Asylum Lake Read online

  Brady pulled the buds from his ears, flinging them onto the passenger seat. It seemed his life did have a soundtrack, and for the time being at least, it was full of sad songs. Duritz had it right, Brady thought, stepping from the car. The price of a memory really is the memory of the sorrow it brings.

  Frank’s gravelly voice boomed from the direction of the house. “’Bout time you roll in.”

  The man looked no worse for wear after yesterday’s heavy drinking. Wearing a black Harley Davidson t-shirt and a faded pair of jeans, he looked ready to kick someone’s ass, “Only been sittin here for an hour.”

  Brady smiled, knowing full well that Frank had been up since long before sunrise, anxious to walk his happy ass over four miles just for the chance to roust Brady from bed. “Yeah, you’re not fooling anyone, old man. You get up at five every morning to watch your Murder She Wrote reruns; legalized porn for the elderly. ”

  Frank’s bellowing laugh nearly shook the ground beneath Brady’s feet, “You may not believe me, young man, but back in the day Angela Lansbury was one fine piece of ass.”

  Even when fully rested and with no hangover, Brady would have been hard pressed to find a worthy response to Frank’s sense of humor. He shook his head and smiled instead. “I’ll just have to take your word for that one.”

  They met midway between the house and driveway, an odd showdown of sorts along the worn-out path; the one time lawman and the son of the man he had once considered his best friend. “You do realize that we are both crazy as bat shit, right?”

  Brady laughed, moving forward to embrace the man he had grown up referring to as Uncle Frank. “Certifiable bat shit, Frank. Certifiable.”

  “So, tell me again about that night,” Brady urged, leaning forward across the small table tucked into a darkened corner inside The Hayloft’s cavernous interior. Third-shifter’s from the local Ford plant, fewer in numbers since the lay-offs, filled the stools around the bar, filling their bellies with heaping plates of the famous “Haystack” breakfast; seasoned potatoes mixed with bacon, eggs, sausage and just about any other item requested. Tall draughts of ice cold beer were often the drink of choice to wash it all down.

  Frank swirled the remaining swallow of water around in the bottom of his glass, keeping his eyes averted from Brady’s. He glanced at the watch on his wrist, a gold Timex the County Commission had presented him with upon retirement. “Ah, hell,” pushing the near-empty glass away, “I need a drink.” Catching the arm of a passing waitress, Frank whispered something into her ear.

  “I’m still reeling from last night,” Brady pleaded unsuccessfully. He threw his arms in the air in surrender as the waitress reappeared with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. Smiling, she poured the first round and set the nearly full bottle on the table between them.

  Frank reached for his glass, wrapping it in his meaty paw and staring into the coppery-colored whiskey, “To Buck Tanner,” raising the glass, “the meanest, hardest, toughest, orneriest son of a bitch I ever met,” hesitating and then adding, “and the finest.”

  Brady clinked his glass onto Frank’s before raising it to his lips. The mere thought, coupled with the smell of the liquor made his stomach twist, but he poured it down his throat nonetheless wishing he had something to chase the burning taste from his mouth. It was odd, toasting a man he had never met, especially given recent revelations; even so, Brady knew the words were justly deserved.

  Frank was halfway into his second round before the words came to his lips. Like most people with a long tale to tell, he got to the meat of the story in a very roundabout way. “You deal much in what ifs, Brady?” He emptied the glass in one great swallow.

  Brady considered the question, and the man asking it, before answering. The reporter knew a loaded question when he heard one, and Frank’s query was definitely of the double-barrel variety. “Sure, I suppose,” he replied, doing his best to keep the many what ifs associated with Karen’s accident safely buried deep in his own subconscious.

  “But my job isn’t so much different than yours was,” sipping his bitter drink, “As a reporter you go where the facts take you; whether you like the destination or not.”

  Frank laughed, “Bullshit,” pouring his third drink and topping off Brady’s, too. “You know as well as I do that sometimes it’s not the answer that’s important, it’s having the fucking balls to ask the question.” The former lawman’s laughter trailed off as his gaze moved from Brady’s face to settle on the half empty bottle of whiskey.

  After a moment, Brady broke the silence. “So that’s the beast, huh – hanging over the bar?”

  Frank craned his neck and nodded. “Yep, that’s the beast.” The giant buck hung prominently over the bar, yellow caution take draped across its enormous rack. If the mount was any indication, the beast had weighed well over two hundred and fifty pounds. He couldn’t believe Frank had taken it down with his .38.

  “So what’s your what if, Frank; if you had to choose just one?” The question passed from Brady’s lips before he realized what he was asking. He immediately wished he could take it back.

  Frank shifted his focus from The Beast over the bar and back to the man seated across the table. “You don’t fuck around, do ya?” His laughter brightened his eyes. “Big brass ones just like your grandpa.”

  Brady warmed at the complement, proud to hear he shared more than just a name with the man who had gained the respect of so many. He regretted never having known him.

  “That’s a long fucking list to choose just one from,” Frank said solemnly, an uncomfortable silence falling over the table.

  Brady interjected, saving Frank from his laundry list of what ifs. “Know what I wonder, Frank? I wonder what if my house is haunted. Yeah, I definitely think that’s at the top of my what if list right now. Of course, that brings a million other questions to mind; like who and why – but it all starts with the what if, wouldn’t you agree?” Brady emptied his glass with a long and uncomfortable swallow and poured another, doing his best to keep up.

  Frank ran his age-spotted hands through his thinning gray hair. He leaned forward, lowering his voice, before continuing, “No need to wonder about that one, son. Something’s been knocking ‘round that house for some time.” Shaking his head, “Maddie’s nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs every time she goes in there.”

  Brady exhaled. “So, I’m not crazy?”

  Frank’s laugh filled air, drawing looks from the patrons clear across the other side of the bar. “Son, I can neither confirm nor deny your sanity, but I can tell you that I had this same conversation with your daddy not four years ago. He thought he was going crazy, too; hell, I had my own suspicions about the man. Even a blind man could see that something fairly strange was going on and had been for years.” Frank paused and poured them each another round. Raising his glass in toast, he smiled, a smile not unlike Brady’s own mischievous grin, “But like I said, sometimes it’s not the answer that’s so important.”

  Frank downed his Jack in one gulp before he continued, “Now if those truly are brass balls yer’ packin, quit sipping at that drink and let’s get the fuck out of here. People are goanna start thinking we’re dating with all this whispering.” Frank stood, peeling two twenties from a wad of bills he pulled from his front pocket. He tossed them onto the table as Brady finished his drink. “I think it’s about time we start asking some fucking questions.”

  The argument over who would drive was both contentious and comical. They had arrived at The Hayloft in Brady’s Jetta, with Frank complaining the entire way about the cramped space of a foreign car and Brady doing his best to explain how the entire vehicle was built right in the good old USA. The generational gap couldn’t have been more evident.

  “Toss me the keys,” Frank barked as they stepped from the dim confines of the bar into the late morning sun.

  “No way, old man,” Brady scoffed, knowing full well that Frank had been at least two up on him in the
drink column, but also suspecting that he shouldn’t be driving, either. “Where the hell are we going, anyway?”

  Frank’s grin widened, “Good question. The answer costs you the keys to this Nazi death trap.”

  Brady sighed, knowing full well that there was no winning this argument. “You do know how to drive a stick, right? I mean, this isn’t your father’s Oldsmobile we’re talking about here. It’s a machine built for driving.” Brady could feel the mischievous grin spreading across his drunken face as he tossed the keys over the hood of the car.

  Frank snatched them from the air and smiled. It took a minute, but he eventually had the seat adjusted to his exact specifications. Brady winced with every slam of the seat on its sliding rails. “Easy there, Frank. I think you’ve tried just about every available position, plus a few that don’t come standard.”

  Frank turned to his passenger and winked. “Lighten up, Mr. Tanner. Your precious car is in the hands of a trained professional.” He inserted the key into the ignition, smiling at the sound of the engine purring under the hood. He slid the stick into neutral and revved the engine. “Not bad, for a foreign car.”

  The professional stalled the car twice before he had even left the parking lot. The Jetta disappeared from view around the bend of the sweeping country road, the sound of grinding gears echoing in the distance.

  Abby and Gruff were playing fetch when it happened. Over and over she tossed the stick from one end of the yard to the other. For most people, especially those over the age of five, the small patch of grass in a trailer park advertised as a yard really isn’t much more than a half dozen or so passes with a lawn mower. For Abby, however, the small, fenced in area was her playground. Grandpa would sit in his chair, reading a newspaper, never a recent one and complain about last week’s or last month’s headlines as if it were breaking news. He did, however, keep a very watchful eye on his little June Bug.

  Gruff had just chased the stick for what seemed like the hundredth time, showing no signs of tiring, when Abby first complained of the headache. “Grandpa, my head feels funny.”

  The morning sun was blistering, the promise of a near-record temperature hanging warm and moist in the air. “Let’s get you a drink,” Henry replied as he stood. He had added a pair of blue work pants over his briefs. They were hiked up to his armpits and fell nearly four inches from the tops of his slippers. “And you too, my good sir,” he added, pointing a gnarled finger in Gruff’s direction.

  He shuffled to the garden hose that lay coiled near the trailer’s rusted skirting. His once thriving grass was riddled with dandelions and other assorted weeds. His wife had managed the yard work, and the small vegetable garden; tomatoes and cucumbers mostly. Many an afternoon had been spent sitting on the bench swing eating freshly peeled cucumbers sprinkled with salt. The swing, much like his beautiful wife of forty-two years, had succumbed to age, leaving the patchwork lawn and overgrown garden as a memorial.

  The hose dribbled to life, the rust-colored water clearing as it flowed. They took turns at the hose, Abby and then Gruff, both wearing more than drinking. The cold water did little to dampen their spirits and soon both were running through the yard at full speed again.

  Henry settled back into his chair, his mind drifting back over last week’s news. His memory was hit or miss, and today he had leafed through the same newspaper four times without realizing it. His recollection of more distant events, however, remained razor-sharp, and today he couldn’t help but think about digging holes at the asylum; the pungent smell of freshly turned earth filling his nostrils. With it, came the uncomfortable memory of a man with a mustache; his hands touching and grabbing in places that no man’s hand should ever venture. Henry shivered beneath the sweltering sun as he reminisced.

  The pained wailing of an animal shook him from his thoughts. His eyes darted from one corner of the small yard to the next, coming to rest on his granddaughter. His muddled thoughts couldn’t comprehend what his tired eyes were seeing. Backed into a corner, Gruff lay in a ball, his piercing yelps shattering what had been a quiet morning. Standing over the dog, with a strength Henry could not fathom, was Abby, raining blows down upon the dog; the stick once used for fetching turned weapon.

  Henry sprinted across the yard, wrapping his arms around his granddaughter; her hammering blows ceasing in his firm embrace. She trembled as tears filled her eyes, her grandfather’s calming whispers drowned out by her own sobs.

  Gruff stood on three wobbly legs, his right front paw held against his body, unable to bear weight. Hobbling forward, he placed his wet nose against Abby’s tear-stained cheek and began to lick the tears from her face.

  The bracelet which had once hung so loosely about Abby’s delicate wrist had tightened its grip and her pale flesh reddening from its bite.

  “Trust me; I know what I’m doing.” No words in human history preceded stupidity more than those seven. In this case, they were uttered by Brady as he instructed the former Sheriff on how to drive while slightly inebriated.

  “Just remember to keep your hands at eleven o’clock and one o’clock on the wheel, not ten and two like they teach in driver’s training” Brady’s words were slurring slightly. “Now raise your thumbs.”

  Frank did as he was told, positioning his hands on the steering wheel and raising his thumbs into the air.

  “Now, just keep the road between your thumbs,” Brady explained. “Pretty fucking cool, huh?”

  Frank laughed. The road did seem much easier to navigate via thumb. “I’ll be damned,” he admitted, “son, you just might be a genius.”

  Brady beamed with pride. “Not me, Frank, Beaver’s the genius. He was a fraternity brother in college; Sigma Phi Epsilon.” Brady smiled from ear to ear as he recalled his Sig Ep days. “Damned if I can remember his real name,” laughing now, “but Beaver taught me that little trick; works every time.”

  Frank glanced at his passenger. He had a hard time thinking of the kid as more than just that, a kid. The boy who was too afraid of worms to fish with anything but lures, teaching this old dog a new trick. So much like his father, he thought.

  “You know he was proud of you, right – ‘yer dad. He was real proud of you.”

  Brady’s grin vanished. This was not the conversation he wanted to have, especially loaded with Jack Daniels. He changed the subject, watching Frank drive with his thumbs.

  “So where the hell are we going anyway?”

  Frank scoffed at the question, as if it were the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. Pressing his foot down on the accelerator and staring between his thumbs, he answered, “Where everyone turns for answers, church.”

  Sterling State Park - Brady read the sign as they drove through the entrance. He recalled fishing from the pier with his father, too afraid to touch the worms; instead using small pieces of bologna as bait. His fear of worms remained, especially on rainy mornings when they would crawl from the earth and stretch out on the sidewalks and pavement.

  “I think we should’ve taken a left turn at Albuquerque, Frank,” Brady joked as the Jetta rolled deeper into the park. He still found humor in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons on DVD; nothing like a Looney Toon to brighten one’s day. Sadly, Gruff was much more of a Foghorn Leghorn fan and didn’t appreciate the rabbit’s appeal.

  “Seriously, what the hell are we doing here?”

  Frank guided the Jetta into a parking spot near the campground. He pulled the keys from the ignition and let out a long whiskey-scented breath.

  “Your grandpa asked me once if I believed in God. Seemed like a silly question at the time. Hell, it stills seems silly when you ask it out loud.” Frank fell silent as he collected his thoughts. “Not ten hours later he was dead.”

  Brady sat in silence, allowing Frank’s words to settle over him. Beyond the door at the end of the hall, his father’s makeshift office had contained piles of handwritten notes, police files, and other items. Brady had found the article from The Banner mourning the loss of Sheriff Bu
ck Tanner among the stacks. The clipping had been light on details, and Brady wasn’t able to glean much from the six inches of copy. His father’s hand scribbled notes did little to connect the dots.

  In fact, if anything, Brady worried that his father’s seemingly illogical attempts to connect the old asylum with his grandfather’s death, not to mention the Lionel Collins affair, seemed more than a bit far-fetched; it was downright crazy. And given his own recent experiences, Brady didn’t need doubts about his father’s sanity to start him down the path of questioning his own.

  “Are you serious?” The last thing Brady wanted was a deep theological discussion with Frank Griggs. The mere mention of the topic had him hearing the sound of those damn silverware chimes.

  “Listen, Frank, I appreciate this whole Jedi Master vibe you got going, I really do. And it’s been a blast drinking with you and teaching you how to drive drunk with your thumbs, but you didn’t really bring me all the way out here to save me did ya?” Brady laughed, “Trust me, it’s been tried before and I am beyond saving.”

  Brady’s grin melted under Frank’s steaming glare. “We can sit here and jerk off all day long, son. Hell, I can do that with the best of em.” The old man was getting riled. “Or, we can quit the bullshit and finally do something. Personally, I’m sick of all the foreplay.”

  They locked eyes across the Jetta’s small interior. Brady knew the man was right; running from whatever was happening wasn’t the solution. He had been running for fourteen years, trying to put distance between himself and the painful memories that plagued his sleep. The memories, he was learning, were always waiting around the next corner and he was exhausted from the chase.

  “Fine, no more foreplay,” he muttered, shaking the clouds from his groggy head.