Evergreen by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 26

Morning arrived with a sullen heaviness in the air. Although it was Thanksgiving, not many of the town’s residents would be giving thanks. But for the sake of their children, they would at least try to put on a smile. Christine woke early. She sat up suddenly as though awakened by the scream of an air-raid siren. But it wasn’t the earsplitting sound of warning that startled her from sleep. It was a feeling, one that wailed out its own warning something terrible had happened. She leaped out of bed, still fully clothed and ran to the living room. Some part of her expected to see Tom still lost in exhausted sleep. But what she found was not what she expected. Tom was gone. She searched the house, quickly moving from room to room. Going to the window nearest the porch, Christine hoped to see him sitting on the steps, quietly involved in disturbed rumination. But where she thought he’d be was empty. There was, however, something else, something that seeped in through the window. She recognized it immediately and running outside, noticed how much stronger it was. The town had filled with the smell of smoke. Searching for its source, Christine saw a green glow in the distance. “Shit!” she said.

The Redfield house stood ablaze among the snowy November pines. Quickly, her mind pieced together a plan. Keeping the town safe from what could be an encroaching wildfire was her priority, but she needed to find Tom.

Running back inside, Christine grabbed her cell phone and called Chuck, who answered as though he was expecting the call.

“Yeah Sheriff, what’s wrong?”

She updated him as she darted out of the house and toward the police blazer. Her voice was panicked. “Chuck, listen to me,” she began. “The Redfield house is on fire and I can’t find Tom! Call the fire department. Wake up the whole town if you have to. I’m on my way over to Tom’s place.”

She hung up before Chuck could get a word in edge-wise. She knew Chuck could handle a crisis and as she pulled up in front of Tom’s apartment, heard the wailing of sirens as every truck in the fire department screamed towards the highway. Christine was torn between two possibilities. Tom had either set the Redfield house on fire or had retreated back to his apartment, continuing to suffer through his grief. Running to the top of the stairs, she called his name several times. Once at the top, Christine found the front door cracked open. Her training taught her to never open a door abruptly. But her instincts told her that this was a matter of life and death and putting her training aside, she threw open the door and called out to Tom again. There was no response.

Turning on every light in the apartment, Christine searched each room. She wondered if Tom had stopped at his apartment on the way to the Redfield house. It would make sense for him to set the fire in a ranting fit of rage and pain. But why would he go home first? Her confusion over exactly what had happened was overshadowed by her concern for Tom and there was one room left to search. Katie’s room was at the front of the apartment. The door was open and a small light on the dresser left on. She hadn’t noticed it when she first entered the apartment, having been consumed with finding Tom. She called to him quietly.

All the lights were on and looking off to the right, Christine noticed that the door to Katie’s bedroom had been left ajar. Carefully pushing it open, she stepped inside. Everything looked to be undisturbed, the furniture, the arrangement of the bed. It was the bedroom of a typical teenage girl.

“Goddamnit Tom,” she whispered. “Where the hell are you?”

Having seen nothing about the room that stood out to her, Christine walked toward the kitchen and standing still, she listened for any sound that might point the way to Tom - a creek in the floor, a soft cough. Instead, what reached her ears was only the sound of her blood, pulsing through her neck. But there was something else. Something she had missed. It reached out through the tense silence and tugged at her senses. From the bathroom came the sound of a solitary drop of water, striking what her mind heard to be a pool. Hearing it again placed it in her mind at a higher volume. It was clearer this time.

Looking across the kitchen, she noticed that, like the rest of the apartment, the bathroom light was on. Her heart began pounding as her mind flooded itself with horrific images of what might lie beyond the slightly open door. Christine called out to Tom again. Again, the air remained deathly quiet. Pushing the door open, she felt a lump form in her throat as its hinges creaked with an eerie crescendo. She peeked around the edge of the door. Her eyes widened as she let out a gasp of shock and throwing the door open, Christine ran to the tub where Tom knelt on the floor. “Tom!” she screamed.

The tub, having been filled with water, was heavily stained with blood. Tom’s head, shoulders, and arms were completely immersed. The developing stiffness of rigor made it difficult for Christine to pull him out. But lifting from behind, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pushed against the tub with her legs.

Unable to quickly recover herself to a kneeling position, Christine fell backward onto the linoleum floor with Tom’s half drenched body landing on top of her. Her face took on a wild horrified expression as she pushed him off and quickly getting to her knees put her fingers to his wrist checking for a pulse. But her hand was suddenly pushed away by an unexpected sensation and looking down, discovered that Tom’s wrist had been deeply incised. Glancing across his body, Christine found an almost identical wound on his other wrist. The cop in her made a brief appearance as the entire scene played out in her head. Struck with profound grief, Tom had filled the tub, cut deeply into both wrists and knelt on the floor, his body bent over the edge as his hands dangled near the bottom. As his life ebbed out into the tepid water, he began to lose consciousness and no longer able to hold himself up fell forward into what was now a pool of blazing red water.

In a state of panic, Christine brought the heel of her hands, one atop the other, onto the middle of Tom’s chest. She heard a crack as the first compression broke one of Tom’s ribs and as she continued her attempt to revive him, Christine began screaming at him to respond. But, Tom was an empty shell and no amount of heroic action would bring life back into his cold, lifeless body, but as she cautiously approached the room, Christine noticed a bed sheet tied around the doorknob. It had been thrown up over the edge of the door and stretched taut. She stepped through the doorway and pushing against the door, noticed its movement was unusually heavy. In a quiet voice, Christine called out to him again. Again, there was nothing. Standing just beyond the door, she scanned the room intently, looking for anything that might tell her where he’d gone or what his state of mind might be. Everything seemed to be in order. It was the bedroom of a typical teenage girl. Her eyes wandered toward the bed and following the bedspread down to the floor, Christine noticed a few drops of blood-soaked themselves into the carpet. She walked over and kneeling down, touched one of the spots her fingers. It smeared easily between her fingertips.

“Shit,” she whispered to herself. “Tom, what the hell did you do?”

Her attention was suddenly grabbed as the bedroom door creak slightly and turning toward it, Christine let out a long terrified scream. The bed sheet that had been tied and thrown over the door had served only one purpose. Christine found the other end knotted around Tom’s neck, his feet suspended off the floor. The spots of blood near the bed had been only the beginning of a torrential downpour still dripping from his wrists. The bed sheet forced his chin up, giving his lifeless eyes the appearance of gazing into heaven. His skin had turned a pallid yellow. His mouth hung open in a slight relaxed smile. Having deeply cut both his wrists left heavy sprays of bright red blood down the legs of his pants, soaking them thoroughly.

Christine ran to the kitchen in a state of hysteria and grabbing a knife, cut Tom down from the door. She tried to support his weight, but quickly found herself unable to do so and was sent backward to the floor, with Tom’s body landing on top of her. Shutting her eyes tightly, Christine let out another horrified scream. Her body shuddered with terrified hysteria. Her soul froze as her mind began to shut down in an attempt to block out the experience of lying beneath a corpse. But somewhere amidst the overwhelming panic rose a moment of clarity - a moment where she considered the possibility that Tom may still be saved. She pushed him off and cutting the bed sheet from around his neck, tried to fill his lungs with air. But his tongue was yellow and swollen, filling the entire space of his mouth. Any attempt to push air into him was pointless. But Christine was not willing to give up. She knelt next to Tom’s side and, one atop the other, placed the heels for hands in the middle of his chest. The first compression snapped one of his ribs and as Christine applied to several downward thrusts, she heard footsteps running up the stairs. A male voice filled the apartment, calling her by name.

“In here!” she screamed.

It was the doctor. He knelt down next to Tom as Christine continued her attempt to resuscitate him. Looking in his eyes, the doctor also tried to detect a pulse. His years of experience had taught him how to recognize the ghastly appearance death. He also saw the look of desperation on Christine’s face. She was doing everything right. It just wasn’t working and there was nothing, neither miracle nor medicine, that would bring him back. “Christine,” the doctor began.

His voice went unheard as she continued counting out chest compressions. He gently took her hands and called to her again. She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and a shocked expression. The look in his eyes brought her hands to stillness a face dripped with tears and the sweat of her attempt to resurrect Tom’s body, now no more than an empty shell.

“Christine, he’s gone.”

Christine hung her head in despair, her hair draping itself down over her face. Her expression twisted itself beneath an onslaught of pain as a gaping emotional wound rose to the surface of her soul. She had witnessed death three times in as many days. This would be hard for any city cop, but for Christine, these things simply didn’t happen in Evergreen -- not like this. Even in years past, when the house had claimed others, tragedy that never reached such a tipping point is this.

The doctor pronounced dead at the scene in the ambulance crew would again be forced to make another house call as parcel pickup for the dead. But as Tom’s body was being carried out, Chuck returned from the blaze that had swept through the Redfield house. The fire was under control. Its cause had been quickly established when Joan was found curled up in the fetal position only a few yards from the empty gas can. She had been taken to the town’s clinic for observation and would later be charged with arson. Eventually, she would find herself back behind bars, serving another ten years. She would never return to Evergreen.

Only a few days after Tom’s funeral, Christine began to consider the idea of leaving Evergreen - perhaps, going to Portland. Although she knew that death has always been humanity’s constant companion, anyplace would be better than Evergreen. But George needed her, even if he didn’t realize it himself. After all, he was her son and without Christine, he would likely be forgotten, left at the mercy of the elements. But, if she took him with her, he risked living at the mercy of an unkind world. Certainly, George was better off in Evergreen. So, after a great deal of soul-searching, Christine decided that remaining in Evergreen was likely the best option. She had seen more of death than she ever thought she would. But she also knew that while a city like Portland would offer a certain degree of anonymity, it would also demand that she develop a thicker skin. Where there were more people, there would be more tragedy and Christine wanted no more of that - at least, not for a very long time.

Her internal dialogue also suggested that she leave law enforcement altogether. She thought about, perhaps, taking a job with the mill, something simple and sheltering where she wouldn’t be obligated to serve or protect. But Christine deeply felt she owed the town a debt. She had taken complete responsibility for the crisis that had befallen Evergreen, enveloping it like a dark shroud. Staying promised to be painful, as every day would be a reminder of what she had lost and how she had failed in her singular mission to protect the people of Evergreen. Moreover, since that passionate night with Tom, Christine had dreamt of something else, a future, a life together with Tom and Katie. For far too long, she had allowed her career to take precedence over her needs, sacrificing her life for what she had always believed was her life’s purpose. Unfortunately, it took an overwhelming tragedy to open her eyes to the fact that there is more to life than the job.

In spite of the Redfield house lying in cold cinders, Evergreen was still not without its secret. Everyone would remember who had been lost, but no one would speak of how. One might suppose that with this new wrinkle in Evergreen’s history, the nightmare would finally be over. But the town would never be free of what once stood on the wooded hill. The loss would always be felt. The secret would always be kept. Sometimes, the most vivid nightmares can continue a life of their own, residing in the crystal clarity of unforgiving memory. Still, some people would say that time heals all wounds, but those people didn’t live in Evergreen.