A Night at the Asylum Page 9

  The door was pushed open and I was shoved inside, the lock clicking behind me. I whirled to face my would-be attacker, my hands stretched before me defensively.

  My body sensed who the person was before I even turned around. I raised my eyes slowly, first catching sight of the sleek black gun. Panic seized my throat, and I started to back away. Then I saw his face, his familiar round green eyes confirming what I already knew.

  It was Emmett Sutter standing before me.

  ****

  Six O’Clock

  He looked like death. I couldn’t deny it.

  One of Emmett’s eyes was bruised, his cheekbone scored with cuts and scratches. His face was a roadmap of carnage. There was no way he’d gotten this messed up from his fall in the street. He was still wearing that dark hooded sweatshirt, now stained with his own blood and so large it seemed to be swallowing him. Was it possible he’d gotten thinner in the five hours since I saw him last? He pushed his tangled reddish hair behind his ear and the small movement threw him off balance. Not a good thing for someone holding a gun, or their helpless victim.

  “Don’t do this,” I pleaded. Did he really want to kill me? Why, for God’s sake? Either fate had a real hard-on for us tonight or our encounter in the street was not merely an opportunistic whim.

  My fear seemed to register with him then, how I cowered against the counter, the fake trim biting into my back. “No,” he murmured, reaching out repentantly. “I just came here to talk, Sara.” Only then did he seem to remember the gun in his hand. Unbelievably, he tucked it into his pocket.

  He started toward me. Just as before, when he’d been staggered by that pothole in the road, the step down from the restaurant entryway completely upset his already precarious equilibrium. Just as before, he was unable to put it right again, and he began to fall.

  There was no explanation for it, not a second to even consider it. I should have been running the other way, screaming. Instead, I reached out instinctively to catch him this time, wayward gun and all. He collapsed heavily against me, his shallow breathing ruffling my hair. A tremor moved through me as his lips brushed over my ear. It took all my strength, physically and emotionally, to keep us both from hitting the floor.

  I helped him into a booth, falling halfway on top of him in the process. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, and I sat down across from him, trying to ignore the burn of blood in my cheeks. It would have been awkward if it wasn’t for the whole being afraid for my life thing.

  Emmett’s pale hands, his sleeves pulled up to hide bruised knuckles, trembled as he rested them on the table. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he choked out. “I’m not going to hurt you. I wouldn’t do that. Especially not you, Sara.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I blurted. What the hell was that even supposed to mean? He’d ripped an IV out of his arm, escaping a hospital. Who did that? He’d shoved me inside with a gun and locked the door behind us. That was just the last fifteen minutes. I wasn’t even counting the crap that had gone down earlier. Thundering in my head were Cole’s words about Emmett being the kind of person who just one day snaps.

  It definitely seemed as if the snapping had commenced.

  And here I was sitting across from him when I should have been fleeing, questioning him when I should have been keeping my mouth shut. Brilliant.

  “Yes, I just...” His emerald eyes were unusually dull under the fringe of his dark lashes, and he shook his head apologetically. “I promise…”

  All I could do was pray that gun would stay in his pocket.

  “Are you okay?” I asked cautiously. He didn’t look okay. He was shaking like someone coming down off of a bad trip. “How did you get here, Emmett? Do you need help? My dad will be here soon…customers…I should…” I trailed off, not even able to describe the comparably menial duties of the restaurant routine, even if only as an excuse.

  “I walked,” he responded slowly, answering only one of my questions. Every word he uttered seemed to take an enormous effort and dripped with exhaustion, defeat. “That’s…that’s why I have the gun. I’m sorry about that. And the knife…you know…earlier. I just…” his eyes were half-closed as he leaned his head against the back of the booth. “I was just trying to defend myself.”

  “Against who?” I asked breathlessly.

  “My brother. He injected me with insulin last night. He tried to kill me.” Emmett’s voice was emotionless, a testament to his enervation. “If he sees me again, he’ll finish the job.”

  What. The fuck.

  My heart convulsed. Could what I suspected really be true? I struggled to remember what I’d heard Brad say in that room down the hall at the station. He’d used almost the exact same sentence. “At least be a man and finish the job.” What would have happened to Emmett if Jamie hadn’t called the ambulance?

  “Did he do that to your face?” I asked, unnerved by the contrast between his angelic features and the damage done. “After you fell?”

  Emmett’s laugh was sharp, mirthless. One of those dimples I remembered so well appeared briefly at the corner of his mouth. “The one time I’m lucky my dad got to me first.”

  “Jesus.” I felt myself sinking, and closed my eyes. What a sick, twisted world. I needed sleep. I needed a lobotomy. Despite my remaining fear of the gun, I tried to get up, but Emmett’s too-warm hand came down quickly on mine. Not threatening. Desperate.

  “Please. Don’t go,” he whispered.

  Every cell in my body responded to his touch, as if he was the world’s most powerful magnet and I was made of metal fibers, all pulling toward him.

  I could barely speak. I was nowhere near prepared for the intensity of my own feelings, the conflict between my fear and this thing – whatever it was – that were now both playing hell with my heartbeat. “Okkkay,” I stammered, dropping back into my seat with wobbling legs.

  Emmett was silent for a moment, and I wondered what he was thinking. “He tells us to fight it out, whoever wins deserves it,” he finally murmured disjointedly, and I realized he must be referring to Brad. “Ever since we were kids…he knows I won’t win. I’m…weak…I won’t fight…” There was a sheen of sweat across his forehead, the undertone of his skin slightly grey. I thought how terrible it must be for him, his mother gone, his father a complete waste of space. He was looking down at our entwined fingers now, and I felt the uncomfortable knowledge that neither of us wanted to let go.

  Another minute passed as I waited for him to continue. Instead he grew quieter, resting his head on the back of the booth again, looking sick.

  “Emmett?” I called softly. I was afraid he was going to pass out.

  His eyelids fluttered. “I just need to talk to you…then I’ll go, I promise. I just…” his head lolled to one side. “Just let me rest for a second. I’m just…so tired…”

  “Emmett!” I moved quickly, squeezing his arm. Even through the thick material of his sweatshirt I could feel how unnaturally warm his skin was. “Wake up! Jesus, don’t die on me.” He opened his eyes, and they were hazy, unfocused. I shook him. Panic rose inside me like a flood.

  And through the clamor in my head broke the image of a faceless girl with long dark ringlet curls, dressed in white, beckoning to me from my dream.

  Give him sugar.

  I didn’t question it. I got up and grabbed a glass, hitting the soda fountain. I was back in half a second, moving with a swiftness uncharacteristic for me this early in the morning.

  “Drink it,” I barked, though I wasn’t sure he could hear me. Then he shoved at the glass, coughing.

  “Get that away from me,” he gasped, turning his head.

  “No, Emmett. The insulin’s obviously still in your blood. You have to counteract it. Drink it. Please.” I wasn’t sure what to do if he did lose consciousness; I hadn’t received a crazy psychic dream message about that. God, these last several hours had been bizarre. I practically forced the glass to his mouth, praying it would help. His face was full of disgust. He fough
t me weakly, but I won. He drank the soda.

  Sitting across from him in the booth again, I watched him with rapt attention. I was careful not to touch him. I needed to focus. “Why did you leave the hospital?” I asked him with a sigh. “You shouldn’t have done that.” It was obvious the long walk here had depleted what little energy his short treatment had afforded him.

  “I don’t care what happens to me. I needed to get here…to tell you, Sara…” He looked at me, his face full of concession, “just…this one…last…thing.”

  It took a moment to get it. The torment in his voice, the hopelessness he carried…it turned my bones to ice. He wasn’t expecting to make it through this. If I had to guess, I’d have said he didn’t care to, either. That strange tug in my chest assailed me again, too strong to deny. His knee touched mine under the table, and my resolve wavered. Slowly, I reached out, and unexpectedly, he responded by lacing his fingers through mine once more.

  I wanted to cry. I felt his resignation, his defeat, as if our hands were a channel between us. I had dealt with a modicum of that pain in my own heart since the casket lid had closed on my brother. “Let me help you, Emmett.” It was strange saying those words in that order. I’d never offered to help anyone in my life; I couldn’t even help myself. But I had to do what I could to make things better for him. What choice did I have? I couldn’t escape from him, in the literal or the figurative sense.

  “Last night,” he explained, “I was coming to your house to find you…after what Ead did to me…I had no sense of time. I was totally out of it…”

  “Last night?” I gasped. “You were coming to my house?”

  So he had searched me out, even before, in the road. There was nothing random about meeting him there at all. If it weren’t for my moonlight stroll, who knows what would have happened to him? And he’d come here this morning knowing I was usually the one who opened the place.

  “I know you have no reason to believe me,” he continued slowly, apologetically, “because we’ve never really…talked…but I found something out last night that you need to know. And since then I’ve just been trying to get to you. And I’m sorry…I’m sorry that I didn’t understand before.”

  “You’re not making any sense. Please.” What weighed so heavily on his conscience, elicited this profound torture so apparent in his eyes? I was torn between the hope and fear of a customer arriving to interrupt our conversation. There was no choice for me but to listen…and for him to have risked his life to hunt me down, more than once…I dreaded with every cell of my being what he was about to confess.

  “It’s my fault your brother is dead,” he said.

  I sucked in my breath.

  Hadn’t seen that one coming.

  “What are you talking about?” I spoke gently, my voice weak, realizing he must be very confused. He seemed more lucid now than when he came through the door, but he wasn’t making any sense. “Tommy died in a motorcycle accident. You know that, Emmett.” Everyone in this town knew it.

  Emmett raked a hand through his hair in pure frustration, shaking his head. “Please just listen to me. The night your brother died, I saw him. Ead’s car was parked at the asylum…”

  “The asylum?”

  “Yes. Ead was inside doing…whatever…and Tommy…he was getting in the car. He was…I don’t know…he was looking for something.”

  “What do you think he was looking for?” My questions were just wisps, a lilt on a breeze. My bones felt gelatinous.

  Emmett shook his head. “I was too far away…I didn’t talk to him, I just saw him.” He paused for a moment. “Do you know?”

  Necklasincar.

  “It’s…hard to say.”

  He stared down at the table. My hands had gone cold in his. “I told Ead about it after that. You know, I saw someone messing around with my brother’s car, so I told him. It was just one of those things. I didn’t even think about it. Later…I heard about the accident.”

  My limbs were heavy. There were so many thoughts pulsing against my skull, at war with each other. “Tommy wasn’t wearing his helmet that night. He never wore it. So when he hit that tree...it wasn’t anybody’s fault…except his own, really.”

  Emmett nodded. “That’s what my father told me. He was the first one on the scene. That’s what he told everybody. He was covering up for Ead, just like he always does. Just like with Jenny Allison.”

  My whole body shook with the mention of Jenny’s name. I gripped the side of the booth and the sounds in my head, those dark things at war, grew louder. I had thought Emmett was confused, crazy. This was just sick. “What are you saying? Are…are you saying you know what he did to Jenny? I mean…you know for sure?” My voice cracked.

  Emmett pressed his fist into his teeth, and there was so much pain on his face, he looked as if he might shatter. His eyes swam with unshed tears. The window fogged with his deliberately slow breaths, and it was a long time before he spoke again. When he did he sounded weaker than before, if that was even possible. “I didn’t want to believe it. He’s my brother. I know what he’s like…but a murderer? Then the evidence…it was there…she led me right to it…and I had to believe the rest. He was stalking her. He took her. He…killed her.”

  I froze. She. “Who led you to it? Who is “she”?” In my memory flashed the face of a girl with frighteningly cold blue eyes, lying beside me in a deep dark hole.

  Murderd.

  It had been a slip of the tongue. He hadn’t realized he’d said it. Now he looked at me regretfully. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.” He was watching me, gauging my reaction. “Maybe I am.”

  “Tell me.”

  He hesitated, stared down at the table again. “Well…” he cleared his throat, “About a year ago now I guess…I…started having these dreams…nightmares really. About a girl…she was wearing this…long white dress. She would try to talk to me but…” he shook his head. “I never thought it was real.”

  “Do you know who she is?” I whispered, terror wracking my body.

  His eyes were woeful. Clearly, he didn’t want to tell me any of this. “I do now. Your friend. Jamie. Isn’t that her name?”

  I was confused. “What do you mean? What about her?”

  “I mean, it was her. She came to me.”

  My throat contracted, threatening to close my airway. “What?” Why would she? How?

  “She said it was a message from someone else, and that she had the proof. She told me where to find it, and it was right where she said it’d be.”

  “And you believe these dreams are real?”

  His voice dipped very low, almost inaudible. “Tonight…I had a dream about you.”

  My mind reeled as I remembered the nightmare in which I was called to the police station. Emmett’s words in the dream had been strangely similar to this very conversation. Your brother’s here, because I told Ead what I saw. “You didn’t answer my question,” I whispered, my brain rejecting everything that was happening.

  “I told you…she showed me the proof.”

  “What proof?” I asked him.

  “The helmet.”

  All the air I had left in my lungs was expelled, as if I’d been punched in the stomach. How I wanted him to be confused, sick, lying. It seemed impossible now. “How do you know about that?” I swallowed, had to force myself to breathe. Each breath was slow, agonizing, like trying to inhale glass.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Sara.” Emmett’s face was dark, shadowed, like a ghost walking over my grave.

  “We couldn’t find it after Tommy died.” I murmured disconnectedly, nausea washing over me in waves. “He never wore it, but after the accident…it disappeared.”

  Emmett clasped my hands now, an anchor in a sea of insanity. He stared into my eyes, willed me to pay him close attention. As if I could look away. As if I had a choice. “Sara, listen to me,” he said darkly, his words slow and deliberate. “What happened to Tommy wasn’t an accident.”


  The walls warped around me, but Emmett held me upright. “No.” I couldn’t say anything else. “No.”

  “He was wearing his helmet that night. I saw him myself. And I told Ead he’d been in his car, searching for something. Last night I found the helmet he supposedly wasn’t wearing. Ead hid it. In the asylum. I can take you right to it.”

  “No. No.”

  “Will you go with me?”

  The rushing in my ears grew so loud I feared my head would explode. What was he asking me? What did he want? My fractured mind couldn’t comprehend it. “I have to wait till my dad gets here…I have to…the eggs…”

  “Sara? Are you okay?” Emmett asked.

  I was so fucking far from okay.

  There was a loud tapping on the window next to me. I had forgotten where I was again, the blessed order of routine. I looked over and saw Ira Banks, often our first customer of the morning, staring in the window at me with his hands cupped around his eyes. Slowly, I detached myself from Emmett’s hand. I stood up and numbly let Ira in. He sat at the counter, and in my stupor, I didn’t even take his order or say hello. I sat back down in the booth.

  “I have to go.” Emmett stood abruptly, teetering a bit. He clutched the back of the seat for support.

  “Wait…what? Why?” My blood pulsed erratically in my temples. How could he say what he’d said and just go? I stood up, pleading, though I barely had the strength. “Just stay for a few more minutes…I’ll make some coffee,” I said much too brightly. He looked at me strangely.

  “I’ll take some of that,” Ira interjected.

  Emmett backed away, his body momentarily gripped by violent tremors. “I…I can’t. I have to go,” he repeated.

  I reached for him, but he sidestepped me. “Emmett, please.” Begging now, I didn’t care if Ira, or anybody else, overheard. There was more he needed to tell me, more to understand. “Please. You…you aren’t well. Just…stay…” I thought of the black cloud in Jamie’s eyes when she’d told me Emmett was in trouble. I thought of his torment when he said he needed to tell me one last thing. And I knew, if I let him walk out of here, I’d probably never see him again.