Little Light Episode Three: Stormie Knight

By R Schick

It's been ten years since the tragic incidents of the previous episodes, which nearly killed Bryan and sent Jenny to
Rockview. Now Jenny has escaped and the blue rose victims are beginning to pile up again only this time in California. And
what's the deal with those angels?

• Language: English
• Publisher: R Schick
• Release date: Jan 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311912800

R Schick

Rocket Schick and Mrs. Rocket raise their family in (literally) the coolest city on Earth, Winnipeg. He’s a Winnipeg Jets and Winnipeg Blue Bombers fan.As a Psychosocial Rehabilitation Practitioner at the CRS, he has been employed by the Selkirk Mental Health Center for twenty years, helping people who suffer and struggle with mental health issues on their journey to recovery.As a screenwriter, he’s an active member of Francis Ford Coppola’s American Zoetrope as both a contributor and reviewer since 2009, garnering accolades as a Reviewer of the Month. He has mentored under a successful Hollywood Supervising Producer from such films as Apollo 13 and Band of Brothers. His screenplay Rockets Red Glare had been strongly considered for television development by a major Canadian production company.As a book author, Little Light: Episode Three, Four, and Five had recently placed as a finalist for the Chanticleer Mainstream Somerset Award in 2014. Aside from the Little Light Series, he’s also in the midst of creating a new sci fi series (for teens and for those young at heart), and continues to create screenplays.

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Episode 2 Recap

Welcome to Episode 3 of the Little Light series: Stormie Knight. As you might recall, in 2005- Jenny, suffering from schizophrenia, had reacted to the release of her sister’s killer by going on a hysterical killing rampage and kidnapped her friend Bryan’s daughter, nearly killing him in the process. Afterwards, Jenny was found Not Criminally Responsible for her crimes and was sent to Rockview for treatment.

Now, let's continue...

Episode Three: Stormie Knight

My psychiatrist told me I’m going crazy. I told him, ‘If you don’t mind I’d like a second opinion.’ He said, ‘Alright … you’re ugly too!’

- Rodney Dangerfield

C H A P T E R 1

-Nolan-

Yeah, so … I’m crazy – nice to meet you. And not to be confused with the exaggerated form of the word to denote that someone’s aggravating like ‘you’re driving me crazy’ kind of crazy either. But the real deal of the bat shit variety; a few screws loose, mad as a hatter, nuts, cray cray, looney tunes, not firing on all cylinders, four quarters short of a dollar, or the mall is open but no one is shopping crazy. Assign whichever euphemisms you wish, I assure you they all apply. And I am allowed to use the aforementioned term because I’m the one who is in fact so.

Wait, it just occurred to me that perhaps, you don’t like me using the word crazy and that you find the term to be insensitive or offensive. For the record, I’m not offended of my using the term to describe me. If you have a better word for me to describe my state of mind, just let me know … No? Cat got your tongue? Or more likely, I’m probably just talking to myself right now as we speak … as I speak. Let’s do a little experiment, shall we? I’ll wait for you to say something … … … See, nothing. You don’t exist, but I’ll continue anyhow … in case you do.

There are all kinds of mental illnesses that fall under the so-called crazy umbrella, but I don’t believe I fall under any of those. I don’t think I’m an all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy from Stephen King’s The Shining kind of crazy either. At least I hope not. God, I hope not!

Speaking of God. I’m not a religious nut kind of crazy either, in fact the only exposure I’ve ever had to anything religious in all my years was one week spent at my cousin’s summer camp when I was nine years old. It was a bible camp, and I suppose my parents thought it would help me to build character. My memories included being forced to memorize more bible verses than I thought was humanly possible for a nine year old boy and being told, around a roaring campfire, of the wide world of angels, demons, heaven and hell.

So why do I bring this up, you ask? Great question! Because my crazy stems from precisely that - angels, demons, heaven and hell. Like the real deal. Well, obviously it’s not THE real deal right? because THAT would be crazy. Are you following? One of the reasons I know my brain's not functioning as it should is because, I think (and I’m pretty sure I know) I’ve been there … to heaven, that is … and hell. How do you like me now? Nuts much? Uh oh … just a little heads up, I have the propensity to black out, from time to time and I feel the preceding headache coming on right now. So… If you’re choosing to ride my crazy train, my imagined, or perhaps not imagined friend, it leaves the station in three … two … one…

C H A P T E R 2

The room (I)

Near Riverbend, 1982 …

The wind howled as the snow blew across the field on the unremarkable winter afternoon. The black and white patrol car cut fresh tracks through snowdrifts as it slowly made its way down the gravel road. On the AM radio, monotonous voices softly discussed the Reagan presidency as the officer turned the wheel, taking the cruiser down the desolate driveway leading to an abandoned barn that had not seen the bristle side of a paintbrush since the days of prohibition. The officer took his time as he discreetly parked the cruiser out of view in between a tool shed and the abandoned, neglected, and leaning barn. He tapped ashes off his cigarette out the window, turned his head and listened as the police radio squawked.

Wearing dark sunglasses, he was an imposing figure, even by law enforcement standards. He took a long final drag on the cigarette, sucking it down to his fingers, flicked it out the window, and blew out the cloud of smoke before he slid on his black leather gloves. Slowly, he stood out of the car and turned his head as he glanced around through the aviator sunglasses at the seemingly endless snow covered fields. A large stinging gust of wind whipped his face as he turned the corner of the barn, pulled open the antiquated barn door, and stepped inside.

Despite the wind block, the barn was still wintry cold on the inside. A couple of torn Penthouse magazines from nineteen seventy six were littered on the ground as evidence that, at one time, the barn was used as a teenage love shack but that hadn’t been for years. The forgotten isolated barn was, for all intent and purpose, long abandoned except for the one resident.

The officer crossed the empty room to the far side, pulled down three large frozen hay bales, and pushed over the bottom one until the floor was exposed. To the naked eye, the floor appeared solid. He reached down and swept the loose hay revealing a barely seen string in a crack nestled in between the six inch unpainted floorboards. He pulled on the string for a couple of inches until it tightened and then gave it another slight tug to pop up a single floorboard. He reached down and pulled up the six other floorboards, exposing the locked hatch door beneath.

The lock was new and shiny. He produced a key and opened it, turned the latch and opened the hatch. The hole was dark and he pulled out his flashlight from his utility belt, clicked it on, shined it in to reveal the wooden descending ladder, and then climbed down.

The ladder had descended to an old bootlegger’s hooch storage cellar preserved in time from the days of the great depression. With the sound of a chain being tugged, the single light bulb lit the room.

The room was large and built solidly but the ceiling beams hung low enough that the officer needed to duck past each one. Along the far and right walls were shelves holding dusty dark and empty glass bottles. Situated three feet away from the left wall was a small Honda generator with two wires leading from it and disappearing under the plywood door. The officer kneeled and with a flick of the switch, the generator instantly began to rumble occasionally emitting a rickety metallic clang. There was no handle on the door, just a latch, with a shiny new lock hanging from it. Sliding the key in, he instantly popped the lock open, pulled it off, tugged on the latch, and opened the door. This time he reached his hand into the dark room against the door wall and flicked on a switch.

As the room lit up, a little girl appearing to be around nine years old was sleeping on a cot. Pictures drawn in crayon were scattered on the floor and taped to the walls, and a short stack of children’s books were next to a photograph of the girl and presumably her mother smiling. The towering uniformed police officer entered the room and took off his gloves as she opened her sleepy eyes and squinted. Immediately, she sat up looking at the officer with a faint trace of hope in her sad and helpless eyes but said nothing. She simply looked at him.

Finally, dressed in her pajamas that nearly reached her ankles, the little girl stood out of bed and slowly crossed the floor to him.

Did you see my mom-- she began.

I don’t have time to talk, he declared, cutting her off, as he stepped inside and removed his police service cap. She lowered her head, and tears formed as he closed the door.

C H A P T E R 3

-Nolan-

I see you purchased a ticket onto my crazy train. On behalf of me … welcome. Unlike you, however, I can’t get off at the next stop, but thanks anyhow. I lucked out this time because this particular blackout didn’t produce anything terrifying as I have come to expect. You remember our conversation, right? Heaven, hell, angels, demons and all that? Sure you do. Well, hellfire and demons are actually very terrifying, more terrifying than you would probably think. The improbable and irrational within the fortified yet cracking walls of Coo-Cooville make complete logical sense. But here’s the kicker, it only makes sense to me. Sucks to be me … I know, I know – A little crazy humor, get it? The band Prozzak – Prozac - the anti depressant – (sigh), tough crowd aboard the crazy train … moving on…

Trying to gauge when and where the decline of my psychological perceptions began is hard to do. So, I suppose it’s best to fill you in right from where I believe it all began. Follow along with the events but I’ll leave it up to your genius to decide when the actual seeds of insanity sprouted. And if you exist, and if you’re so inclined, maybe you can help me get uncrazy. Therefore, my imagined friend, this seems as good a spot as any to begin our journey…

It’s a rare occurrence to experience that lightning bolt feeling and I don’t mean the puppy love giddiness of someone stimulating your glands, I mean the kind of this is the one explosion that changes your world. When I met Tabitha that was precisely what I’d felt. It was as if we were meant to be and I knew it deep down in my core. When we kissed, she was the one. There were no doubts in my mind or heart. As though designed by heaven above, in a sense I believe she was. (Yep, I said it).

You see as I lie here, well I assume I’m lying in a supine position but in actuality I don’t have a clue, I can’t feel any of my extremities. I can’t see, hear, or smell anything around me. My deductive reasoning tells me that logically, I’ve likely been drugged and am, no doubt, awaiting my own death, or illogically, something entirely different and seemingly crazy but I’ll get to that in a bit. This unfortunate reality has allowed me time to pause, think, and evaluate … The astonishing events that led me to what I can only surmise is my own pending death and rapid dissension into a bizarre twilight zone faux reality has skewed my perceptions to the point of likely no return.

So, my partner Detective Price and I … wait, I forgot to tell you that I’m a police officer, sorry about that – a detective, actually. I suppose describing the bats flying around in my belfry can be distracting. Anyhow, Price and I are the principle investigators in what has come to be known in the news as San Diego’s Blue Rose killings. Price, by the way could be best described as an asshole, but the best damn partner I could ever ask for. The first thing we’d learned was that there had been a person known as the Blue Rose Killer from up in Canada. Her name was Jennifer Peterson and deemed not criminally responsible for her crimes. She’d been housed at the Rockview Mental Health facility up there. This seemed the best place to start our investigation especially considering Jennifer Peterson had escaped Rockview several years ago and was still at large.

The two factors, I believe, that led me to the precarious situation I find myself in now (my impending death and my non-stop flight aboard the coo coo express) are one: the blue rose investigation itself, and two, my falling in love with Tabitha. My name is Nolan Parker by the way.

I met Tabitha on a rare night off. I needed it and figured a good hard five-mile run should about do the trick. I took my usual route through the dark residential streets beyond the Gaslamp district near my apartment. I’d just clicked into a runner’s high and happily increased my pace when…

Noooo! I heard a woman’s scream from a park up ahead. Nothing kicks in a cop’s adrenaline quite like a woman’s scream cutting through the otherwise tranquil night sky …

*

Let me go!! she screamed out as one of the two attackers pulled her to the ground, and straddled her shoulders with his knees. In the grass just off the finely graveled path between two huge trees, she kicked and flailed, fighting hard to break out of their grasp. Large lamps lit the park in a foggy yellow haze at both entranceways but neither helped me to see fine detail of what was going on as I approached.

Both men were wearing dark shirts and pants. One had long hair with a shiny, greasy acne pocked forehead gleaming in the moonlight and wearing flared bottomed jeans. The other attacker had short hair, crack head underfed cheeks, with an Adidas logo on his shirt. Her struggle seemed to excite them and she’d managed to kick one in the groin, inviting a swift backhand across her face by Adidas. Flared Jeans had recovered and pulled off her sweatpants in amusement.

Noooo!! she screamed out while Adidas had her pinned at her shoulders.

Shut up, he growled.

Oh yeah baby, I love it when you scream, Flared Jeans declared as he pulled his belt out of his jeans’ loops then wrapped one end around his hand, and that’s when I’d arrived.

That’s what they’ll be telling you in the prison shower, dirt wad, I announced.

What? Flared Jeans said, looking back over his shoulder and spotting my gun. My adrenaline was chugging along nicely.

What’s the matter no one ever teach you that no means no?

Stop it! she shouted. Taking advantage of the interruption that my inclusion had provided, she kicked Adidas. As she twisted out of Flared Jeans’ grip, he bumped into me and pushed me back. With my being knocked off balance, Flared Jeans whipped his belt up, snapped the gun out of my hand, and sent the damn thing flying into the darkness.

Shit, I painfully reacted. It was unexpected and hurt like hell.

Noo! Tabitha shrieked as she was once again thrown to the ground then struck. Adidas leaped, letting her go to charge me and kicked me in the ribs.

Huhhhnn, I let out.

You like that, Bitch?! he asked with a grin, gripping my hair and effectively held my head steady. Before I could even move,