Asylum Lake (15 page)
Again, Brady read the message. He sighed in relief.
One mystery solved, you’re not Ellis.
“Find who? Who does Ellis want me to find?”
The tiles did their slow dance across the board once again.
“Jeff,” Brady wondered aloud. He paused, letting the name settle over him. “Jeff Ryder?
How the hell will he know anything about this? I don’t even know where Jeff is.
The answer came not from the board this time, but from the doorway. “I do,” Frank said gravely to Brady. “I know where your friend is.”
Brady had turned from the game board at the unexpected sound of Frank’s voice. He could see the frigid plumes of breath as the man spoke. “Yer dad and I tracked him down.”
Brady’s confusion was evident as he recast his focus to the Scrabble Board. His mind was spinning with thoughts and questions, but only one came to his lips. “Who are you?” he pleaded.
The tiles remained still. “Please, tell me who you are?” Brady’s risen voiced echoed throughout the icy room.
The room warmed noticeably; the frosty air no longer evident from Brady’s anxious breathing. The Scrabble pieces remained in place. Even the dim bulb seemed to brighten over the desk. Brady hung his head in exhausted disappointment; whatever presence he had been communicating with had now departed.
A ruffled thump across the room drew his attention. On the floor beneath the wall where the blueprints for the asylum were stapled into the drywall lay his grandfather’s Stetson; resting gently on the floor after its tumble from the shelf
Brady stepped forward, standing over the black hat that had been his grandfather’s trademark. He knelt down and traced his fingers along its woolen brim and through the small holes that peppered the worn material. Buckshot, he recalled, standing to his feet with the hat held in his grip.
Taking the Tiger’s cap from his head and dropping it to the dusty floor at his feet, Brady was struck by how heavy the Stetson felt in his hand, both in the weight of the wool and in the responsibility it had carried. Brady placed it atop his head, pleased by the perfection of the fit, and turned to Frank.
“I think you’ve got some explaining to do.”
“I didn’t know why ‘yer dad was looking for Jeff. He didn’t say and I never thought to ask,” Frank was back peddling as he drove. “Towards the end, he wasn’t exactly thinking too clearly.”
Brady leveled his gaze at the man. Frank looked over once and quickly turned away. From beneath his grandfather’s hat Brady looked far more intimidating; not so different from his namesake.
“Spill it, Frank. All of it.”
Frank’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “Honestly, I don’t know what to tell you. We’ve been through this.” He hesitated, shaking his head. “After your mom passed your dad became consumed with that asylum. Hell, he even contacted some professor at Michigan State University to discuss urban exploration,” Frank enunciated the words as if it were in a foreign language. “I think he was planning on going into that wreck of a place and digging around.”
Reverend James Collins had been sitting quietly in the back seat of the jeep. Silent since entering the Up North House, Frank and Brady both jumped at the sound of his voice.
“He did go in, about a week before he died.” The revelation settled over the SUV’s interior like an invisible fog. “That’s when he brought it out…the bracelet.”
Brady’s eyes moved from Frank and settled on the backseat passenger. “Brought it out? What do you mean? What happened to the bracelet after your son was arrested?”
Collins shrugged, looking away from Brady’s glare. “Lionel kept it. He wore the wretched thing throughout the trial.” Collins hesitated, “I didn’t know what it was…not then. Hell, I still don’t know what exactly it is.”
Frank remained silent as Brady considered the Reverend’s comments. “Okay,” trying to keep his voice under control, “So, if your son was wearing the bracelet when he was convicted, how the hell did my father find it thirty-odd years later back inside that damn hospital?”
It was a rhetorical question, Brady wasn’t expecting a response. But much like Frank had indicated, sometimes simply knowing the questions to ask makes the unanswerable questions easier to bear.
“Reverend,” Brady continued, “Where did they send Lionel after he was convicted, surely not to prison?”
Collins hesitated, “Out of state,” he answered. “With so much press coverage the courts worked out a deal to send him to a psychiatric hospital in Indiana.”
Brady nodded, understanding the benefit of hiding the boy away somewhere out of sight until his brutal crimes became old news. “And then, I assume he was incarcerated until the age of twenty-one, unless they found reason to keep him longer?”
Frank grunted in agreement. As a law enforcement officer he had intimate knowledge as to how the system worked and knew where Brady’s thoughts were leading.
Collins shook his head, “I don’t know. They lost him.”
“Lost him?!” Frank and Brady responded in unison.
“You can’t just lose someone,” Frank added, “not very easily anyway, especially not in a prison or nut house.”
Brady agreed. “They actually told you they lost your son?”
Again, Collins shook his head, “No, no…of course not. He was transferred from their facility just six months after being admitted. At whose request was always very uncertain. Regardless, a fire in their records room destroyed all of the paperwork. It’s as if Lionel Collins was never there at all.” The Reverend’s tone was calm, as if he had long ago resigned himself to the fact that Lionel’s whereabouts would remain another small piece in this grand puzzle.
Brady didn’t believe in coincidence. “So you have no idea where he is today? He’s never once tried to contact you?”
“No,” Collins answered. “Only Dr. Clovis would know that. His signature on the sign-out sheet was the only record of the transfer. I have found no record of a Dr. Clovis, first name unknown, practicing anywhere in the state of Indiana. It’s as if he fell off the face of the earth.”
The name sounded alarms in Brady’s head. He reached for the bible, ripping it free of Collins’s grasp. Frank looked on, keeping one eye on the road and the other on Brady as he flipped through the loose pages. When it fell open on the 23rd Psalm, Brady stopped, looking down at the bracelet.
“Here, don’t you see,” Brady declared, pointing at the broken band of plastic. Etched onto its worn surface, beneath the smears of dried blood, was the answer. Listed among Ellis Arkema’s patient information was the name of his doctor; W. Clovis.
Collins reached forward at the sight of the exposed bracelet, slamming the bible closed and wrenching it from Brady’s hands. “Must we look upon it?” he pleaded.
The uncomfortable silence that followed the outcry was broken only by the sound of the Reverend’s muttering, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me…”
The revelation of the connection between the old asylum and the fate of Lionel Collins created a quiet calm in the cabin of the Jeep’s interior; each occupant alone with their thoughts.
Lionel’s father finally slept. After years of sleeping in the wooded areas of the State Park, keeping a watchful eye on the darkened asylum, the comfort of the Jeep’s backseat overtook his frail bones.
Brady’s thoughts rolled through his tired head like the metal ball in a pinball machine; his logic centers were flippers batting at the ball resulting in a great deal of noise, intermittent flashes of light and eventual disappointment.
As for Frank, he tried not to think. Reacting without forethought had gotten him through sixty-one years fairly unscathed; no sense trying to change things up now. Although for the life of him he couldn’t understand this fascination with Jeff Ryder. The dude was plain trouble any way you sliced it. Frank glanced over at Brady’s furrowed brow and wondered what the boy was thinking.
Nothing good, I’m sure.
“Alright,” Frank announced to the cabin, waking Collins from his slumber and pulling Brady back from his thoughts. “We’ll be taking the next left up here. Officially we’re leaving the good ol’ U. S. of A. This is Indian land, the smallest reservation ever settled. Hell, it’s not even on the maps.” Frank hesitated, letting his words settle over his anxious passengers. “It’s twenty-five square miles of trees, poverty, and drugs. Locals know me a bit, from my days wearing the badge. We should be just fine.” Frank’s grin wasn’t comforting.
The turnoff came as promised; little more than a washout of a road leading into the dense woods. Brady’ scanned the trees, unsure of what he was looking for, but curious nonetheless. This was officially his first time off U.S. soil; not exactly the tropical beaches he had in mind.
The Jeep bounced and churned along the road. Several times Brady could see what appeared to be small, dilapidated wooden shacks within the trees. “Houses,” Frank answered Brady’s unspoken question. “Not exactly the three-bedroom two bath variety, either.”
Even Brady, accustomed to stepping over the homeless living on Chicago’s busy sidewalks, was shocked by the squalor.
“At one time this whole mitten of a state belonged to them,” this time it was the Reverend who spoke, “bands of them, actually different tribes.”
Brady felt like he was in fourth grade learning about Michigan history. He was about to speak up when Collins said something very interesting.
“In fact, an offshoot of the Chippewa’s who had claimed much of northern-lower Michigan actually settled right here in what we now call Bedlam County,” Collins’s voice was gaining strength as his lecture continued.
“Long before there was an asylum on that hill, the natives had established a thriving community,” Collins hesitated. “Until they disappeared, the entire tribe just vanished; ga-da-wa-hi tsu-ga-sa-wo-dv or Lake of Tears is what the natives refer to the area now.”
Collins fell silent. It seemed that nothing good had ever come from the lake.
“We’re here,” Frank announced, his gravelly voice shattering the silence. Brady looked through the dusty windshield into a small clearing that opened beneath a canopy of trees. Dominating the space was quite possibly the oldest Winnebago to ever roll the earth. It’s rusted exterior and flattened tires revealed much about the owner.
Brady glanced into the backseat at the Reverend’s sleeping form. “How about we just let the old guy get rest?”
Frank nodded in agreement, “Three’s a crowd anyway.” turning to Brady, “You ready, son?”
Brady nodded, “Don’t suppose I really have a choice now, do I?”
They exited the Jeep, Brady allowing Frank to take the lead. He couldn’t help but notice the butt of the .38 sticking out from Frank’s jeans. “Hey,” he called out in a hushed whisper, “What the hell is that?”
Frank turned to Brady, casually hiding the exposed gun once again under his Harley t-shirt and then holding up three fingers on his right hand, he recited the Boy Scout motto, “Be prepared.”
Brady groaned and said nothing. Sometimes it’s best to just let Frank be Frank.
The Winnebago’s appearance only worsened as they drew closer, as did the smell. The overwhelming scent of fingernail polish mixed with cat urine burned Brady’s nostrils. He buried his nose in the crook of his arm, gagging against the stench.
Frank turned back once again and smiled. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, “Nothing clears the sinuses better than the smell of meth in the morning.”
Brady had known that methamphetamine was the new drug of choice in many rural areas. It was relatively easy to manufacture and provided a high unmatched by most other narcotics. He couldn’t imagine how or why Jeff would be mixed up with the drug. A lot must have changed in the last fourteen years.
The barking of a very angry dog shook Brady from his reverie. Frank had his .38 drawn instantly. From the shadows at the rear of the Winnebago lumbered the largest dog Brady had ever seen. The beast of a Rottweiler easily weighed over two-hundred pounds and apparently had the temperament of a grizzly bear being poked with a very short stick.
“Manson, heel!”
The dog froze in place, snarling his protest, yet obeying the order. Frank kept his gun trained on the dog as he glanced at the trailer. Brady very courageously cowered behind Frank, unsure just how well trained the dog truly was. Manson, Brady nervously acknowledged the irony of the dog’s name, why not just call him death or killer and be done with it.
“Afternoon, sheriff, can’t say I recall sending you an invitation.” Standing in the trailer’s open doorway, beer held firmly in one dirty hand, was a man of indeterminate age. His voice was vigorous, but his body was aged. Open sores and scabs marked his ripened face, and he smiled with sporadic, rotted teeth. “And I see you’ve brought company.”
Brady stepped out from behind Frank, looking hard at the stranger. Although the voice seemed familiar, Brady could not place the broken man standing at the Winnebago’s open door.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got a warrant,” the man continued, swilling the rest of his beer and tossing the can to the ground. “Oh hell, come on in,” turning and disappearing into the Winnebago, “Just don’t forget to wipe ‘yer feet.”
Brady exchanged a nervous glance with Frank as the retired lawman tucked the .38 into the back of his jeans. “After you,” Frank indicated, sweeping his arm out in a formal gesture, “this is your party, son.”
Brady smiled weakly, brushing passed Frank as he approached the trailer. The dog traced Brady’s movement across the clearing with beady eyes and salivating jaws. The stink became nearly overpowering as he neared the doorway. Taking a deep breath, he mounted the steps and entered the Winnebago, leaving Frank outside to bond with Manson.
Aside from the nauseating fumes, Brady found the Winnebago’s interior to be strangely free of clutter and mostly unsoiled. He stepped into the cramped quarters of the kitchen area and easily found the ‘cooking” area. The foldout table was a maze of glass tubing, and liquids of varying colors boiled over heated Bunsen burners. The whole thing looked like a junior high science experiment gone wrong.
“You might wanna stand back; give it some room to breathe,” the stranger called from Brady’s right. He turned to find the man seated on a small slip of couch. “Contact buzz can be nasty for the uninitiated.” The man’s rotted smile flashed from behind his chapped lips.
Brady returned a nervous nod as he stepped furtively away from the table. His eyes scanned the trailer, noting the impressive array of LCD screens and computer gadgetry. Business must be good, he thought, returning his gaze to the man on the couch.
“DEA? State Police?” the amateur chemist prodded. “I know you’re not local.” He paused, squinting his red-rimmed eyes in consternation. “Ah, hell,” the smile returned, “Brady Tanner!”
Brady nodded, allowing the surprising sight of his childhood friend to slowly sink in. The Jeff Ryder he remembered had been smart and funny, not the lazy and uneducated type of person Brady had always associated with the drug world. This man’s bone thin frame and scarred appearance looked nothing like the vibrant teenager Brady had last seen.
