Max Speed - Brynstown

The visibility became so bad that the wipers couldn't keep up with the heavy rain lashing the windshield. I slowed down to around 15 mph and still had to strain to see where the hell I was going. I wondered why my boss, Eddie Fuller, sent me out of town on this job. Who was I trying to kid? Deep down I knew why I was out here. My gambling and drinking habit was hurtling out of control like a runaway truck with no brakes. Eddie had sent me out of New York City in the hope that a few days away might make me clean myself up and see the error of my ways. I'd try for you Eddie, Jesus, I was going to try.
Fatigue hit me with all the concentration on driving. I reached for one of my jars of pills on the passenger seat and studied the label. When I was satisfied they were the right ones I shuffled a load down my throat. The pills tasted like shit so I lit a cigarette.
A tune finally began playing faintly on the radio, an old blues number I didn't recognize. There hadn't been a radio signal for a few miles. I puffed on the cigarette and pulled over to study the map again. The place I was looking for was called Brynstown on the New York State and Connecticut border. It sounded like a kind of sleepy small town shit hole that no one would have any cause to go to.
According to the map I was on the right route. The sun was dipping and I figured it would be dark in about an hour. I wanted to get to Shitsville by dusk. A drop of bourbon helped wash down some more pills to put some fire in my belly. I stamped on the gas and gunned the Chrysler into life. A mile down the road I swerved and narrowly avoided a speeding car the same make, model and color as mine.
"That asshole was tired of living," I shouted out loud.
Forty minutes later I passed the sign for Brynstown. No welcome sign just a carved wooden effort that wouldn't look out of place on an old western movie set. I'd achieved my aim and arrived in town as the murky blueness of the end of the day swallowed the fading light. As I drove slowly into Brynstown its dull depression was evident and the shadows seemed to spread the gloominess by the second. It looked like it had once been an industrial town and couldn't decide if it was Victorian Gothic with tall spires and small cramped streets or New England Shaker with square timber structures and houses.
It was obvious that whatever Brynstown's industry had been, those days of prosperity were long gone. The whole place seemed to be suffering with tiredness and neglect. Paint peeled off windows and doors. Wooden shutters hung rotten and half off the frames. The streets felt dark and lifeless. Everywhere seemed void of energy and existence.
I drove down the cobbled main street to the town center. The town square loomed into view under dim street lights and I saw the sign of the Frog and Slate Inn that was my booked lodging. I parked the car in the space out front and shoved my jars of pills and bottle of bourbon into a hold all. After locking the car I lit a cigarette and watched the town square. There was no sign of movement. The stores were all closed and there were no lit windows or doorways. The square itself was overgrown with grass and unkempt weeds and bushes. The air felt damp and soggy. A shiver ran up and down my spine like a ghostly finger. Was I spooked? Damn right I was.
An animal screeched somewhere in the distance and the noise sounded so terrible that the urge to get indoors hit me like a kick in the guts.
The Frog and Slate had seen better days. The décor was stuck in a 1960's time warp with flowery carpets and plenty of dark wood panelings. A thick layer of dust covered every surface that was scarcely visible under the dimly lit table lamps. I jumped when something leapt up onto an old wooden piano to my right.
"Get down, Timmy, you naughty thing." A grey haired woman scolded the cat on the piano. "Sorry about that," she smiled. "Can I help you?"
"Yes mam. I'm Mr. Speed and I have a reservation for a room here for a few nights," I replied.
"So you are the out of town guest?" she crowed. "We don't have many of those."
"It's hard to see why, mam," I quipped.
The old woman led me to a small, cramped room.
"Here we are," she gestured around the room like I'd be impressed. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
I didn't much care for the old woman's tone of voice. If she'd been half her age I'd say she was trying to hit on me. I brushed the remark aside and removed a photograph from my bag.
"Yes, just one thing, mam." I showed her the picture. "Do you recognize this girl?"
The old woman looked at the photo with a befuddled expression. "I seem to know the face but I don't remember where from."
"Her name's Kate Morris. She's 18 and from New York and reported missing. She was in contact with someone from Brynstown on the internet so we think she may have ended up here" I explained.
The old woman looked more confused than ever. She obviously was oblivious to the computer generation and surfing the highways of the net. I tried a different tact.
"Is there a bookstore in town called 'Oh Cult'? She used a credit card there a week ago."
"Yes, it's right across the street in the corner of the square," the old woman beamed. "Are you the police?"
"No mam. I'm a Private Detective."
"Oh," she muttered and seemed disappointed. "The store won't be open now, it's after six but Evelyn, the owner comes in for a drink most nights at about 8 o'clock."
"Well, I'll probably see her at the bar then," I ushered the old woman out of the room.
I washed, shaved and shoveled down some more pills before I made my way downstairs to the bar. A raven haired woman with red bright red lips and very pale skin appeared in the bar on the stroke of eight o'clock. She was dressed in black, slim and stunning.
"Hello Evelyn, is it the usual?" the barman asked.
She nodded and opened her purse. I quickly threw a five dollar bill onto the bar.
"I'll get that." She glanced around and stared straight into my eyes.
"Who are you?" She looked wary.
"I'm Max Speed, Private Eye," I loved saying that. It made me sound like a character in a story.
Evelyn sipped her drink. "What do you want with me?"
I showed her the photograph. "This is Kate Morris. She was in your store a week ago. Do you remember her?"
"Oh yes, I know Kate. She's a great kid," Evelyn smiled.
This wasn't quite the response I expected. "You've seen her?"
"Of course, I see her every day. She's staying in my cellar."
I felt confused. Either we were having different conversations or Evelyn was as batty as a fruit loop. "Kate was reported missing ten days ago. Can I at least see her?"
"Yes," Evelyn nodded. "Come over to the bookstore at midnight and she'll be there."
"Why midnight? Why not now?" This was becoming stranger by the minute.
"Oh, Max. What's the rush?" she sighed. "We could stay here and have a little drinky and then maybe you could show me your room?" Evelyn's hand slid up my thigh to my groin.
"Well, if you insist." I felt uneasy. The women seemed to be sex mad in this town.
We finished our drinks and went upstairs. We made love for hours in a strange haze of booze and pills. I thought I heard voices whispering outside the door or was it inside the room?
Evelyn took me by the hand and led me across the street to the Oh Cult bookstore. She opened the door and I followed her down into the cellar. The darkness seemed to shimmer and squirm. Kate Morris lay in an open coffin in the middle of the floor.
"She's dead?" I stammered.
"Oh, we're all dead," Evelyn smiled. "Even you."
I pelted out of the cellar back to the Frog and Slate. Hurriedly, I packed my bag and jumped into the Chrysler. The sun was rising as I tore out of Brynstown and narrowly missed a car the same model make and color as mine.
As I drove into Brynstown the place looked vaguely familiar.

Copyright © by Christian Fletcher