Shades of Eva Read online

  Shades of Eva

  Asylum Chronicles: Book 1

  by

  Tim Skinner

  Text Copyright © 2012 Timothy R. Skinner

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover Photograph Copyright © 2010 Andre Govia

  Check out Andre's amazing work out at www.flickr.com/photos/andregovia

  All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or the facilitation thereof, including information storage retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Dedication

  For my mother, the one who gave me life. And to my wife, whose patience through this endeavor has been as kind as it was merciful. And to Lev. Thank you for your counsel. It was not lost on me. And to the Troops. For every life you gave, you saved countless others. Thank you all.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  About the Author

  Other Works

  Coming Soon

  TINY GRAVE

  Thick layers of gauze,

  Its contents: my heart.

  A clinical perspective for friends,

  Enough so the blood does not drip.

  Only at the solitary presence of his tiny grave,

  Do I sit and unwind all the layers

  And view the deep gash.

  It will never heal…

  I will only wrap it differently with time.

  ~Anonymous

  Part 1 - The Hell of Ignorance

  Chapter 1

  Jackson Greer had been holing up in a safe house in Plymouth, Indiana. By all reports, as of 4:28 P.M. he was still there.

  From the driver’s seat of her Nissan 300ZX, or Z, Amelia Hawkins zoomed in on her target. She was watching Greer through a set of Bushnell laser range finder binoculars. She had his distance at 132 yards. He was alone. He was wearing a long-sleeve shirt, untucked, magnolia colored, a tattersall plaid uncharacteristic of Greer’s usual gangster chic. Its tail scarcely hid the grip of what appeared to be a small caliber firearm tucked into the waistband of his blue jeans.

  “Of the Troops, for the Troops!” Amelia whispered to herself, tapping an ornamental pair of golden crossed Harper’s Ferry pistols hanging from her rearview mirror. “Broad daylight and he’s packed.”

  1050 Platt Street is an urban cape cod nearer the middle of a white-collar block of homes in northern Indiana. There wasn’t much activity about the place that day. The homes were, by in large, the residences of an aging population: retirees, grandparents, the well-to-do. It certainly wasn’t a block where you’d expect to find a member of the Southwest Mafia—a gang local to the region—but then again, gangsters don’t often hide in their own backyards.

  Greer was pacing about the front yard and seemed to be talking to himself as if he were angry. He continued this for a few moments and then shook his head and stilled himself long enough to lean against a gray Pontiac Grand Prix parked in the driveway. He proceeded to check his wristwatch and then turned toward the street corner where Amelia had parked.

  Amelia put her Bushnells down and checked a demographics sheet on the address.

  The Grand Prix was registered to an Ester Moffet: an aunt of Greer’s who owned the home. Amelia picked up the Bushnells again and observed Greer pull a cell phone from a pocket and dial.

  A moment later, Amelia’s phone rang. Its screen read Incoming Call: CHRISTIAN.

  Amelia clicked her phone’s GO button. “Talk to me!”

  “—Sophia found Mitchell!”

  Christian’s voice was loud and clear.

  “She found him? Where?”

  The words came slowly. “—The woods in Neah Bay.”

  There was an awkward silence. “The woods?”

  Christian was chuckling. “--He’s a lumberjack.”

  Amelia nodded and picked up the Bushnells again. Her target was moving about the front yard of the Moffet house, now engaged in a telephone conversation of his own.

  “So Mitchell’s in Washington State?”

  “—About as far northwest in the continental US as you can get.” Christian replied. “—Have you talked to Sophia today?”

  “No.”

  “—Rennix is actually living under that alias, Mark Engram,” Christian added. “—I thought you were messing with me. He actually ditched his last name.”

  Amelia chuckled. “Yes. He’s taken things to a whole new level.”

  Christian redirected the conversation. “—Did you tell police where Greer is, yet?”

  There was a pause as Amelia sat the Bushnells on the passenger seat and opened her glove box. She reached in and withdrew a Beretta 9 mm pistol, better known as the M9, checked its safety and then withdrew a magazine and inserted it into the M9’s handle. She pulled back and released its slide. The M9 made its distinctive click.

  Christian heard it, but he didn’t comment.

  “I notified them,” Amelia said answering his question with a lie. “They said they’d send someone to check it out.”

  Christian remained silent.

  Amelia picked up the Bushnells again and gave her subject another once over. He had withdrawn a set of keys and looked as if he was getting into the Pontiac.

  “Listen, I have to go!” Amelia said. She tossed the binoculars beside the M9 and started the Z. “Give me a call tonight, Christian.”

  Amelia put the car in gear and turned the phone off. She erased the distance between her and Greer’s driveway and turned in. She pulled to a stop just behind the Grand Prix. Its reverse lights had come on.

  Greer didn’t seem to have noticed a car blocking his way. He began to back up.

  Amelia laid on her horn.

  Greer slammed on his brakes. He loo
ked over his shoulder and yelled something inaudible out his window, then stepped out of the Pontiac in a huff. He stood there, his car idling, staring indignantly at the windshield of Amelia’s Z.

  Amelia put a smile on her face, right-handed the M9, and stepped out. She kept the gun behind her back and turned her left side to Greer, who was approaching her with an irritated look on his face.

  Amelia was trembling, but not from fear. She was nauseous, but not from the site of Greer. She thought for a moment that she might throw up all over the driveway, and thought that strange. “Are you Jackson?” she called out swallowing hard, momentarily freezing Greer. She didn’t need to ask, but she did anyway. She knew it was him. Although he had grown a three-day beard and had bettered his wardrobe a bit, Amelia couldn’t have forgotten his face. She wouldn’t have. She would never forget his face.

  Greer did not answer right away. The stranger looked familiar. He seemed to be alternating stares between the sleek lines of Amelia’s Nissan, and Amelia’s lower body, adorned ridiculously, but stylish nonetheless, Greer thought, in two tones of blue and desert gray camo pants. His eyes moved upward to the white tee she was sporting. It read 8th Infantry across its front. She was wearing what looked like dog tags.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “What’s a name?” Amelia replied, setting a hand flirtatiously on her left hip. “Is BB here?”

  BB was Luscious “Bo” Brandon, Greer’s cousin. BB was a street name.

  “And who wants to know?” Greer said, taking another step toward Amelia.

  “You must be Jackson.”

  Again Greer stopped when he heard his name. He turned his attention back to the face that seemed so familiar. BB might have told some friends about what happened, but he wouldn’t have told anyone he was staying there. At least he’d warned BB not to do that.

  Greer looked more closely at the dog tag Amelia was wearing. It was black, its chain beaded. It read POW*MIA across the top, and with a little more effort Greer made out the words 'you are not forgotten' beneath the bowed, silhouetted head of a soldier.

  “How do you know me?” Greer said.

  “I need a bag,” Amelia replied. “Are you selling for BB or what?”

  Greer was growing impatient, but he seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. She must be a bimbo weed ho, one of those fucked up Gulf War vets. He decided not to answer directly, seeing that’s how the game was being played. Instead he moved around to the passenger side of the Z to look inside. Its windows were tinted and up. He could only scarcely see in. He looked to the car’s wheels and commented, “Nice shoes,” referring to the Z’s Konig Illusion rims with their blue spokes. “This your ride, or your man’s?”

  Amelia had turned to face him. “Was his. Now it’s mine,” she said, which was the truth. The car had been Joe’s car, Amelia’s late husband. It was his pride and joy.

  Greer walked around to the back of the Z. In its back seat, faint but barely visible, he thought he saw a toddler seat. Things suddenly clicked. “You aren’t really looking for BB, are you?”

  Amelia’s smile disappeared, and with it went her anonymity.

  Greer seemed to have twisted his body just a little bit in recognition, in essence angling his left side to mimic Amelia’s defensive stance. He slid his right hand to about where his gun would be.

  The hair on Amelia’s neck stood up as it always seemed to when someone was about to draw on her. Greer’s right arm tensed, but in an instant Amelia had the sites of her M9 aimed directly at Greer’s forehead.

  Greer moved for his weapon.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Amelia called out, freezing Greer where he stood. “This thing makes a hell of a mess! Now, put your hands out to your sides where I can see them.”

  Greer did as he was told.

  “Turn around and face away from me!”

  He complied.

  Amelia lifted his shirttail. She removed a pistol from his waistband and took a step back to examine it. It was a Ruger SR9…another 9 mm. She recognized it by its distinctive D-shaped magazine release. She punched it and its clip dropped into her hand. It appeared to be fully loaded. She put the Ruger and its clip into a side pocket of her camos and ordered Greer to turn back around.

  Greer turned to face her. With a pretentious grin he asked, “You’re that chick from River Bluff, aren’t you?”

  Amelia backed to the Nissan’s front fender and took in a deep breath. His words reeked of disrespect, yet this was she thought she’d encounter if she ever found this murderer, ever got to finally speak to the monster who ruined everything.

  “I suppose I am that chick!” Amelia replied, sweeping the M9 in a sideways gesture toward the Z’s driver side door. “Now get in!”

  Greer turned his head right and then left, hoping there might be someone on the block to witness this. There wasn’t. There wasn’t even a dog within eyesight to alarm. The neighborhood seemed as empty as deep space. Greer thought momentarily of screaming, or running, but for some reason he didn’t. If he had done either, it might have saved his life.

  “What did I do?” he asked, trying to stall things, knowing full well what he did.

  Amelia only stared at him and gestured him again to proceed into the car.

  Greer took one last look around, cursing the neighborhood for its age and inactivity. Any other time he’d come out to taste the air of his homeland, there were ten cars and twice as many people milling around. But this wasn’t his land, and it wasn’t his home. There was nothing there to offer him distraction. No friends. No fellow gang members to intervene. Even his aunt Ester, who seldom left the premises, wasn’t home to call on. There was no one. The last time he saw this chick from River Bluff she was laying in the street, screaming and helpless. He should have finished the job back then, he was thinking, for look what mercy had gotten him.

  He reluctantly moved to the Z’s driver’s side door, cursing himself, this time, for what he thought was softness, and got into the Z.

  Amelia moved to the passenger side and opened its door, pulled its seat forward, and got into the back seat with Greer’s Pontiac still idling in front of them.

  “I can’t leave my car like—”

  “Put your seat belt on, Jackson. Aunt Ester’s car will be okay.”

  Greer’s eyes grew wide with fury. Amelia only stared at him with an emotionless grin. It was then when he realized that this wasn’t the typical widow. She was going to kill him for what he did. He knew then he should have turned himself into police for what he’d done.

  He put his seatbelt on as Amelia had instructed him to, and reluctantly, he settled the Nissan into its fated, southern course.

  ***

  Chapter 2

  The sun had set on River Bluff that night, enveloping time and everything that happened that day in a blanket of blazing secrecy. Amelia rode that secrecy to the river house and drove the driveway back to her rental home’s front porch. She doused the Nissan’s lights and sat idling quietly in the driveway, allowing the cool flow of air-conditioned air to flow across her pallid face.

  She looked down at the backs of her hands, and then turned them palms up. There were still faint speckles of blood on her fingers, but at least they weren’t shaking anymore. She coiled them into fists and then looked to the ring on her left hand, her wedding ring, itself tinged with a small dot of blood. Joe had worked so hard to pay for that ring. She eyed its modest Princess cut solitary diamond and twisted her hand to see its slight sparkle in the moonlight, and then slid the ring and its hinged clasp off and over her fingertip.

  She opened the hinge wrap that held the band, then withdrew the solitaire, wiped it gently on the tail of her shirt, then closed a fist around it and began to cry.

  Midnight came.

  The moon was high overhead; the flow of the St. Joseph, serene. It blended into a cacophony of singing locusts and crickets that made Amelia smile, if not relax for just a minute. The river gave the air around Eva’s old h
ouse an arid sweetness to go along with its gentle song. It, too, stilled Amelia for a moment.

  Amelia had rented the old McGinnis place a week ago from a man named Armstrong, who forty years ago had purchased it from Eva’s mother. Driving by, Amelia had noticed a For Rent sign posted in its front yard with the landowner’s phone number written on it. It was an opportunity that seemed more like fate than coincidence, for Amelia’s mother had asked her, just two weeks ago from her deathbed, to look into Eva’s past.

  Amelia could not say no to such a request. What daughter could? And what could better represent a little girl’s past than the home where that little girl grew up…or at least grew to the age of fourteen.

  Eva McGinnis was fourteen years old when she was committed to Coastal State, the same 1950s-era mental institution where Amelia’s late aunt Emily had been committed.

  Eva had borne two sons. One’s name was Elmer. He was born inside the Asylum in 1954. He would survive less than three weeks there before he was taken and presumably killed. The other son’s name was Mitchell. He was born twenty-nine years ago. Mitchell was the lumberjack, a.k.a. Mark Engram, whom Sophia had located for Amelia that day in Washington.

  Amelia had interest in finding both sons, but it was Mitchell who had become her primary target. He was the one alive. This was his mother Eva’s former home. It was his mother who had gotten raped in this place and sent to an insane asylum in the wake of that rape. It was Mitchell who had run away from it all.

  Elmer never had a chance!

  Amelia, still staring at the pines, heard her phone ring. It was Christian, again. “Talk to me!”

  “—I’m still in Lansing,” Christian said. “—Think I’ll get a place here for the night.”

  “I’m at the rental,” Amelia said. “I think I’ll stay here.”

  Christian gave an audible laugh. Amelia had yet to spend a night in the place since renting it. “—That house has no electricity,” Christian bellowed.

  “I know. Not yet. But I still want to stay a night here. I need to. I need to try and get a better sense of this place.”