Twisted (7 page)

15

THE MAN IN THE DRAIN

Trouble was on the slow burn and moving through our home, through our lives.

My father began acting just a little odd. At first it didn’t feel like much cause for alarm. I’d occasionally overhear him mumble quietly while doing things around the house, but it seemed more like thinking out loud than anything else. So I brushed it off.

Until the mumbling turned into what sounded like an exchange with a voice only he could hear. Then, little by little, his comments took a disturbing turn, straying far outside the lines of normalcy, his shades of gray falling deeper into darkness.

My mother, just like always, pretended nothing was wrong. She wrote off the statements as his offbeat humor. Then in a fleeting moment during dinner one evening, the earth shifted beneath our feet, and just like that, we found ourselves on a whole other planet.

“There’s someone inside the drain,” my father proclaimed matter-of-factly, speaking around a mouthful of potatoes.

“What’s that, darling?” My mother regarded him briefly, her smile revealing negligible interest as she placed a bowl on the table.

After swallowing his food, he said, “In the drain.”

“There’s something in the drain?”

“Some
one
.”

“James, take some collard greens. You love those.” That was her response.

My father shrugged, then scooped greens onto his plate. “He’s in the bathroom. In the tub. A man—or I’m pretty sure he is, anyway. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

“Stop being silly,” my mother said with a dismissive giggle, then with a grin of encouragement, motioned enthusiastically toward his plate, “Try those greens! Tell me what you think!”

“I’ve seen him there twice,” he said, throwing me a confidential wink and smile, as if revealing some secret we’d been sharing.

I wasn’t smiling. I was unnerved. Not only because of his nonsensical observation but also because there was something in his demeanor I didn’t recognize—as though a stranger was posing as my dad.

“Honestly, James,” my mother remarked, “the things you say sometimes.”

Dad reached for a slice of bread and shrugged again. “He’s there. You’ll see.”

“I forgot the dumplings!” And with that, she was gone from the room.

After she returned, dinner went on for several minutes in tight silence, until my father shook it loose.

He pushed his plate away, leaned back. “He says he’s going to kill us all.”

It was as if every bulb in the room had blown because all I saw was utter darkness. My father’s mind had turned inside out and landed smack dab on the dining room table. Even Mom couldn’t ignore that one, and her face—blank and nearly bloodless—showed it.

But the dinner horror show paled in comparison to what I saw a few hours later.

I walked into the bathroom, and my legs went flimsy.

There was my father, inside the tub and hunched over the drain.

Talking to it.

Pleading.

16

My headache refuses to let up.

The ribs aren’t cooperating much either, shifting from sore and tender to stabbing and stinging. Despite how lousy I feel, I stop by Devon’s room to tuck him in.

Entering through the doorway, I find him belly to floor and searching beneath his bed.

“What are you looking for there, kiddo?”

He draws his head up to look at me. “My pajamas.”

“Unless I’ve missed something, Mom doesn’t keep them there.”

“But they were just on the bed a little bit ago.”

“Then they have to be somewhere.” I give the room a cursory inspection.

Devon stands up and frowns.

“No worries, buddy.” I pull open his dresser drawer, grab another set of pajamas, and hand it to him. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”

As he begins changing into his PJs, I take a seat on the bed and notice Jake several feet away, chin resting on paws, foreboding eyes aimed at me. Again, I’m baffled. Long before my son’s body can hit the sheets, without fail, Jake is already there and waiting. This is a constant, one I’ve been witness to for years. It’s their pattern.

But not tonight.

Devon crawls into bed, and I nod toward the dog. “Is he doing okay?”

Without so much as sparing Jake a glance, he says, “Uh-huh.”

“Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh,” he says again.

“Because he seems a little down.”

“He’s okay.” Devon pulls the blanket up and over his chest.

“And he’s usually in bed with you by now.”

My son shrugs and reaches across the bed for Jake’s favorite toy, the rubber bone, then tosses it onto the floor. The bone drops beside Jake’s head. Jake doesn’t seem remotely interested. I puzzle over the strange dynamic playing out between boy and dog, wondering if there’s more to this than Devon is telling me.

“Daddy?”

I look quickly back at my son.

“The accident hurt you bad.”

“Not so bad,” I say and notice that Jake is now sitting across from Devon’s door and gaping at it. Just like earlier. As if he’s waiting for something.

“Daddy?” Devon says again, and I look back at him.

“We forgot liftoff last night,” he informs me.

“You’re right.” I consider Jake again, still troubled by his behavior.

Liftoff is our secret evening ritual. Actually, it was how I used to get Devon into bed when he was younger. We never said
bedtime
or
sleep,
because for most kids, those are dirty words. Instead it was a
time travel mission
, and he wasn’t sleeping, he was transforming into a special crime fighter to rid the world of evil. It worked like a charm, and even though he eventually wised up to my game, our little routine has endured. I’m not really up for this, considering how I feel, but his eager expression makes it hard to say no.

“Ready?” I say.

“Ready,” he replies through a big, gap-toothed smile.

I pull the covers up snugly around him, then intone, “This is Ground Control to Spartan Newberg.” He still loves when I use his covert crime fighter code name. “Do you copy?”

“Copy!” He squirms, then settles.

“You are clear for liftoff.”

Devon makes rumbling rocket sounds with his mouth.

And I begin the countdown. “Five . . . Four . . . Three . . . Two . . .”

“One!” he shouts with glee, then does the liftoff noise.

“Go get those bad guys, kiddo. The clock is ticking, Spartan, and only you can restore order to the world.”

I straighten the covers, kiss his forehead, then step softly toward the door.

Before leaving, I steal one last look at Jake, still parked there, still with that desolate, edgy, ominous expression.

17

I spend most of my night riding the Insomniac Express, bouncing between brief periods of turbulent sleep and wakeful, agitated tossing and turning. My head and ribs take their shots at keeping the action going.

With a new sun now on the rise, I look at Jenna beside me in restful slumber, kiss her cheek, and she blearily opens her eyes.

“Come closer,” she says with her sleepy little smile, softly brushing a hand across my cheek.

I do, and she returns a sleepy little kiss.

“Feeling any better?” she asks.

“Some.” I force a comforting grin.

She doesn’t say anything, but I know the look. My wife is worried. For reassurance, I kiss her again, then drag my aching body from bed to shower, hoping the warm water will deliver some relief.

Unfortunately, the payoff is marginal at best. I’m a bit more awake, but that just makes everything hurt harder.

I dry off, then check my injury in the mirror. The forehead swelling has gone down, but . . .

Something doesn’t look right.

I move in closer, study myself, then discover the problem. My hair looks odd and unfamiliar. Different, but I have no idea how. Still, looking into the mirror is making me terribly uncomfortable.

I try to concentrate on brushing my teeth but can’t let the uneasiness go. I keep glancing up, and the more I see myself, the more on edge I feel. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I turn on the faucet, throw my hands under the water, then run my fingers across my scalp. I grab a comb and restyle, but the result ends up exactly the same.

My hair is still wrong.

“Honey, you’ll be late,” Jenna calls from the bedroom.

I look at the clock and realize she’s right.

Another glance in the mirror only fuels more frustration, so I reach for the comb, move my part to the other side, and find a small measure of respite from my bad hair day.

Strange things are happening.

And they’re scaring the hell out of me.

18

There’s something so very peculiar about revisiting the scene of an accident, especially your own. It’s knowing that, in a heartbeat, you’ve had a glimpse at just how precious and fragile life can be, how quickly it can be taken away. Those lingering emotional remnants often speak louder than any skid marks or jagged, twisted metal ever could. The physical traces can be washed away, but a cerebral imprint never leaves, time only making it that much more powerful.

I feel all of this, and maybe more things I can’t even begin to describe, as I approach the tree on my drive toward work. Though daybreak has come, it feels like darkness still surrounds the tree, just a few bright slivers of sunlight shafting through a bruised and battered sky, striking the branches like fiery daggers.

As my car reaches a point where the trunk sits closest to the road, I feel more agitated. Now the tree has taken on a more threatening aura, standing tall and firm as if making a bold statement of power. I study its immense branches, like giant, mythical arms that want to reach out and pull me into a swirling vortex of pernicious evil.

Just as we cross paths, I see it flaunting its bare wound like some sinful badge of honor. I push hard on the gas pedal, and my car surges forward, picking up speed.

Not fast enough.

Because I don’t like that tree. Don’t like it one goddamned bit.

19

I reach for the door handle at Loveland, and my ribs deliver a fe
rocious objection. Then my head joins in with ruthless and grinding pain. I grimace, assuring myself that this is to be expected, that neither are signs of anything serious. So far, everything around me looks normal, but I remain watchful for any weird sights or sounds.

When I step into the building, it’s like I’ve flipped a switch in my mind, and thoughts of Donny Ray shift to the forefront.

Have a safe night, Christopher.

Not so much.

In retrospect, and for obvious reasons, his comment needles under my skin. But there’s something else about it that’s niggling at me—something less obvious, something I can’t even quantify.

I try to chase the thought away, tell myself I’m being ridiculous, and continue through the hallway toward my office. But much like the aches and pains waging war on my body, Donny Ray’s message is doing the same to my mind. So I unload my belongings, deciding it’s at last time to prove he’s not the villain I’ve made him out to be. I head for Alpha Twelve to check on my enigmatic patient.

But after stepping onto the floor, I stand amid punctuated silence, and it’s not the soothing kind—it’s the weird one.

Alpha Twelve is rarely quiet this time of day, and even when things are relatively calm, it only takes one visitor to stir things up—then before you know it, faces thrust against windows, voices shout, and the momentum of chaos continues to build. But that’s not happening today. No mattress springs bouncing or creaking, no feet shuffling across the tiles. Not a single voice to be heard. Even as I step down the hall, every window remains vacant, every patient beyond it lost in some sort of commanding, dead hush.

I look ahead through the Plexiglas window at the nurses’ station. No sign of anyone around, and my concern ramps up. There’s another problem I can’t describe but can definitely feel: the air surrounding me is not just silent—it’s still. Unreasonably still, as if someone or something has turned it dormant. Alpha Twelve is never predictable, but it does tend to have established patterns of nuttiness, and what I’ve just witnessed strays wildly from any of them. If I’ve learned anything around here, it’s that more than disorder, quiet can often be a precursor to trouble. At least with the latter, you can see it coming.

I move forward on edge. The flooring beneath my feet feels atypically uneven, the walls around me atypically narrow. Peering into the first room, I find that my ardent admirer, Gerald Markman, doesn’t seem so keen about anything right now. He stands in a shadowy corner and faces the wall, his body rigid, his feet firm to the floor like bolted fixtures.

“Gerald,” I say.

He gives no response.

Another disturbing abnormality. Like the ward itself, most of our patients have established baselines, which the medical staff document and rely on as predictors, both in giving care and to detect potential danger. Gerald has taken a distinct and oppositional shift.

An indiscernible whisper pulls me away from Gerald. I wheel around for a better listen and realize it’s coming from Nicholas Hartley’s room.

I pad that way, and the tone becomes clearer, but the words do not. He’s rambling and delirious with a scrape in his voice you’d hear after someone’s been screaming too loudly and for too long.

I find Nicholas in bed, hands no longer working the pleasure zone; in fact, his appearance is downright distraught: head to chest, arms wrapped around knees. Steadily and rhythmically rocking himself. Still whispering, but faster now, as if my presence demands it. I try to make out what he’s saying, and one sentence emerges from the chatter.

“That sleep of death, Christopher.”

Ice water spills down my spine.

I check the remaining rooms, but all I find is more of the same: patients oddly subdued and detached, none of them wanting to so much as look at me.

Except, that is, for one.

20

Donny Ray Smith peers out at me through his window.

I walk toward him, and those cold blue eyes beam into mine like beacons. Then in an instant, they change, and something flashes through them—a fleeting moment of stark transparency, a portal into some dark place where I don’t want to go.

Much like what I saw in that video clip.

Uneasiness shakes me, but at this point, I don’t know whether to trust my perceptions, and really, I shouldn’t. I’m rattled, well aware that in this state, distortions can abound.

And whatever I did or didn’t see in Donny Ray’s eyes is now gone. His face is calm and blank as he walks away from the window.

I reach for the door handle, but it offers no resistance, spinning freely within its tumbler. I jump back. Now I’m more than uneasy—I’m actually very nervous. Jeremy made it abundantly clear that Donny Ray is being held under the strictest of protective measures. An unlocked door definitely falls below that standard.

And where’s Evan?

I grab my phone and call security to request assistance.

A few minutes later, Evan arrives.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“What?”

“Why is nobody standing guard outside Donny Ray’s room?”

“Shift change.”

“You guys don’t cover the gap between them?”

“Normally, but we’re short one person. I got called in early, because Peters hasn’t shown up for work in two days.”

“What do you mean? Is he sick?”

Evan shakes his head. “Nobody knows. He didn’t answer his phone, and when we sent somebody by his house, the place was empty.”

“Empty, as in . . .”

“Everything. No furniture, no car . . . no Peters.”

I look at Evan for a good five seconds, then nod toward Donny Ray’s door. “It’s unlocked. This could have been a serious problem.”

Evan immediately inspects the door, but when he attempts to turn the knob, it won’t budge. He looks up at me.

I step forward and try it myself.

Locked.

“I swear the thing was unsecured just a few minutes ago.”

Evan scratches his head. “Could be something with the mechanism?”

I’m still staring at the door.

“I’ll radio for backup,” he says, “and try to figure out what happened with the lock.”

I explain the other patients’ strange behavior to Evan, then he enters Donny Ray’s room to check on him.

“Nothing suspicious with the patient that I can see,” he tells me after returning outside, then with cautious steps, proceeds up the hallway, looking carefully into the other rooms.

Evan comes back and says, “They all seem fine to me.”

I’m stunned and speechless.

“You’re clear to go inside if you want,” he says, reaching for his key ring.

Wary and watchful, I enter Donny Ray’s room.

Inside, I find him sitting up in bed. A pair of fluorescent tubes hovers overhead, bathing his face in blue, sulfurous light. I move toward him, observing that his restraints are now gone. In and of itself, that’s not unusual. We don’t keep patients bound unless they pose a threat to themselves or others. Apparently, he’s calmed down enough to warrant this, but with the lock to his door acting wonky, I’m not quite loving it.

I step closer and find more to bristle my nerves, because Donny Ray is clearly in a different state than yesterday. A far better one. His posture is firm, his hair combed neatly in place. Face fresh, skin more evenly toned. Judging by his much improved appearance and manner, it would also seem that whatever moved through Alpha Twelve missed this room—either that or it was no match for Donny Ray Smith.

Is he in some way connected to all this?

The thought is fleeting, but I consider him more closely.

“Is something wrong?” he asks in his southern twang.

“I feel like I should be asking you that question,” I say, still observing him, still trying to sort through my mixed-up impressions.

He shakes his head, appears confused.

“Donny Ray,” I say, standing just a few feet away from him now, “what’s going on with your door?”

“My what?”

“It was unlocked when I arrived.”

He gives the door a baffled glance. “I can’t tell you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I didn’t know it was unlocked,” he says.

I study his affect, trying to discern whether he’s telling the truth. “What about before I arrived?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Outside. On the floor. Did anything happen? A disturbance of some kind? Maybe something to upset the other patients?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t sound very sure about it.”

Donny Ray looks past me, face blank, eyes shooting back and forth like dancing blue flames. “I’m really
not
sure. I was dead asleep, Christopher.”

That sleep of death
,
Christopher.

A sharp and fiery sensation twists through me.

“But Nicholas was having bad dreams all night,” he offers rather quickly.

“Donny Ray, I never mentioned Nicholas. What made you think I was talking about him, specifically?”

“I heard him.” He shrugs. “Anyone could.”

Nicholas’ room is a good fifty feet from here. Would his mumbling whispers actually penetrate these thick concrete walls? My nod feels hesitant. Since I wasn’t here earlier, there’s no way to verify whether what he’s telling me is true.

Before I can press further, there is noise and motion through the window in Donny Ray’s door. Evan and some other members of our security staff are talking, and one of them is turning the knob to inspect it.

I get a little lost inside my head.

“Christopher?”

My attention jerks back to Donny Ray, but when I look at the bed, it’s empty. I blink a few times, then swing my gaze to the left. He’s now standing on the opposite side of this room. I didn’t see him get up, didn’t even hear or sense it.

His face reads like an empty page.

“You’ve lost something.” He holds up my pen.

I pat my shirt. The pocket is empty. I feel unhinged, unsure what’s going on.

“We’re not supposed to have these,” he tells me, as if I don’t already know that patients are forbidden from having sharp objects.

My fingers feel a little numb, a little cold, as I take the pen from him. Then I glance back at the window. Evan and the security officers are gone. I never saw or heard them leave.

“Thanks for clearing things up,” he says appreciatively. “It was very helpful.”

What is he talking about?

“Sure . . . ,” I say, angst juddering my response. I’ve got no idea what I’m agreeing to, but at this point, making him aware of my confusion doesn’t feel professional. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“Okay.” He smiles politely. “Careful on that road from now on. It sounds like a nasty one.”

Razor-edged fright torpedoes through me. “What are you talking about?”

He points at my forehead. “The car wreck.”

“How did you know about that?”

“You just told me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, sir, you did.” He’s nodding, but not in a manner that challenges. More like a kindly reminder. “You said you lost control and had a horrible accident.”

I most certainly did not tell him that. Maybe he’s just taking a stab after noticing my bruise?

Or is it my bruised mind? Is it possible that I actually
did
tell him?

And in that moment, looking into those infernos of blue, I can no longer contain my curiosity.

“Donny Ray,” I say, “have we met somewhere before?”

He offers no answer, but his blank expression snares my nerves, subtle shades of doubt telling me what I already know.

I shouldn’t have asked.

I feel pressure near the right side of my head. I reach up and find something tucked behind my ear. I pull the object out and look at it.

My pen.

But I was just holding it in my hand.

I turn quickly and head out the door, but about five feet down the hallway, I get hold of myself. Too much weirdness going on, and I can’t leave here without figuring out the cause.

After returning to Donny Ray’s room, I look through the door and find him standing before the rear wall window, back facing me, arms hanging loosely at his sides, body motionless. I take a shaky step closer.

Donny Ray steps toward his window.

The hairs on the back of my neck start to rise—I run a hand over them.

Donny Ray does the same.

Am I imagining this?

I shake my head in bafflement.

He shakes his head.

There has to be a simple explanation. He can see my reflection in the glass.

No, that’s not possible
.

It’s broad daylight outside—there
is
no reflection. Besides, Donny Ray’s window is positioned off to the left, placing me out of the glass’ line of sight.

A quiver rips up my spine. I need to get the hell out of here, and my feet can’t carry me fast enough.