Authors: Tim Skinner
Tags: #thriller, #mystery, #insane asylum, #mental hospitals
Shades of Eva
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
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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.
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
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
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 looked 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.