags me to the car, “We need to see a psychologist.”
I’m in a windowless, white-walled room; the only color in here is a gather of purple jewels at the doctor’s neck. She’s wearing a black blouse, a white skirt, black heels that look expensive. Her graying hair is slicked back in the tightest bun I’ve seen. Her cobalt eyes blink owlishly at me behind spectacles that make her eyes twice their size. A nametag on the breast pocket of her blouse says she’s Karen Hale.
A table is the only thing that separates us. She’s upright in a straight-backed desk chair and I’m the opposite in a swivel chair. She’s right down to business, flickering down at a form I filled out at the front desk.
“You’re here to talk about your family?” she asks. I confirm that with a nod and she plows on, “I heard about the murder of your parents on the news, Trey. My deepest apologies.”
This quack is treating me like I’m six instead of twenty-six. I find myself working to bite back a sarcastic reply. Something bites in my palms and I look down to see my hands clenched in fists. I slowly unclench them and look at the psychologist again. Steadily.
“Thank you,” I will irritation to not bleed into my voice.
The psychologist smiles too broadly before assuming a serious expression that is comical, “I understand the stress you are going through. First the murder of your darling sister and then your wonderful parents. It’s so sad!”
My lips curl into a smile that makes my face hurt. I nod and give an understanding hum from time to time as the woman rambles on. I’m already thinking about something that can’t be voiced aloud. The murderer of my parents…and perhaps my sister. Why was he compelled to kill said family members? I give an answer to the psychologist’s questions as fast as I think and instantly reject a possibility. When I hit upon something, it almost makes me gasp…
Could the murderer have known my parents?
“Mr. Thamsen?”
I blink. I smile apologetically, “Sorry…what was the question?”
“Your sister died in the asylum and your parents talked about her?”
I wince at the two memories that surface, “Yes, that’s right…”
The psychologist lapses in silence and then the words burst out of her again. I listen for real this time, processing some babble about mental health, willing the lady to get to it!
“And so I’m thinking…” the psychologist leans forward, businesslike. “That you should be in the asylum.”
I blink once. Twice. The silence that fills the room is louder than a grenade hitting its target…
“What?” my voice is not outraged, just confused.
Now the psychologist starts blustering, “I-I mean—well, you don’t have to go. It-it would just be a good idea a-and—for healing yourself mentally.” She smiles meekly.
“So you’re calling me crazy?”
The psychologist winces, “No. No! Not at all! I just mean like a short visit…all the patients are moved to the state asylum, so…you know, before it’s knocked down…”
My head starts nodding, “Okay. Thank you, Mrs. Hale.”
She forms my reply on her own lips silently. The stammering grows worse, “W-well—I-I-I mean w-we could—we could t-take another path…”
“No thank you,” my voice is cold, terse. “I’ve already made up my mind.”
The psychologist looks like she’s been slapped. She gives me a weak smile and we both walk out. Kate is in the waiting room. She looks expectantly at the psychologist, but the psychologist only says, “Next?”
An old man stands up and shuffles past us.
Kate is looking at me right now, “Well?”
“I’ll tell you about it in the car,”
We trod outside. It’s gone from a clear, sunny day to a thunderstorm in half an hour. The air feels fresh, clean and the day seems brighter even though the sun is sulking behind a thick sheet of gray clouds. We hurry to get in the Honda, to crank up the heat, to turn on the CD player to break the silence.
Kate drives out of the parking lot and I stare out at the rows of houses that all seem cookie-cutter, with only touches here and there to distinguish them. There’s a kid playground there…a Chinese elm tree here. It’s only when we turn a left when I realize that this isn’t the way to the hotel.
“Kate?” I look at her. She turns down the volume, but doesn’t look at me.
I continue anyways, “Where are we going?”
She turns onto another street, “To the graveyard.”
My brow crinkles in a frown, “Why?”
Kate doesn’t reply, only takes another turn. We drive in silence for three more minutes then the graveyard is beside us. Kate leans into the backseat, withdraws a black umbrella and some sunflowers.
Sunflowers were Olivia’s favorite.
We get out, meet each other under Kate’s umbrella. I follow Kate through the obscuring rain. Then she stops.
I see a gray headstone.
Olivia Thamsen
Gone too Soon
1983-1996
And there’s a batch of dried sunflowers. Kate gives the umbrella to me, ducks into the rain. She replaces the old ones with the new.
“Kate…” I murmur as she ducks back under, clutching the old, drooping bouquet. Her face is a mixture of defiance and sorrow.
“You said you’d always bring sunflowers to her,” her voice is quieter than the rain, but I understand her perfectly.
And I hug her for the second time. Raindrops shimmer around us, tapping against the umbrella like some tribal exotic beat.
“Thank you.” I whisper.
Ten minutes later, we’re back in the car. Kate turns into what is not the driveway of my hotel. But rather the driveway of a house I suspect is Kate’s. She turns off the car and the only sound is the rain drumming on the windows and windshield. But Kate doesn’t get out. Neither do I. She turns to me, her eyes luminous and as large as a doe’s.
I break the silence. “What are we doing here?”
Kate seems to be lost for words, but she says in the same subdued tone as at the graveyard, “After the murder…of your parents…I think someone wants to…wipe you out.”
“But why?” I ask both myself and Kate.
She shrugs, “Could be anything from a grudge to a sociopath. I don’t know! But I think you’re the next target. And I am not letting you die. Not even if I have to lock you up in that godforsaken asylum to prevent it!”
There’s another long pause, broken this time by Kate’s embarrassed chuckle.
“C’mon,” she grins, “come inside and meet my dog.”
I smile too. Our doors opening and closing are simultaneous. We hurry inside. And a large golden retriever bounds at me, brown eyes gleaming in a sea of golden-brown fur.
“Oh, Kate, she’s marvelous!” I find myself bending down and scratching the dog’s chin. She licks my chin, tongue lolling out in apparent pleasure.
“It’s a he,” Kate corrects me. “His name is Damien.”
I repeat the name and the dog snuggles up to me.
“He likes you,” Kate laughs.
“How did you get him?” I ask.
“I joined the Humane Society after I divorced.” Kate explains. “I spent almost all day with this boy first time I saw him. I bought him for…well, a lot of money.”
“He must be worth it.”
“He is.”
There’s a silence between us. Kate kneels down to pet Damien too and he wriggles excitedly under the attention. Kate clears her throat after a few seconds, asks:
“Do you want anything to drink?”
“Coffee please,” I rise and follow her in a modest, tidy kitchen. She brings out the coffee machine.
“Decaf?” Kate asks.
“No thanks,” I shake my head and try to stifle a yawn. It’s only 11 a.m. and I’m exhausted. But the smell of coffee seems to perk me up.
A loud knock on the door alerts me even further. Kate looks up as Damien runs out of the kitchen, barking.
“He rarely does that,” she mutters.
I don’t answer, just creep to the door as the pounding continues. There’s no peephole, no windows close enough to sight our visitor. I slowly creep towards the knob, put my hand on it and open it.
“Selena?” I exclaim.
Selena Rankle, my fiancée, hauls herself inside, carrying a black suitcase, babbling about flights and damning taxi service.
I interrupt her as I close the door, “W-what are you doing here?”
“I had to see you!” Selena envelopes me in a hug, gives me a peck on the cheek.
“Ah, that’s why Damien was barking…” Kate’s murmur brings both our eyes to her. She’s in the kitchen doorway.
“What do you mean?” Selena asks.
“He barks a lot at unknown people.”
“Well I won’t be unknown for long, I bet,” Selena giggles. Kate says nothing.
I find myself breaking the silence, “Selena, do you want anything to drink?”
“Coffee would be great!” Both Selena and I follow Kate in the kitchen.
“Selena, how do you like your coffee?” Kate’s voice is politer than I’ve remembered it. I see the whitened knuckles on the coffee mug she hands to Selena.
A pounding on the door makes our heads snap up. The dog stays quiet. I relax a fraction. I lumber to the door. I open it.
And I see blood.
It rolls off the girl’s skin, wells like an ocean wave from endless cuts ravaging her body; it’s on the sodden bed sheet she wraps around herself. Her chest is heaving. Coupled with the blood, she looks tired; shivering like the icy touch of death is upon her.
She staggers in, dripping water all over the floor. I can only gaze in mute horror.
“Who was it—Oh, Lord!” Kate rushes to the girl the instant she walks out of the kitchen. They exchange a few whispered words and then Kate guides her to the bathroom. Selena goes beside me and waits.
Ten minutes or so, Kate and the girl walk out, the latter in a large sweatshirt and jeans rolled up.
“I think you have to hear what she needs to say,” she informs me.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re all clustered together around a fire, mugs of coffee for Sarah, Kate and I; hot chocolate for the girl. Minutes tick by as we all stare at the girl who chooses to stare in her mug.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” Kate is the one to break the silence.
“Hillary,” the voice is small, sweet, light.
“How old are you?” Kate asks.
“Fifteen,” Hillary replies. She finally looks up, fixing us all with her blue eyes, enormous in the tiny, freckled face. Her hair is damp, but it’s dry enough to inform me that she’s blonde. The clothes hang off her slim frame, making her look dwarfish.
“Can you tell us why you came here?” I ask. Hillary looks at me. A slow, hesitant nod.
“I came here to escape from the burglar,” she tells me.
The silence encourages her to continue.
She does, “I-I was doing my homework. On my bed. When I heard the dog barking,” she swallows, her eyes filled with tears. “I w-went out to see him…on the…floor. C-covered in blood. Then I saw him.” Another pause follows.
“He had a knife in his hand,” Hillary finally starts talking again. “He told me to step back…told me to…g-get on t-the b-bed. T-then h-h-he t-took off m-my clothes and…” she breaks into sobbing. When they wind down to the occasional hiccup, she doesn’t say any more, just stares in her mug as if the memories are stored there.
“Did you call nine-one-one?” Selena asks finally.
Hillary shook his head, “He said he’d kill me if I did…”
“I’ll call them,” Kate gets up and walks to the phone. My eyes wander and at first they pass over the man standing in Kate’s driveway. Then I do a double-take.
Oh, shit.
I get up and walk to Kate, who’s currently talking on the phone. In a pause on her side, I tell her:
“Do you think you could also tell the guy of a potential intruder?”
Kate’s confused expression obliges me to point to the man in the driveway. Her eyes widen and she tells the dispatcher about the intruder. Then she hangs up.
A pounding on the door alerts us. And this time, the dog barks. Kate dives in the kitchen, sitting against the dishwasher. Selena and Hillary walk down the hall and enter a room, closing the door. I hear a lock click.
The dog keeps barking. He’s at my side as I creep out and into the open-space area that’s called an entrance hall. The barks slip into growls. My hands are shaking, even when I curl them in fists. I lunge. I open the door and the door swings ajar. There’s no one there. No one in the veil of rain.
What the hell…?
I step out on the porch. Body’s like a coiled spring. But all I manage is getting soaked by the assault of raindrops. I go back inside. Kate’s face peers at me from the doorway, questioning. I shake my head. She gets up and pounds on the locked door. Hillary and Selena creep out.
“What happened?” Hillary asks as she dusts herself off.
“I think that the intruder ran away, or maybe he was just a guy confused with the wrong address.” I murmur.
“Who knows?” Selena asks.
Those two words echo in my head as another knock sounds and the police arrive.
It’s 11 in the morning of the next day. I’m standing in front of the McKay Local Hospital, my eyes only drawn to the separate building set just a bit farther back…
Kate utters a whispered “ow!” and I let go of her hand that I had unknowingly been clutching.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Kate smiles and takes my hand, squeezing it gently. I find the grip comforting and it’s enough to make me walk forward, to enter the spacious lobby.
The front-desk lady looks up, “Yes?”
I swallow before blurting it out, “Do you think you could let us in the asylum?”
She regards me with a frown and picks up the phone. The lady dials a number and says a few words. A couple of minutes later, a middle-aged, plump lady comes out.
“Mr. Thamsen?” she says. I nod. She walks towards me and holds out a hand, “I’m Mrs. Brand. I understand you want to go in the insane asylum?”
I nod.
“Why?” she asks.
“It’s—well, I had someone—my sister—in there and I kind of want to…” I find myself trailing off under those cool, gray eyes.
Kate finishes the sentence for me, “He wants to see the place where she was in.”
Mrs. Brand subjects her gaze upon her. But Kate stands her ground.
“And you are?”
“Kate March, ma’am. I’m here for Trey’s support.”
Those eyes pierce us both like sharpened rapiers. “Who was in the asylum that you know?”
Kate and I exchange looks before the former replies:
“Olivia Thamsen. She was brought here in 1989.”
Those gray eyes light up, “Ah, yes…small girl…had the most beautiful eyes.”
Then a soft:
“Follow me.”
Kate and I hurry after her past the receptionist and down a hall that gets gloomier by the minute. Mrs. Brand opens a door to reveal a murky hallway. And Kate and I step in.
“Keep in mind that this is very dangerous.” Mrs. Brand warned. “Don’t stomp or put your weight on the floor too much. Now, Olivia was in…”
I finish her statement, “Room 26. The second floor.”
Mrs. Brand nods. She fishes out a flashlight from one pocket and turns it on. White light brings my sister’s former hell under my gaze. Right now, the walls are peeling, the doors caving in. Floorboards sag and stick out in places. I almost balk, but then Kate takes my hand as she steps in. Leaving me no choice except to go with her.
Creaks and muted footsteps only add to the tension thickening my tongue and extending the shadows. The beam of light bobs and swoops, becoming still as it lands on a set of rickety stairs that could only belong in a modest 17th-century house.
Kate and I exchange looks.
And we tentatively walk up the steps.
I swallow, trying to soothe myself. To undo the knot my gut is coiling into. Neither works.
“Which one is it again?” Mrs. Brand’s voice has an echo-y, ethereal quality that seems detached by the lady in possession of it. As if it came from the deepest shadows of the lacrymosa itself.
“Room 26,” Kate answers. Mrs. Brand’s flashlight unveils the shadows for us once more. And we see the dust-covered brass numbers on one door. 26.
My lips are dry. My tongue will not help moisten them as I reach out and open the door. Then I move back as the door swings open by itself. It thuds gently against the wall. Kate is the first to enter, the muted light from the single dirty window giving her an eerie quality.
I baby-step in behind her. My throat is tight; my stomach burns. I swallow again, with no success. My breath comes out in shallow gasps. My hands are clenched in fists and I find myself tightening my fists even more with every step.
The room is military, bare. A soft mattress lies upon a minimal metalwork of a bed frame. Our footsteps sink into an inch-thick sheen of dust. Opposite the bed are a sink and a toilet. And there is a desk with a dusty, thick folder upon it.
I walk over to the table and I see the scrawl of my sister’s name upon the front of the folder. I open it and there’s a picture of Olivia staring up at me. The date is December 19th, 1989. The day she was brought in the asylum.
Olivia’s eyes had been beautiful, as Mrs. Brand said. They were a clear shade of green. I remember that they would turn as light as limes or as smoky as dark jade. Whenever she looked at me after that fateful day, they would appear to be almost black. Blackened by her despair.
And anger.
“Mrs. Brand?” I call out.
“Yes?” she asks.
“D’you think I could take this?” I revolve on the spot to face, gesturing at the folder.
Mrs. Brand nods.
I heft the folder up in the crook of my arms. Kate is looking at me with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity.
“Are you ready to go?” she asks.
“In a minute.” I reply. “First, I was wondering if you could do something, Mrs. Brand.”
Mrs. Brand’s silence encourages me to continue.
“I was wondering if you could leave me for a sec.”
Mrs. Brand starts to say something, appears to reconsider and shoos Kate out with herself, closing the door. And I am alone.
The dust swirls in the weak morning light. I check my watch. Only 11:20.
Something slithers in the shadows. My head snaps to look at it. There is no more movement. The dust swirls faster. I sit on the bed, putting the folder on the desk. A sigh makes the dust writhe in the light. Faster, then slower.
My hands are shaking. Sweat is wet upon my face.
Then I hear the single word whispered in my ear:
“Murderer.”
The next thing I know, I’m sprawled upon the floor and staring in Kate’s worried eyes. Mrs. Brand lingers a bit behind, shining the flashlight around the room. Again and again.
“What happened?” my voice is a breathy croak.
“You were screaming,” Kate explains. “We went in and saw you unconscious upon the floor…”
I press a hand to the back of my head as a bolt of pain stabs my brain. I feel a little bit of sticky wetness and then a lump.
I look at my hand. Blood is smeared on the fingers. Not much, but enough to make Kate gasp.
“You need a doctor!” she says.
The flashlight keeps moving.
“I’m fine,” I assure Kate.
Moving, bobbing, discovering…
“You sure?” Kate asks.
“I’m sure,” I reply. I stand up and nestle the folder in the crook of my arm. “I just wanna look at this.”
Kate looks at the folder, then back at my face. She murmurs an agreement and I find that my cue to walk out of the room. And down the hall.
Just like I did the first time I saw her here.
“Where are you going?” Olivia’s voice is the only one I hear amongst the demented cackles.
Keep walking! Keep walking, Thamsen…
“Don’t leave me! Please!”
Down the stairs.
“You can’t leave me like this!”
Down the hall. And I open the door.
“Murderer!”
I stagger out in the waiting room. I’m outside, gulping breaths of air. I blindly thrust the folder at Kate, stagger to some hospital foliage. Falling to my knees, I retch. My body is racked with soundless sobs. Kate’s arm is around me. Pulling me up, the sweet voice murmuring yarns of comfort.
My head clears a little bit. Kate looks pale, scared as hell.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I nod, still shaky, “I’m fine…”
Kate looks doubtful, but accepts it. She slips an arm around my waist and helps me in the car. As if I’ve aged fifty years older in the last 30 minutes.
And in a way, maybe I have…
We’re in Kate’s living room, sitting on the couch. Kate has opened the folder, sprawled its contents all over the coffee table. There’s pictures, typewritten pages, cassettes and even a leather-bound journal. Kate has gotten her tape player and is now inserting one of the cassettes in. I pick up the journal, turn to the first page. A child’s scrawl fills it. The date is when she was brought in.
A click makes me look up. Kate is playing the tape. Static is the only thing then.
“What is your name?” a male voice is gentle, a velvety baritone.
“Olivia,” my sister’s voice is sweet, light, almost fragile.
“It’s nice to meet you, Olivia,” the male says. “I’m your doctor, Mr. Kraus. I’ll be talking to you about a couple of things.”
“Like what?” my sister’s voice is a monotone.
“Your behavior, your habits. Things like that,”
My sister says nothing. Somehow, I get a vision of her eyes darkening into jade.
“Do you know what this is?”
“An insane asylum,” my sister’s voice is not questioning. She says it like a hard-boiled fact.
“No, no, no, no…It’s a long-term psychiatrist ward.”
Silence.
Then my sister’s voice, “That’s one way to put it,”
Another pause. Longer this time. Then the doctor:
“Do you know why you are here?”
Silence. Then the doctor again:
“You don’t? Okay…you are here because you have committed a crime. A very serious crime. Because of your young age, we are instead--”
My sister again, her voice edgy:
“I didn’t murder him!”
The doctor says nothing. My sister continues in that same, flat monotone.
“I only tried to warn him. And he didn’t listen. I told him to end the affair. And he didn’t listen. He laughed at me. And then he threw me out,”
“Well, your mother claims that you told your brother that he was murdered.”
Kate’s intent gaze turns onto me, her eyes confused and wary. I ignore her.
Olivia’s voice again, “It was supposed to be a secret. But he was too scared to go with me to help the man. And he blabbed to Mommy. It’s his--”
Kate pauses it. Her eyes turn to me once more, sparkling with unshed tears. Tears of frustration. Of confusion.
When the first tear slips down her cheek, she manages to ask, “Trey…is it--is that--is what Olivia said true?”
I’m cornered now. I can either lie to the person who’s been by my side since I came here, or confess and face the possibility of being alone.
My head moves in a slow nod.
More tears streak down her ivory cheeks, “Tell me what happened.”
I swallow, “Everything she said was the truth. I--I was scared. Afraid that I would end up in the wrong situation. So I walked away from her. And I told Mom.”
Those five sentences bring back a barrage of memories from that fateful day…
My mother’s horrified face, her eyes stretching to the size of basketballs. Flitting to the phone. Punching in the number. Her soprano voice murmuring in the phone, her words too low…
Olivia. Olivia in the doorway, her enormous eyes smoldering at me with shock and anger. Not fear. Olivia had never been afraid.
Kate seems frozen, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. The tear trails are still there, working their way down to her jaw. Her mouth works and the only sound is the silence that’s making a roar echo in my ears.
“I—” Kate’s voice is small, thin. Not the sensual, attractive soprano voice I’m used to hearing. “I—I need—I need a…a moment.”
She gets up, shuffles to the end door at the hall. She enters the room and I am left alone.
I gather the documents and everything else and walk out of Kate’s house.
The rain starts halfway through my trek to the hotel. I tuck the folder under my coat, bow my head and surrender to the storm’s wrath. A faraway echo of thunder is exactly what I can’t say. My vision is a watercolor of colors here and there. I can’t tell if I’m blinded by the rain or my tears.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Selena’s furious expression abruptly changes to one of disbelief. But the hammer keeps pounding on the nail as I retreat to the bathroom.
“How the hell could you not wake me up? I mean, I wake and I find a fucking message saying you’re with Kate. With her! What were you doing anyways?”
I’ve started peeling off my clothes as she rants. Right now as I take off my shirt, I say, “Selena. Seriously. Please bear with me here. I don’t want you to know—” I stop myself. I don’t want Selena to go away like Kate did.
But she catches up on the sudden interruption, “About what? What are you doing here, Trey?”
“Getting some clothes, whaddya think?” I grouse as I walked out and pulled on some briefs. Comfortable sweats over that.
“I mean, why did you come here?”
“I wanted to learn about my family.”
“Your family? Your family? Were you adopted or something? Were you dumped on the streets or something? Disowning? A secret family member? What are you doing behind my back? God, what’s wrong with you? No, wait. What’s going on between you and Kate?”
I freeze in mid-pull, my fingers grasping the thick fleece of my favorite sweater, “You cannot be serious,”
“I am!”
“You think we’re doing some kind of twisted love affair? Kate and me?” I wanted to both laugh and cry at the suggestion. “We’re both Catholics, Selena!”
“Oh, like that would prevent you from doing it!” Selena squeaks out each word with unbridled indignation. “Look me in the eye and tell me you have not been doing anything wrong!”
Well, when she put it that way…
Five minutes later, Selena’s hauling a suitcase out of the room, red-faced. I simply hadn’t answered and she’d started packing, cursing me to hell all the while.
The door slammed behind me and I wince.
The next day is a vague blur. Calls from police officers for interviewing, from the church for the funeral later today. A lawyer with my parents’ will knocks at my door, gleefully telling me I’m almost a billionaire. I try to shut myself out—all I care about is getting home. But something tells me to make peace with Kate before I go.
The memorial service was held at the same church where Olivia’s funeral was. I’m seated next to an old woman clutching a rosary as tears fill every valley of her wrinkled, shrunken face. The voices of the boys’ choir echoes in the room like the high shrill of sirens from Greek mythology. The priest looks struck—as if he’s still in shock from the murders—as he laments on and on.
As I stand in the courtyard being buffeted by people’s apologies, amidst my nodding and my smiles, I look around for Kate…surely she must be here.
“Trey?”
Hillary draws my full attention. Her hair is tied back and she’s wearing a simple black dress. Her eyelashes are so laden with mascara that they look like spider legs.
“Hey,” I smile at her, a concerned, forced smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Good, just…” Hillary stops, her hands wringing together. “Can we talk…alone…for a minute?”
My grin quickly fades as I read the black letters scrawled above the headboard of my bed:
YOU’RE NEXT
My heart stops, splutters then goes at a speed that makes it sound like a tribal beat. Then I notice the stench in the air. I follow the scent, walking slowly to the bathroom. On the tiles are drops of blood and there’s more drying on the bathtub. I push aside the shower curtain then stumble back, a scream ripping raw from my throat.
The blue eyes of my murdered fiancée follow me as I run out of the bathroom.
“This is your hotel room, Mr. Thamsen?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“What time did you arrive here?”
“About ten or fifteen minutes ago.”
The middle-aged detective gives me hawk eyes, “About?”
“I was returning from a funeral,”
“Ah…” The detective sighs, chomps on the end of his pen, walks away muttering. He leaves me alone and anxious in the hall. The yellow tape that you always see in crime television shows like Criminal Minds is across my door.
The detective comes back, his wrinkled, basset-hound face twisted in a expression of uncertainty. “You can go.”
I manage to walk to the elevator. I’m all twitching fingers and darting eyes as the elevator goes down. Go through the lobby in a sea of suspicious, worried eyes, hurry to my car and drive off.
I don’t know exactly where I’m going. All I know is that before the funeral, I googled Olivia Thamsen. and I found a newspaper article. I read it and find out that the killer was in El Paso, in the James Meyer Unit, one of the prisons in Texas for homicidal men. I find the location both unnerving and satisfying. El Paso is practically next-door neighbors with McKay, only 80 miles of scenic, flat desert between them.
“So what can you tell me about the murderer of Olivia Thamsen?”
I was now in the small office of the prison chaplain, who’s smoking a pipe. He gives new meaning to the word ‘stereotype.’ His gut is layers and layers of flesh, folding over themselves. His hair is gray like the smoke swaying and swirling in the muggy heat, nothing but the faintest sheet of sand on those rocks of a head. He considers my question and then settles back in his seat with a sound that could either be a creak or a fart.
“That skinny, green-eyed guy was a pisser,” he grumbles. “Some kind of goddamn fanatic, also. Called himself Jesus.”
“Jesus?” I ask. “What about his last name?”
“Called himself Thomas or Thames…”
“Thamsen?”
His face screws up and he nods slowly, “Yeah. Something like that. Claimed to not be guilty of a crime like all those whiners. The tough ones suck it up. But a lot of times he seemed lonely or something…avoided. Strange guy,” he’s murmuring to himself, chomping down incessantly on his pipe. A burst of smoke swirls out with his sigh.
“And?” I prod.
He sits up with that farting creak again, “Then there’s this pompous lawyer that comes in last Sunday, gives me a goddamn warrant, and a hell of paperwork. Next thing I know, the fanatic’s free,” he sits back with a sigh to mask that creak. “Can’t tell you much. He wasn’t really that interesting to me.”
I try futile prods to clear the old man’s head, but he comes up with nothing and I leave frustrated.
I’m just opening the door of my car, but a wheezy shout interrupts me, “Wait, wait!”
The old prison chaplain huffs as he hustles through the gate, “I remember something,”
“And?”
“The guy came from the hospital,”
“Jesus Thamsen?” the chaplain nods at my answer, still panting.
“’Parently he was in the long-term ward,” he murmurs. “Which is right next to some special loony building you have on the land.”
I see the next victim when I’m driving by Kate’s house. The swirl of police lights--the familiar blend of red and blue that makes a deep sinister purple. Naturally, I slow down and try to see what’s wrong. There’s a crowd close to Kate’s house and for a second I fear the worst…
I stop the car, leap out and jostle through the crowd. My fear is squashed when I see Kate clad in sweats and answering a detective’s questions.
“Sir, you need to back up…”
Kate is excusing herself, walking towards me, telling the police officer I’m with her. I duck under the yellow tape to the disapproving murmurs of some people…
And I see the body.
Blond hair halos her peaceful face. Her mouth is closed and already in rigor (from what I know according CSI). Her eyes are shut also, and I know the exact shade they were when I met her not a week ago.
“Oh, God…” I whisper. “Not Hillary.”
“He finished the job this time,” Kate murmurs. “Police say there was too much blood to be counted as a suicide. The weapon was still in her.”
I interrupt her, “Kate, I-I know who was the killer.”
Kate starts. A rumble of thunder sounds an instant later. In five seconds, the spectators are gone. Twenty seconds and Hillary is gone, along with the police officers.
Kate and I are left staring at each other. A light drizzle starts, but we don’t move. Kate’s eyes have me captured, their intense vulnerability. I can read every emotion on her face. Fear. Longing. Wariness. I step towards her. She twitches, but doesn’t move. Her dark hair is plastered to her head, making herself look like the most beautiful creature I’ve seen.
I reach up, stroke her cheekbone. Her eyes flutter, the soft sigh barely visible over the patter of rain. My hand slides around the curve of her neck, feeling the hot dampness at her nape. Her chin tilts up, her lips part. I lean down, brush my lips gently against hers. The softest moan comes from her throat and then my lips are kissing air. I open my eyes. There’s Kate, her face set.
She says, “I’ll see you around.”
And she leaves too. I get into my car and I drive back to my hotel, wondering how much time Kate needs before she can figure me out.
The next morning, by determinedness brought on by a drink of Crown Royale, I decide to go to Kate’s house. I drive over there. And immediately, I see the front door ajar. I turn in the driveway and get out, calling Kate’s name as I walk up to the door. I get no reply. I step inside, hesitantly. My shoes squish into something dark and thick. I gasp when I see Damien lying a few feet away from the door. And his head at my feet.
I step out of the puddle of blood, stride in the living room. The pillows are recklessly strewn, an armchair is toppled over and glass shards of what was once a vase shimmer amongst stamped-on roses and a puddle of water. A woman’s cream-colored pump is by the fireplace, the heel broken.
With shaking fingers, I draw out my cell phone and dial 911.
“What time did you arrive here, Mr. Thamsen?”
Carrie Jacoby is interviewing me once again, her brow arching as she awaits my answer. I shrug, mumble, “’Bout ten o’clock or something,”
Carrie checks her watch, then jots something down in her notebook.
“Hey,” a slim, sandy blonde guy holds up a cassette player. “Found this by the table. Checked the tape. The label says ‘Trey’.”
Carrie assesses me with suspicious eyes.
I manage another shrug, “I haven’t listened to the tape.”
“Good, because you’re going to listen to it at headquarters,”
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