The Hiding Place Page 14

  “Will you tell him?” the man sitting next to her—a friend and low-level technician with the agency—asked. He was referring to Jason, not Amir. He had clearly done both the right and wrong thing in coming to her.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. But in her mind, the decision had already been made.

  Chapter 33

  I stood at the counter of Allison’s Bakery, one hand wrapped around my morning coffee, the other cradling the obligatory cup of sweets that Amber insisted on making a part of our morning ritual.

  “Thanks,” I said, offering her a smile but keeping our interaction brief. I was running late.

  “No problem,” she replied. “Making people’s mornings better is what I do.”

  “And you do it well,” I responded over my shoulder as I headed for the door, slipping the cup of chocolate morsels into the trash as I walked past.

  Ten minutes later, I entered Menaker’s grounds through the front gate as I do at least five days a week, but today there was no security officer in the watchman’s booth to greet me. It was possible, I thought, that an incident somewhere on campus had called him away from his station. But that wasn’t protocol. There was always supposed to be someone manning the front gate. If a patient became so out of control that the clinical staff and the six security officers who roamed the premises were unable to safely subdue him, then the next course of action would be to call in the police to assist us—not for the security officer at the front gate to abandon his post. And yet here was the watchman’s booth, silent and empty. It wasn’t just that, I realized as I scanned the grounds. There was no movement. The place was utterly still, as if the hospital had purged itself of its inhabitants and closed its doors permanently ten years before, the weeds growing high against the brick walls of the buildings and the sound of the voices that had once filled this place nothing more than the scarce whispers of ghosts on the tail end of a gusting breeze.

  In my pocket was the phone Linder and Remy had given me. I should call them, I thought. Something is not right here. I pulled it out, found Remy’s number, my thumb hesitating for a moment above the screen before I tapped it, sending the call. The image of a small green phone wobbled back and forth as I waited for him to pick up. “Connecting …” the screen advised me, and I waited. “Connecting …” it flashed again, the green icon of the phone doing its frantic little dance, my heart going thunk, thunk, thunk in my throat. And then … “Unable to connect.”

  I stood there, dumbfounded, staring at the phone. The message “Unable to connect” regarded me coolly from its digital realm. Sweat broke out along the back of my neck. My heart continued to wallop in my throat, whispering, I told you so, I told you so, I told-you-told-you-told-you so. I hit Linder’s number and held my breath. The icon did its gleeful jig and “Connecting …” remained on the screen long enough for me to feel hope peek its feeble head out of its shell. But four seconds later the message “Unable to connect” confirmed what I’d already anticipated.

  “Shit,” I whispered, and began to slide the phone back into my pocket—then paused, pulled it out again, and hit 911 on the keypad.

  “Unable to connect,” it responded after a few seconds. I read the words aloud, not quite believing what was plainly displayed before my eyes. The signal was good, showing all four bars. Which meant … what, exactly? Since when was 911 unavailable?

  I told you so, I told you so, my heart went on and on. I advised it to shut the hell up and let me think.

  I considered turning around right there and running away; I’ll admit that. But I had to believe that Jason was still in one of those buildings, that he’d seen them coming and was hiding in some janitor’s closet or under a desk in an office somewhere as they went from room to room searching. If I could find him before they did … If I could get him out of here …

  The grounds remained empty, the buildings regarding me with the cold indifference of reptiles. All I could hear was my own shallow breathing and the frantic thrum of my heart. I forced myself to take a deep breath, to hold it for four seconds before letting it out, then repeated the process until I could feel my joints loosen, my body settling into a state of readiness.

  Nothing moved in the yard as I made my way up the concrete path to the front of the main building. It was quiet, the atmosphere surreal. The thought occurred to me about halfway up the path that I might be dreaming. But there was too much detail in the building in front of me, in the walkway beneath my feet, in the warmth of the coffee cup in my left hand. If this was a dream, I told myself, the coffee cup would be gone. I had forgotten about it when I’d entered the front gate and found the security booth empty. I’d absently switched it from my right hand to my left so I could use my dominant hand to work the phone, and because it was no longer relevant to what was happening I hadn’t thought about it again since. Until now. And yet, here it was, still clutched in the curve of my fingers.

  Too many details, I thought. This is real. I dropped the cup into a trash can at the entrance to the building, then grasped the metal door handle, thumbed the lever, and swung it open. Its hinges protested the disturbance, emitting a shrill shriek that filled the entryway and scampered up the old wooden staircase to my right.

  Like the grounds, the lobby was devoid of people. There were voices coming from the far end of the hall to my left, and I headed quickly in that direction, my footsteps a loud, hollow echo on the tile floor.

  Along the right-hand wall ahead, two doors gave way to a large multiuse area. Many decades ago the room had been an auditorium, but a psychiatric hospital whose patients stay for years instead of days needs activities to fill that time. The space had been converted into a series of rooms separated by retractable partitions that could be opened or closed to suit various needs. Today the partitions were retracted, accordion style, so that the full space—roughly the size of a basketball court—was able to accommodate what appeared to be the entire patient population. Astonished, I looked through an interior window at the scene where patients milled about restlessly. Several nurses and orderlies moved through the crowd, attempting to maintain order. A few of the patients—the more stable ones—were keeping their calm for now, but many were becoming agitated, their vocalizations like the moans of the walking dead through the muffling effect of the glass.

  At the far end of the hall, I spotted Nurse Haskins instructing a young red-haired orderly. He looked hesitant, a bit skeptical, as if the instructions he received involved actions he was not comfortable carrying out. She gave him a soft swat on the shoulder as I approached. “Go,” she said, her voice strained and urgent, and he went, shooting me a brief look as he hustled down the hall.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. Nurse Haskins half turned to go. I reached out and caught her by the arm. She did not look happy to see me.

  “Lise.” She opened her mouth to say more, then shut it without another word.

  “Why are all the patients in there?” I inquired, gesturing toward the multiuse room. “Who authorized that?”

  “Dr. Wagner.”

  “Wagner,” I echoed, feeling my stomach lurch at the sound of his name. “Why? What’s happening?”

  She looked around. “Where have you been? You should … you should be with the others.”

  “I’ve been at home,” I told her. “I was running late this morning. Jesus, never mind that. The front gate is unmanned. The grounds are empty. The entire patient population is stuffed into the multipurpose room. What the hell is going on?”

  She glanced around again. It was just the two of us in the hall. For some reason she seemed nervous about that, and what she said next gave me a pretty good idea as to why.

  “There’s been an attack,” she advised, her voice low and guarded. She gestured toward the room. “They’re in there for their own protection. You should probably join them. We haven’t caught the assailant yet. Security is searching the premises for him now. An ambulance and police are on the way.”

  As she said this, I
could hear the sirens approaching, and once more my stomach did a slow uneasy roll in the shallow pit it had dug for itself.

  “Someone was injured?” I asked.

  “Paul Drevel,” she said, and the shudder that slipped through her body made me wonder if Paul was still alive.

  I put one hand on her shoulder. “Where is he?”

  She shook her head. “You should go into the room until we know it’s safe. Dr. Wagner said that everyone should be—”

  “Where is he?” I repeated, stooping a bit to make eye contact. I could hear the emergency vehicles pulling up outside.

  “He was attacked on the grounds in front of Morgan Hall. Dr. Wagner is tending to him until the ambulance arrives. I …” She looked around, then reached out and took my hand. “Don’t go out there, okay? Not until we’re sure security and the police have apprehended him. He’s dangerous, Lise—much more than the others here. I’ve felt that for some time now.”

  “Who are you talking about? Who attacked Paul?”

  She looked at me almost apologetically. “Jason Edwards.”

  “You saw this happen?”

  “No,” she said. “Dr. Wagner found Paul lying on the grass. Before he lost consciousness, Paul was able to tell him what happened. That’s when we were advised to round up the patients and get them to a secure area. Security has been looking for Edwards for the past fifteen minutes.”

  I took a step backward, pulling my hand free from her grasp. “I’m sorry, Lise,” she continued, but I wasn’t listening anymore. There was something wrong with the information she’d provided. If all this happened the way she’d said, why wasn’t there anyone on the grounds in front of Morgan Hall when I arrived? Why had they left the front gate unmanned? More important, why would Jason attack Paul? It didn’t add up.

  I turned and headed for the nearest door, one that would return me to Menaker’s front grounds. “Where are you going? You’re supposed to stay here,” Haskins called after me, but I didn’t respond. The door’s push bar yielded as I hit it with the outstretched palms of my hands, exiting onto an exterior walkway adjoining the building I’d just departed with several other structures, one of them the administrative complex of Morgan Hall. As I stepped into the sunlight, I heard the chunk of a door slamming shut. Turning in that direction, I watched as one of two ambulances flipped on its lights and tore out of the parking lot, its tires screeching on the asphalt.

  So I’d missed him already—had missed seeing Paul as he was loaded into the rig. I looked toward Morgan Hall, could see the steps flanked by broad white support columns on either side as they ascended toward the building’s front entrance. The door was partially ajar, and as I watched, an arm appeared through the lowest section of the opening, followed by a head and torso as a figure pulled itself onto the front landing, rolled onto its side, and then lay still.

  Jason, I thought, and ran along the concrete walkway toward the building. Behind me, I could hear the sound of men’s voices as they climbed from their vehicles. Someone was barking orders, and I could hear Wagner’s voice as well, telling them, “This way. He’s over here.”

  I took the steps two at a time. When I reached the top, I stopped. Lying on the platform—his face battered, the bright red blood flowing freely from a long gash in his scalp—was Paul.

  I dropped to my knees beside him, uttered his name. His eyes rolled up at me, and at first there was no look of recognition on his face. The skin under his right eye was purple and swollen, his lips cracked, caked with specks of blood. His throat made a clicking sound as he swallowed. He coughed twice, wincing and bringing a hand to the left side of his rib cage as he did so.

  “Paul, it’s Lise,” I told him. My eyes kept returning to the gash in his scalp, which continued to bleed profusely. I removed my jacket, pressed it against the wound, applying pressure.

  “Who did this to you?” I asked.

  He closed his eyes, and for a second I thought he was losing consciousness, but when he opened them a moment later, he appeared clearer, more present.

  “Lise,” he said. “They got Jason. I’m sorry. I tried to stop them.”

  “Who?” I looked around frantically. Four men were making their way toward us across the grass. Wagner was in the lead. “Where?” I asked, but Paul’s eyes were slipping shut once again, and I gave him a gentle shake. “Where, Paul? Where did they take him?”

  “Don’t know.” He coughed, and a few fresh specks of blood appeared on his lips. “They put him in the ambulance, I think.”

  My mind turned back to the sound of the ambulance door closing, the vehicle’s driver flipping on the emergency lights as he pulled out of the parking lot. Dammit. The first ambulance had been for Jason, not Paul. And the men who’d loaded him into that rig had no intention of taking him to a hospital, although where they would take him I had no idea.

  “Hang on,” I told Paul. “The other ambulance is here.” I felt something clamp itself around my wrist, and when I looked down it was Paul’s hand, the knuckles white with effort.

  “No, Lise,” he said. His voice sounded distant and distorted, as if he were speaking to me from behind a thick pane of glass. I saw his chest hitch—his lungs needing to cough up more blood, I imagined—but he fought against the urge and this time won. “That ambulance is not for me.”

  I could hear Wagner calling out to me now—“Lise … Dr. Shields. Wait right there for us, please.”—as he and the men covered the last hundred yards to the building.

  “None of these people are who you think they are,” Paul whispered. “That second ambulance …” A round of coughs tore through him, and once again he winced from the havoc it was playing with his broken ribs. “That second ambulance,” he managed, “is for you.”

  I looked back at Wagner and the men. They’d reached the foot of the steps, were starting the thirty tiered strides it would take them to reach us. If what Paul was saying was true, I was trapped. There was no going back down the way I’d come up.

  “Don’t let them take you,” Paul whispered. “Here—use these,” and he placed a large key ring—his personal collection—in my hand.

  “Paul, I …”

  He shook his head, pushed me away with his hand. “No time, Lise. They’ve been looking for you, searching the grounds. I overheard the orders.” He shot a look toward the top of the stairs, then back at me. “There’s a small padlocked gate at the rear of the hospital property. You know the one?” he asked, and I nodded. “You can get out there. It’s the one on the far right. Find Jason later if you can. But right now, you’ve got to go. Now, run!”

  I stood up, the keys in my hand, just as the men reached the edge of the platform. I gave Paul one last look, then stepped over him and disappeared through the front entrance. The sound of a commotion erupted behind me, the clatter of men’s feet as they broke into a run across the landing. As I pulled the door shut, a hand stuck itself through the remaining space, grasped the edge of the door, and began to pry it open once again. An additional two inches of daylight poured through the widening crack. I yanked back hard, putting one foot against the wall for added force and throwing my head and shoulders backward. The sudden move took the man on the other side by surprise, the door smashing his fingers against the frame. He let out a howl and a flurry of curses, the fingers disappeared, and the door swung shut. I flipped the lock on its handle and set the deadbolt. Wagner was yelling for them to get out of the way, that he had a key, but I didn’t stop to listen as I moved through the lobby. Along the far left wall was a door to a stairwell. I flung it open, raced down the steps to the ground floor.

  Most of this level was used for storage: rooms lined with metal file cabinets, the faint smell of mildew, the overhead lights meager at best. I’d never been down here, but on my walks around the property I’d noticed that the building had a rear door at ground level. I went searching for it now. The hall I was in passed several rooms on either side, then intersected with a short corridor that led to the rear of
the building. Footsteps pounded on the floor above me as the men gained access.

  Reaching the rear door, I glanced through one of its glass panes to ensure the coast was clear, then put a hand on the doorknob and turned the lock. Something moved in my peripheral vision. My hand froze. I glanced out at the yard once again. There was no one I could see. But a lanky shadow fell across the grass on the other side of the door—a human shadow, I realized. Someone was pressed against the back of the building, waiting for the door to open, waiting for me to run out, his arms poised to grab me the moment my body appeared.

  “Shit,” I whispered, standing there, not knowing what to do next. The door to the stairwell banged open on the floor above. It would be five seconds—maybe less—before they stumbled into the hallway perpendicular to the one I was in. If I was still standing here when that happened, there would be nowhere to go.

  My next move was instinctual. I bolted down the corridor, turned left at the main hall, sprinted to the end of it, and smashed through the door to the men’s restroom on the right. My fingers spun the deadbolt, and I stood there breathing hard. A moment later I could hear them moving from room to room, searching for me, calling out my name.