The Hiding Place Read online

  There wasn’t much to the bathroom: one stall with a toilet, a sink and a small mirror above it, a single urinal against the far wall. A slant of natural light filtered through the translucent glass of a modest rectangular window situated high on the wall above the urinal. Planting a foot on the porcelain lip of the urinal, using it as a high step, I was able to reach the window, sliding it open as far as it would go. There was a moment of despair when it slid only a quarter of the way—not wide enough for me to squirm through. The thing hadn’t been fully opened in a long time, and several layers of paint bonded the wooden frame to its track. Screw this, I thought, and slammed the side of my fist against the wood, giving it another sideways yank. It slid open another quarter of the way.

  “This one’s locked!” I heard someone call out to the others, and the door to the bathroom shook on its hinges. It was unlikely Wagner had a key to this room, but I winced anyway. They’d soon discern my intentions and go searching for the room’s exterior window. The man at the building’s rear door wouldn’t see me coming out a front window, but if they alerted him before I was through, I’d be boxed in and out of options.

  I stepped onto the upper shelf of the urinal, palms on the windowsill. There was no screen, but I’d have to go headfirst through the opening, the hole too small and my balance too unstable to maneuver otherwise. The window was high—about two feet below the ceiling—and I could see that the ground outside was another few feet below the floor level of this room. The fall I’d take would be roughly eight feet, headfirst. I’d have to get my hands out in front of me. But still, I could break my neck. If there was another way, I couldn’t think of it, and when someone banged loudly on the door behind me I decided that the time to do this—if I was going to do it at all—was now.

  I poked my head out through the window and could see there was no one standing on the ground below, no one at all on this side of the building. The thought occurred to me that someone might be waiting in ambush around the corner, but there was nothing I could do about that. My arms were extended straight out in front of me, like I’d done as a child diving into the neighborhood pool. I was worried my shoulders might not make it through, but they did, and now I was hanging halfway out of the opening, my waist and upper thighs resting against the metal track at the bottom. With my palms on the exterior wall, I inched myself forward and downward, attempting to control my descent, my hips snug against the wood of the window frame. What if I get stuck here, my body half out of the building? They could stand right next to me and beat me senseless as I hung here, unable to defend myself, waiting to lose consciousness.

  I turned my pelvis diagonally and was able to get the widest part of my body through. Then, bending my knees to about ninety degrees, I braced myself with my feet against the bathroom wall. If I could hang by my feet from the lip of the opening, that would put me close enough to the ground to—

  That was as far as that plan got. As soon as my knees cleared the opening, I fell. My hands were splayed out in front of me, the wall of the building inches from my face. I hit the ground, rolled to the right. Something broke as I landed—I could hear the crisp snap—and because there was no immediate pain my first thought was that it had been my neck.

  Everything will go numb, I thought, but a moment later the pain in my right wrist rose to the surface, the intensity washing over me, suffocating. I knew better than to cry out—only lay in the grass, allowing the scream to fill my head instead of the air. My eyes dropped to my right arm where I’d developed an extra angle about six inches above my wrist. The area was already beginning to swell, and when I touched the site with the index finger of my left hand, I could feel a jut of broken bone just beneath the skin.

  Never mind that, an inner voice instructed. Get up and get going. Or a broken arm will be the least of your problems.

  I rolled to one side, pushed myself to my knees with my good arm. The world went white and distant as I stood, the grass tilting away. I’m about to pass out, I realized—something I could not afford to do—so I leaned over at the waist, grabbed my broken forearm, and squeezed.

  Words cannot describe the severity of pain associated with that action—the scream once again filling my head—but it brought me back to where I needed to be, the color slowly returning to the world around me. I gritted my teeth, took a tentative step forward. My left leg supported my weight. That was good. But could I run if I needed to?

  Get going, get going, get going! the voice hammered inside my head. I did as I was told, lurched across the grass as fast as my legs would take me. It was only a matter of time until the men noticed the open window, either by gaining entrance to the bathroom or returning outside. When they did, they would come for me full tilt across the open yard. They would either spot me heading toward the front gate or assume I had done so. From that moment on, it would be a footrace—one I did not think I could win with my arm in its current condition, the pain crashing against my skull with the impact of each step.

  There’s a small padlocked gate at the rear of the hospital property, Paul had told me. You know the one? Yes, I knew the one. Since it was always locked, I’d never considered it functional, assumed the key was long since lost, the padlock rusted shut. A door to a room that is never opened is no better than a wall, or in this case a fence. But here I was with a key and instructions to use it, Paul’s advice clanging in my head. Beyond the rear fence was a dense thatch of woods that descended into a ravine. It would provide cover, a place to hide. Right now, that was all that mattered.

  I ran toward the Hinsdale Building, expecting with every step to hear someone yell for me to stop right where I was, the sound of hurried footsteps on the grass behind me. My mind turned to the image of Jason being chased through the woods when he was younger, of Billy Myers waiting in ambush, a switchblade coiled like a serpent in one pocket—and I thought, Where is the stealthy one, the only one with murder in his eyes?

  I rounded the corner of the Hinsdale Building, breathing a sigh of relief, knowing the brick structure would help shield me from sight. A dash along the southeast wall took me to the rear of the building. Across the open grass, I could see the locked gate some fifty yards ahead.

  Warm brick pressed against my back as I closed my eyes, readied myself for the next part. Hurry, but don’t rush, I told myself. You will move faster if you stay calm. Opening my eyes, I listened for the sound of approaching feet. There were voices in the parking lot now. One of them sounded like Wagner arguing with another man. I pushed them from my mind, instead focusing on the small gate in front of me. Ready? I asked myself. Ready enough, my mind answered. I stepped away from the building and crossed the grass to the rear gate.

  There was a nasty moment when I reached into my pocket with my left hand and came up with nothing. No key ring, no way to get through. It had fallen out of my pocket while I was hanging upside down from the bathroom window. Why hadn’t I noticed? The answer, I realized, was my broken arm. I’d been in too much pain to notice anything else.

  “Now what?” I hissed.

  I took a breath, told myself to slow down, to not panic. Easier said than done, but at the same time my mind argued that I was right-handed, that I’d probably been holding the keys in my right hand before shoving them into my pocket.

  My right arm and hand were essentially useless at this point, so I reached across my body with my left to fish around for Paul’s keys in the opposite pocket. The angle of entry was unnatural, and for a few seconds I couldn’t find them there either. The panic started to rise up again, but I plunged my hand deeper, and suddenly my fingers brushed against metal. “Thank God,” I whispered, closing my hand around the ring and pulling it out.

  At least thirty keys stared back at me.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Still alone, but for how long? And how the hell was I going to find the right key with limited time, a rusted lock, and only one good hand to sort it all out? The keys were color coded, but I didn’t understand the color scheme. The lock, I
could see, was a Master Lock, but none of the keys were similarly marked. A few had numbers or letters inscribed into the metal, but none of these made any sense to me either.

  Climbing over the fence with its ten-foot spear pickets curving inward at the top was not an option, even if my arm wasn’t broken. Should’ve gone for the front gate, I told myself, shoving one key after the other into the lock, hoping one of them would turn. It was slow going with one hand, and as I pulled the fourth failed key from the cylinder the entire ring slipped from my hand and fell to the ground, landing on the soft, slick grass at the foot of the fence where the land sloped downward toward the ravine.

  I watched in horror as the keys slid away from me between the pickets.

  They came to rest on the opposite side of the fence against a rock jutting up from the earth some four feet away. I kneeled and reached through the fence with my left arm, my shoulder butting up against the pickets. Even when I stretched my arm as far as I could, the ring was still a good twelve inches from the tips of my fingers. Gone, I thought, and panic scurried over me like a sewer rat. There was no way out now, nothing to do but hide until they eventually found me. They would drag me into the ambulance—alive or dead—and wherever they took me, there would be no coming back.

  Find a stick, the inner voice—the voice of self-preservation—instructed. Snag the key ring, pull it back under the fence. And don’t … drop it … again.

  “Right,” I agreed, looking up and down the length of fence for something I could use. The stick closest to me appeared long enough, but also flimsy. I couldn’t chance nudging the keys off the rock only to watch them break free and slide the rest of the way down the hill. I kept searching.

  This is taking too long. I’m going to get caught.

  Don’t think about that. Keep looking.

  My right forearm ached incessantly. Beads of sweat clung to my face, then cast themselves into the grass as I moved—hunched over, eyes sweeping back and forth—along the fence. Finally, I found a stouter branch on the ground some sixty feet away. This has got to work, I told myself, returning to the spot closest to the keys. Getting back down on my knees, I reached with the stick through the space between the pickets. Distance was not an issue now, but the ground’s surface was irregular. As I hooked the ring and began to move the keys away from the rock, I had to concentrate on maintaining contact between the stick and the earth. Halfway to the fence, the tip of the stick briefly lost contact with the ground and the ring started to slide away once again. I jabbed for it, striking the ring itself, pushing it farther away, then lunged again, catching not the ring this time but a single trailing key. I froze in place. My heart walloped inside my chest.

  Careful. Don’t lose it.

  My index finger pushed down hard on the top of the stick, pressing the key into the ground at the other end. This, I hoped, would be enough to stop its slide during the fraction of a second it would take me to lift the tip of the stick off the key and reposition it within the ring. The word please formed silently on my lips, then the far tip of the stick flicked up, down, and into the circle where it was meant to go.

  “Now slowly,” I whispered, and pulled the ring toward me. It reached the fence. I placed a knee on the thing to hold it until I could let go of the stick and grab the ring with my good hand.

  I exhaled the breath I’d been holding, scooted back from the fence and the sloped ground beyond, the keys clutched to my chest. “Okay, now which key?” I mumbled, thumbing through them, unsure about which ones I’d already tried.

  There’s a small padlocked gate at the rear of the hospital property. You know the one? Paul had asked as he hovered close to unconsciousness. You can get out there. It’s the one on the far right.

  The one on the far right, I thought, looking up at the rear gate from where I sat in the grass. But there was only one gate back here. For Paul to stipulate that it was the one on the far right made no sense. Unless …

  The men’s voices were closer now, approaching from the other side of the building behind me. They didn’t know I was back here—not yet—but they were methodical, searching every corner of the grounds.

  “Unless he wasn’t referring to the gate, but the keys,” I said, and looked down at the collection again. The keys were strung along the ring in a circular fashion. There would have been no reference point for right versus left if not for a flat rectangular piece of metal—engraved with the hospital’s name—attached to the ring. If I positioned it at the top of the ring with the keys hanging below, then the far right key would be …

  “This one,” I said, grasping the key’s silver handle between my thumb and index finger. I stood, moved to the gate, inserted the key in the lock, and tried to turn it.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  “Shit,” I hissed. In another few seconds the men would be rounding the corner—would see me, shout for the others, break into a run. I started to pull the key from the lock. Paused. No, no, this must be the right one. It has to be. With my thumb, I nudged it deeper into the cylinder, felt a small click as it settled home, and this time when I turned it the key rotated begrudgingly and the padlock sprang open.

  “Thank God,” I whispered for the second time, removing the lock and swinging the gate open. The hinges had endured many seasons of rain and snow over the years and moaned loudly. I winced, looked back at the building behind me, then stepped through the opening, closed the gate, looped the Master Lock through the latching mechanism, and snapped it shut.

  The earth sloped away quickly, and I made for the woods, knowing that, in all likelihood, I would never set foot in Menaker State Hospital again.

  Part Three

  Beyond the Fence

  Chapter 34

  The woods were thicker than I’d expected, the brush thorny and difficult to push through as I descended the slope, listening for sounds of approaching footsteps or voices—and certain that at any moment the men who’d taken Jason would realize where I’d gone and enter the forest in search of me. There was no escaping the persistent throbbing of my shattered forearm, the image of Paul lying on the concrete platform of the administrative building, his eyes rolling up at me, the skin of his right cheek purple and swollen, the gash in his scalp flowing freely.

  They got Jason. I’m sorry. I tried to stop them, he’d told me, and this realization I wanted to escape most of all: that I’d been charged with the responsibility of protecting him, and despite all the warnings I’d been given, failed to do so.

  I will find him, I told myself, but it was an empty promise, devoid of any real hope or conviction. You will not find him, said a small voice inside my head, and I suspected that it was right. He’s gone. You will never see him again. And that is something you will have to live with for the rest of your life.

  There was nothing to say to that, so I snaked through the trees, my body bent slightly at the waist, shoulders hunched low, trying not to jostle my right arm too much as I stepped over fallen limbs and focused instead on the sound of moving water coming from somewhere down the hill and to my right. It was hard to tell how long I continued that way. It couldn’t have been more than a few hundred yards, but it was slow going and there is something slippery and unreliable about gauging distance in the woods. The sharp tines of bramble and holly leaves snatched greedily at my arms and legs, snagged my clothes, biting through the fabric like they had a score to settle. Halfway down the embankment, I walked face-first into a spiderweb. My body twisted and danced in revulsion, my left hand flying to my face to yank loose the sticky strands of silk. The pain in my right forearm had settled into a dull ache, but the sudden movement caused the agony to rise up, an angry white geyser. I got down on one knee, shut my eyes, and forced my way through the pain until it was something manageable.

  My plan was to follow a straight path through the woods—down into the ravine and up the other side—until I made it to Old County Road to the east. From there I could flag down a car, and then try to get in touch with Linder and R
emy. It was early enough in the day that the sun was still positioned in the east, and I used that as a rough compass, reminding myself to keep my bearings, to not get turned around.

  The murmur of the stream grew louder, becoming a chuckle as the water pitched and tumbled across its bed of uneven stones. There was something nasty in that sound, almost berating, accusatory. Twice I stopped to listen, wondering if there were voices coming from the ravine’s lip high above me. I didn’t think so, although it was impossible to say for sure. My line of sight was blocked by the foliage, and the stream did its best to muddle the sounds of the forest.

  Before long I came to the stream, its tortuous course stretching through the woods like a vein, the water casting sporadic glints of sunlight from its restless, rolling surface. I got down on my knees along the bank, dipping my cupped left hand into the steady flow, then splashed my face to wash away the dirt, sweat, and grime. The water was shockingly cold against my skin, making me shiver as tiny rivulets twisted their way down my neck and disappeared beneath the collar of my shirt. I looked down at my right forearm, studying it more fully. Beneath the swelling, I could tell there was an angle to the break of about twenty degrees. It would need to be straightened if I wanted the bones to heal correctly, if I wanted to regain full function of my arm. I still had good sensation to my fingers, could move them all right, and the color and warmth of my hand was normal—a sign that the nerves and blood supply were intact.

  I sat there considering. Should I try to straighten out the angle of the fracture myself? I didn’t think I could do it, not only because of the incapacitating pain I’d endure in the process, but also because it would be difficult to get the bones straight with only one hand to use for the manipulation. And then the arm would need to be splinted. What would I use for that? Some sticks with vines for lacing? That might work in a movie, but in real life the bones would shift and heal at an angle. The arm would never be the same. No, I needed medical attention—an emergency department—and the longer I waited, the more difficult the repair would be.