Henry Franks Page 6

  “You had a dream?” she asked, the words barely spoken out loud. He found himself leaning closer to her to hear.

  “Dr. Saville says it’s a part of the process,” he said. “I have these dreams, about people I don’t know, places I’ve never been.”

  “Are they from before the accident?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Ever have the same dream over and over again?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Seem real, don’t they?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Mine are always like that.”

  “Last night?”

  “I have a daughter,” he said, hiding behind his hair. “Her name’s Elizabeth.”

  Her mouth dropped open and for a moment she didn’t speak at all. “For real?” she asked, her voice quiet.

  “In the dream.”

  “Aren’t you my age?”

  “Sixteen,” he said, moving his hair out of the way to look at her.

  “How do you know she’s your daughter?”

  Henry sighed. “She calls me Daddy.”

  “Well, now I know why you don’t think it’s from before the accident.”

  “Just felt so real. Then I woke up.” Henry turned and looked out the window as they passed the hospital. Police cars blocked the entrance where a local news van was parked, the antenna stabbing into the sky.

  “It’s not as creepy as it looks,” she said, her voice soft.

  “What?”

  “The hospital.” She pointed out the window as they left the facility behind. “My dad’s cousin is in there.” She shook her head with a quick smile. “I’ve only met him once; he’s a lot older. Used to live in Waycross, I think. He’s been there as long as I can remember.”

  “I’m sorry,” Henry said, turning to face her.

  She shrugged. “My dad visits him every so often. He dragged me along once. Wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be from all the barbed wire, you know?”

  The bus came to a stop and Henry followed Justine down the steps to the street.

  “Almost as good as a breeze,” she said while swinging around in a circle, her hair flying out around her face.

  “Almost.”

  “Do you dream about dead people a lot?”

  “Lately.”

  “Been in the news.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Dead people. Lots of dead people around town.”

  They stopped where the low metal gate swung open to the walkway to his house. It wouldn’t stay shut; the hinges were rusty and the white paint was flaking off like dandruff. Since there was no fence anywhere else around the front half of the property, it didn’t much matter, really, if the lonely gate was closed or not.

  “Sweet dreams, Henry,” she said, and rested her hand on his arm for a moment before she walked toward her house.

  “Thanks,” he said; then, louder, so she could hear, he said it again, standing on the sidewalk watching her walk away.

  Hinges squealed as the door opened. William jumped at the sound, turning around just as Henry walked into the kitchen. The hint of a smile on his son’s face faded as they stared at each other. William looked down at the bloodstains on his work clothes and tried to hide them behind his hands.

  “Sorry,” he said as he pushed past Henry, pulling his consultation jacket off as he walked, leaving bloody fingerprints on the white sleeves as he slid out of it.

  “Dad?” his son said, the word distant and barely more than a whisper through the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.

  He looked over his shoulder as he fumbled with the keys, trying to slide the right one into the deadbolt. “Didn’t have time to clean up after work,” he called as the key finally slid home.

  He slammed the door shut behind him, the echo storming through the house like thunder. William threw the coat into the corner and ran to the bathroom. Heavy curtains covered the window in there, as well, and he was rushing too much to turn on the light. In the dark shadows he turned the hot water on and began scraping at his hands to scrub off the blood.

  The water steamed and turned red as he held his hands underneath it. He scrubbed, over and over, rubbing his hands together. His fingers trembled as he tried to get all the blood off. In the darkness it was difficult to see if they were clean or not, so he just kept scrubbing.

  Tears fell into the sink, mixing with the blood as he stood there, boiling his hands until they were sterile. Still, he didn’t stop until the water turned cold.

  Discovery of Two Additional Bodies Leads to Calls for a Town Hall Meeting

  Saint Simons Island, GA—August 19, 2009: In what has become an all-too familiar scene this summer, Glynn County Sheriff’s Officers were called to the beach beneath the village pier where an early morning fisherman discovered two bodies behind a piling.

  Charles Bensen, 63, and his wife, Gertrude, 59, residents of Manchester, NH, were visiting family when they were reported missing earlier this week.

  Preliminary autopsy reports list blunt force trauma as the preliminary cause of death.

  “At this time, it would be counterproductive to speculate on any connections between this unfortunate occurrence and any other ongoing investigations,” said Staci Carr, District Attorney of Glynn County.

  “We will continue to follow all leads and value all contributions from the community,” said Major Daniel Johnson of FLETC as they sealed off the beach.

  The Bensens are the fifth and sixth deaths in Glynn County this summer, all allegedly from blunt force trauma. While preliminary research has not shown any connection between the victims—Sylvia Foote, Crayton Mission, Paul Wislon, Derrick Fischer, and the Bensons—police spokesperson Carmella Rawls has issued a “No comment” when asked for further details from the official autopsy reports.

  Brunswick mayor Jim Monroe has announced a press conference and town hall meeting for August 20, 2009 at 7:00 PM in the Glynn Academy auditorium to discuss recent events. All interested parties are invited to attend.

  Margaret Saville, PhD

  St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA

  Thursday, August 20, 2009

  Patient: Henry Franks

  (DOB: November 19, 1992)

  The leaves of the palm tree, brushing listlessly against the window, were brown and dying. One sprinkler head peeked out above the dry grass but no water shot forth and patches of dirt had broken through. Henry turned back to the doctor, his fingers resting on his wrist, trailing the scar.

  “Henry.” Her pen hung like the sword of Damocles over her legal pad. “I was wondering if you ever sleepwalk.”

  He shrugged.

  “Are you still tired when you wake up?” she asked.

  “Sometimes,” he said.

  “When?”

  He looked out the window, then pulled his hair down in front of his eyes.

  “Henry?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you try to remember for me?” she asked.

  “Will that help?”

  “Maybe. You might be having blackouts and not even realizing it.”

  “Better,” Henry said with a shrug, “to ask Elizabeth.”

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Or Victor.”

  “They’re not real, Henry.”

  “I know. I’m forgetful, not crazy.”

  “Amnesia doesn’t mean that. It’s a process to remember,” she said. “Your brain is still trying to understand the accident and, perhaps, it’s using your dreams to help with that.”

  “There was an accident,” he said, each word its own sentence, distinct and harsh.

  “Yes.”

  “I should have died.”

  “You remember that?”

  He shook his head, hair flying away from his face, and his eyes couldn’t stay still. “No.”

  “No?”

  “My dad told me, ‘There was an accident.’ I remember him telling me, about the rain, the c
onstruction; I should have died.” Henry slumped down in the chair, his hands falling open on the seat. One deep breath after another. He held the last one, counting to ten, mouthing the numbers. “There was an accident. I should have died.”

  “And?”

  “There was an accident.”

  “Henry?”

  “I should have died.”

  He slumped there, moving only enough to breathe. His eyes twitched to the side, the rapid tics out of place in his pale motionless face.

  “There was an accident.”

  “Henry,” she said, walking across the office to sit on the couch next to him. “It’s Dr. Saville. Can you breathe for me?”

  He took one long shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

  “Henry?”

  “I had another dream.”

  His hand flopped to the couch between them, as though it wasn’t even attached to an arm. The scar wrapped around the wrist glistened with sweat. The back of the hand had a dusting of fine pale hairs that almost reached the scar. Above the scar, up his forearm, dark hair stuck to the skin in the heat.

  “Anyone you know?” she asked.

  “Elizabeth.”

  “No one else?”

  “Strangers,” he said.

  “Dead?”

  He nodded. A wall of bangs fell into his eyes and he left them there.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t recognize them at all?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Did Elizabeth?”

  “She told me she had a secret,” he said.

  “A secret?”

  “They’re always dead.”

  “Elizabeth’s secrets?”

  “She didn’t do it,” he said.

  “Did she tell you that?” she asked.

  “Doesn’t have to. I know.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t know them.”

  “Henry?”

  “Just a dream, right?” He raised his head, looking at her.

  “Your nose is bleeding.” Dr. Saville crossed the room to get a tissue, but when she turned back around Henry was standing right behind her. She stumbled against the foot of her chair.

  He reached out his blond-haired hand to steady her, leaving a bloody print on her sleeve. Trails of blood had streaked around his mouth and down his chin; drops splattered on his shirt.

  “It’s the meds. They make my nose bleed.” He smiled at her, his white teeth sharp in a sea of red. “You okay?”

  Dr. Saville pulled her arm out of his grasp. “Here,” she handed him the box of tissues. “For your nose.”

  He sat down, head back, and counted his breaths. “Just a dream,” he said, talking to the ceiling.

  “Does she have any other secrets, Henry?”

  He shrugged and then looked up at her. “I think more people are going to die.”

  Blood had stained his teeth, but his nose had stopped bleeding. Dried red flakes remained on his lips and chin when he smiled.

  “Henry?”

  “There was an accident,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “I should have died.” He closed his eyes and the silence stretched out as he took one deep breath after another.

  The alarm shattered the quiet. Henry stood up, next to Dr. Saville as she dropped the pad down on the desk. It landed next to a folded-over copy of the Brunswick News. He could only see half of the full-color photograph of police cars beneath a banner headline about the two bodies found the day before. The top sheet of paper on the pad, beneath Henry’s name and the date, was blank except for the one drop of blood that had fallen on it.

  twelve

  Justine was in his seat when he climbed up the steps onto the bus. As Henry walked down the plastic runner, her mouth fell open and, as he sat down next to her, she pushed it closed with her index finger.

  “You own a white shirt?” She smiled before her mouth fell open again in mock surprise. “Really? White? I’m shocked.”

  “Does it ruin my look?”

  “You have a look?” She laughed. “I guess shorts would have been too much to ask for?”

  “I—” He looked at her. Her bare legs were tan and a stark contrast to his dark jeans. A green tank top hid her bra strap but little else, and he swallowed before looking away. “I never wear shorts.”

  “What do you swim in?”

  “I don’t know how to swim.”

  “Is that another one of those things you don’t remember? Maybe you used to swim? How would you know?”

  “My father made a scrapbook,” he said. “With a bunch of pictures of me from before the accident.” Henry ran his fingers through his hair, but it fell back down in front of his eyes anyway.

  “Any with you in shorts?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, never looked.”

  “Can I see?”

  “Me in shorts?”

  “Well, now that you mention it,” she said before shaking her head. “No, the scrapbook.”

  “Why?”

  Justine looked up, half-turning to face him. Her fingers, with their pale pink nail polish, drummed against the seat between them. She smiled. “To help?”

  He looked at her, studying the warmth of her smile, the depth of her eyes as she faced him. He took a deep breath and smiled back. “I found some pictures in the basement the other day.”

  “Of you?”

  “No. I don’t know. They looked like me,” he said. “But these were old, black-and-white.”

  “Did they remind you of anything?”

  “I think maybe they’re of my dad.”

  “So?” she asked.

  “When I went back to look at them, they were gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “The basement was cleaned up and the pictures were missing.”

  “Maybe your dad has them,” Justine said. “Have you asked him?”

  “I tried, but I don’t see him very often, really.” Henry smiled. “I live the perfect teenage life, no parents.” The smile faded. “Kinda sucks.”

  She rested her fingers on his arm, right above the scar, as the bus pulled into the high school. The movement slid her strap down her shoulder.

  “You match again,” Henry said. Even through her tan, she blushed.

  They walked off the bus and into school together until her friends called her away. Still, she lingered next to him a moment longer before leaving. His scar, which she’d almost touched, didn’t itch at all.

  After eating lunch, Henry left the cafeteria and headed for the library, hoping to catch Justine before she finished studying. As he passed the lab he almost ran into the new science teacher, but someone reached out for him, grabbing his arm and pulling him out of the way.

  “Trying to kill another teacher, Scarface?” Bobby said.

  “What?” Henry tried to shrug out of Bobby’s grip, but the much-larger football player held him easily.

  “You live on the island, don’t you?” Bobby asked. “Lots of dead bodies piling up out there. I think I might need to start gathering some pitchforks and villagers.”

  Henry squirmed, but Bobby just pushed him harder into the lockers. The hall was empty now that the teacher had gone in to the lab. “Just let me go.”

  “Oh, and about Justine? She’s cute,” Bobby said. “Out of your league, though, sorry about that.” He smiled and pushed Henry away, sending him to the floor.

  Henry picked himself up but Bobby was already walking into the library. He looked through the library window long enough to see Justine turn away from Bobby, but he was too far away to hear what she said.

  “Out of your league too,” Henry said with a smile, running his fingers over the scar on his wrist.

  Officials at Town Hall Meeting

  Warn of Suspected Serial Killings

  Brunswick, GA—August 21, 2009: Mayor Jim Monroe appeared with Carmella Rawls of the Brunswick Police Department and Major Daniel Johnson of FLETC at a press conference at Glynn Ac
ademy in Brunswick on Thursday evening to discuss the investigation into what is being called a suspicious series of murders in Glynn County. While few details were given, some guidelines were provided by the Mayor to increase public safety. The main recommendation was to utilize the Buddy System by traveling in pairs when possible.

  “This is not a time for panic or overreaction,” Mayor Monroe said. “This is a time for the community to come together and resolve to rededicate ourselves to preserving the safe, family-friendly environment that makes Brunswick and the Golden Isles such a wonderful place to live and visit.”

  “I’m confident in the resiliency of the people of Glynn County and in the resources which have been allocated to this situation,” Mayor Monroe stated at the end of the press conference. “I urge everyone to support our community and our local businesses by continuing to enjoy the beautiful summer we have been having.”

  thirteen

  “Any plans for the weekend?” Justine asked as they walked off the bus.

  “Air-conditioning. You?”

  “Not going to the football game tonight?”

  Henry slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shook his head. “Wasn’t planning on it. Don’t really know what I’m going to do.”

  “Well,” she said, “I was thinking today.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Yes.” Her ponytail bobbed with her smile. “It’s a good thing. I’d like to help.”

  “Help?” Henry asked.

  “The pictures, in your basement.”

  “What about them?”

  “Want help finding them?”

  The front door stuck when he tried to open it and it took a push or two to work the key. A welcome rush of cold air blew out and Henry fumbled for the light switch.

  “Now I know where you get your style,” Justine said, looking around the entranceway.

  “My style?”

  “All dark and moody. You dress like your house.”

  “It was like this when we moved in, I think. Blame the people who lived here before.” Henry matched her laugh. “Though it is a little depressing in here.”

  “No wonder you’re seeing a shrink,” she said, pushing against his forearm as they walked. When he didn’t respond, she said, “That was a joke, you know?”