The Scarecrow

By Toni Clark

Former New York cop Jim Benson returns to his home town and is elected County Sheriff. He is content with his life and ready to settle down but then he meets Aubrey Vaughan. The beautiful young woman brings more than confusion into the Sheriff’s life. The moment he meets her, the destinies of many people are changed and Jim is faced with solving two horrific murders. He discovers his hometown is ordained as the portal for Satan’s army, and everything he had known as truth is exposed as lies, and part of the evil plan for Blackhawk County. Jim is prepared to sacrifice anything to regain his faith and accomplish his mission.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Toni Clark
• Release date: Aug 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465742377

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The Scarecrow

By T. C. Clark

© 2011 T. C. Clark

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PROLOGUE

He sat in the corner like a ragdoll, his back pressed against the hard, green walls with his legs stretched out and apart. His arms hung lifeless from his shoulders, hands resting palm down on the cool linoleum, and his mouth sagged open so far that his chin nearly rested on his chest.

A scarecrow. A dead scarecrow.

But then the warm wetness spread beneath his buttocks and that made all the difference in the world, because scarecrows didn’t piss themselves.

He was sure that deep in his hidden, unspoken thoughts, there was sanity. He fully recognized the sharp odors of disinfectants, vomit and his own bodily secretions and waste. The odors, strong and thick, came into his nostrils as single, distinct streams of vapor then collected into his lungs and settled into one vile mass. He could smell them, taste them, feel them flowing through his veins, and they were repulsive.

So repulsive.

But repulsion was good.

And although he couldn’t see it, he knew his shirt was pasted to his body, wet with perspiration and blood, clinging like a leech. He was also totally aware that his chin was wet with thick, foamy saliva -- there’s a mad dog loose! -- and his nose hurt and his vision was slightly blurred. A distant cheer echoed in his mind, a glorious but silent cheer, because these things were all good.

Insanity wouldn’t permit such distinct observations. Recognizing such things, as obscene and repulsive as they were, was an indication of awareness. The odors, the ache in his body and the cold linoleum; they were all good because they were repulsive and he recognized the repulsion.

While contemplating his condition he had come up with numerous possibilities, but had ruled each of them out. He had momentarily concluded that there had been an accident, a terrible automobile accident which had rendered him paralyzed and he was a vegetable. But a person in such a state of being wouldn’t be capable of recognizing odors or pain. A brain-dead man wouldn’t give a shit about the sweat trickling down his thighs, collecting around his testicles.

It all made little sense. What he did know was that he was able to feel complex emotions like repulsion, despair and urgency, and being able to do so just had to be an indication that his mind was very much alive. But for reasons he couldn’t begin to speculate, it was impossible to function physically.

He was unable to wipe his mouth, swallow saliva or hold his breath against his own stench. He couldn’t lift his hand to brush the limp strand of oily hair from his forehead, much less control his bladder or talk or stand or cry. His body was independent, a separate entity unwilling to cooperate with his mind. His body was a separate evil entity, content to sit in a heap and rot away.

Call me Scarecrow.

Sitting in the corner had been accomplished only because a large male orderly had propped him up there. The two walls were bookends, holding Scarecrow in place, lest he fall into a sloppy little pile and be swept away as debris.

It had been an act of mercy. The orderly was a big frightful man, but he had come into the room just in time to save Scarecrow from suffocation. Scarecrow had been on the cot, laying on his back in the same position the orderly had put him three hours earlier. Suddenly, the sound of saliva gurgling against constricted throat muscles was deafening and an alarm signaled in his thoughts.

It’s you, idiot! You’re choking!

Head pounding, lungs shriveling, he struggled to breathe but the struggle was only in his mind because his body wouldn’t respond to his anxiety. The room began to spin and fade.

Jesus, I’m dying!

Just near unconsciousness, at the very moment that separates life from death, Scarecrow’s body hurled itself off the cot and onto the floor. When his face hit the floor his nose cracked and instead of choking on saliva, he began choking on the blood running down his throat. Then the big frightful orderly picked him up, as easy as picking up a ragdoll, and pulled a soiled handkerchief from his uniform pocket to wipe the blood from Scarecrow’s face. He gently propped Scarecrow in the corner and before leaving the room, the big beautiful redeemer made reference to a poor paralyzed bastard who had gone totally nuts.

Scarecrow immediately disagreed, and if his thoughts would have come out in a voice, the words would have been preceded by a hideous, frantic scream.

No! No! I’m not a nutty, paralyzed bastard!

He wasn’t crazy, not yet anyway, and paralysis was out of the question because his body did move...when it decided to.

His legs were asleep, pulsating from lack of adequate circulation. The feeling was beyond numbness, beyond annoying prickling. They pulsated like a steady drum beat, a frantic yet purposeful beat, and the pain continually increased. The pain would get worse, that much he was sure of, unless someone moved his legs or until his mind overpowered his body.

The pain was impossible to ignore but seemed to subside when the orderly escorted a group of doctors, four of them, into the room. The sound of the door opening was the sound of a mountain rising up from the sea. It was the sound of hope.

He brought them to help me! He knows I’m not insane! He knows I need help!

Crossing the room in three big steps, the orderly lifted Scarecrow out of the corner and onto the cot. With gentleness one could imagine in a mother’s hands, the orderly rolled his patient onto his side and propped the pillow beneath his head.

Scarecrow was relieved. Blood began to flow back into his legs and the flesh absorbed the nourishment with intense pain, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that his legs would live.

No black-green epidermis falling off today, boys! Thank you! Oh, God, thank you.

The doctors should have rushed into the room and upon seeing Scarecrow, they should have demanded to know who had put the perfectly mind-healthy patient in such drab confinement.

I don’t belong in an asylum! I belong in a hospital! Help me!

He wondered if they could see the words in his eyes.

It soon became clear that the doctors hadn’t come to help, rather to analyze and diagnose and do all the things that kept them away from the golf course.

He listened as they commented on the manic look in his eyes and his quick, shallow breathing. They perceived rapid eye movement and lack of focus and depth, and they talked calmly about their observations, all the while standing at a cautious distance.

He was the sinner and they were the pure, and they dare not near him lest they too be eternally damned. They stood patiently and observed. He couldn’t help picture himself a big red-haired orangutan in a crowded zoo. The spectators watched, pleased his eyelids blinked and his nose twitched. And he observed them, the tilt of their heads, the tapping of their pencils. It was a standoff -- the spectators in a stare down with the specimen. If they got too close, he might just hurl a wad of shit at their heads and jump up and down on a banana.

The vision left his thoughts as he realized that he did want to jump up and down. He wanted to show them his mind was alive, he wanted to jump to his feet and run past all of them, stopping only long enough to kiss the big orderly’s thick lips. Thank you, Redeemer. He wanted to run into the valley and look up to the mountains and shout until his throat was raw.

I am alive!

If he could stand, they would know his mind was alive and they would pat him on the back and laugh and send him home. If he could move, give any type of intelligent response, maybe then they would smile or blink or gasp with surprise.

Just one sign.

For thirty-five minutes they stood on the far side of the room. At one point, the older doctor, who looked very much like Albert Einstein, handed the orderly a yellow No. 2 pencil and directed him to poke at various reflex points on the patient’s body. The orderly poked, obviously not without compassion, and the doctor ordered him to poke a bit harder!

He jabbed and prodded and carried out the doctor’s requests with a solemn shadow across his face. The orderly who had been the redeemer became the silent interrogator...Are you alive? Answer me! Tell me now, or I’ll ram this pencil up your ass!

As the doctors rubbed their chins, logging brief notes on their clipboards, the orderly performed other various requests from the observers across the room. He lifted an arm and swallowed hard when it fell lifelessly back to the body -- Scarecrow could see the orderly’s big Adam’s apple ripple up and down in his throat. When the doctors told him to slap the patient’s face, he did that too. Scarecrow saw the big hand coming down, but his eyes couldn’t flinch and he couldn’t gasp. He felt the pain and accurately envisioned the red hand print against his beard-shadowed cheek, and he noticed the glaze of tears in the orderly’s eyes.

The orderly stood over the patient while the men in white coats contemplated the situation. Scarecrow was able to read the tarnished brass name tag pinned to the pocket of the redeemer’s limp, white shirt. JOSEPH. Knowing a name was almost like shaking a hand. An introduction. Joseph, meet Scarecrow. Scarecrow, this is Joseph.

Joseph, PLEASE don’t poke at me anymore.

There was a reference made to John Doe, and Scarecrow felt all the strength his soul possessed ebb away. The uncertainty and confusion of the past hours transcended and resignation descended over him; he realized it was true. He WAS John Doe. The doctors didn’t know his name, Joseph didn’t know his name and, God damn it all to hell, he couldn’t remember it either.

Call me John Doe. John Scarecrow Doe.

The examination continued, as did the pain and mental anguish. Scarecrow could do nothing to let them know that his mind was alive. Nothing at all. The body entity was merely a heap of flesh, a ball of slime that some old drunk had hacked out onto the sidewalk. The body was simply a dirty, nameless rag to be prodded and poked and diagnosed.

Scarecrow acknowledged that Joseph didn’t enjoy poking into the ball of slime-rag, but the doctors directed him relentlessly and Joseph probably had a wife and sixteen kids to feed, so he did what they commanded. After all, he was an orderly and they were doctors.

Being professionals, the doctors tossed out words like manic, catatonic, and psychotic, eliminating comatose and pondering paralysis. They whispered other various terms common to their vocabulary, contemplating numerous diagnoses as if reviewing a dinner menu. All during that time, Scarecrow listened. It was useless to expend the effort to show them he was consciously aware of everything around him, including the gloved hand manipulating his scrotum. His mind, he desperately wanted to explain, was quite alive, though burdened with frantic, confused thoughts. Yes, most definitely panicked, but who wouldn’t be?

Shit, Scarecrow thought, I can’t even remember my name, so what the fuck do I expect? A dance? A cup of tea? Yes, my eyes do dart back and forth, but only because I need to see all of your faces -- I don’t want to miss out on one reaction, not one. I want to see everything you do, even watch you scratch your shriveled, sorry little nuts. I want to remember your faces, because when I die and meet you in hell, I’ll be able to knock the nose right off your fucking face!

The anger grew, but only on the inside. Scarecrow’s face remained void of expression, his eyes darting in seemingly random movement. The anger swelled like a balloon, then exploded and flooded his soul with immense sorrow.

Look at me! My God, look into my eyes!

As the examination came near an end, he fought with immeasurable desperation to make his body obey. He knew he had to do something before the doctors left, leaving him alone with the stench and the dampness and the fly that he couldn’t brush away from his nostrils. But suddenly, it was too late.

The doctors began to shuffle out and their whispered conversations were an indication they had failed to reach a successful diagnosis. The oldest doctor, the Dr. Einstein, Jr., mentioned permanent confinement with monthly review -- that was when Scarecrow realized he would concentrate on nothing more than dying.

After the doctors left the room and the door closed, Joseph stood with his hand on the door latch with his back toward Scarecrow. For a long moment, he stood with his forehead against the metal door and his thoughts were almost loud enough to contemplate.

Scarecrow’s heart beat frantically. Don’t leave me, Joseph! God, don’t leave me here alone!

Turning slowly, Joseph’s hand fell off the latch and he stared toward the cot. In the next breath he was across the room, kneeling, and he lifted Scarecrow’s head slightly from the pillow. Joseph’s