Owl Dreams

by John T. Biggs

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Sarah pulled the stolen red SUV up to the security camera at the mechanized gate at the Stringtown Mental Health Facility. She addressed the microphone much louder than necessary.

  “I am Assistant State’s Attorney Connie Rubirosa.” She pointed a thumb at Robert, who sat quietly in the passenger seat enjoying the flow of air through his open window. “This is Detective Jerald Daugherty.” After she got Robert’s full attention with a quick kick to his shin, he produced his stolen badge and pushed it in front of Sarah’s face toward the camera lens. He mugged the camera with an arrogant smile, tipped an imaginary hat then resumed his ultra-relaxed, don’t-make-me-come-over-there posture. The perfect civil servant.

  Sarah marveled at the sincerity with which Robert played the part of a police detective. She had no doubt he could verbally bulldoze his way through the Mental Hospital’s security zone if he were sitting in the driver’s seat.

  Members of the State’s Attorney’s office never chauffeured detectives around. That part of their ruse lacked authenticity, but there was no help for it. Even when he was well within his detective persona, Robert Collins couldn’t drive.

  Sarah spoke louder as she directed the hospital security team’s attention to the passenger in the central row of seats behind her. She hoped the nervous tremor in her voice would be lost in the elevated decibels and low quality sound equipment.

  “We are accompanied by Dr. Baron Samady, who is authorized to interview a patient we believe you are holding in your facility illegally.” She watched the camera move on its axis and focus on Big Shorty’s grim face. He looked more like a death camp councilor than a psychiatrist.

  “That’s the beauty of it,” Archie told Sarah when he laid out his plan for rescuing Marie. “The deception doesn’t have to be convincing; it has

  to be confusing.” Big Shorty’s race, his handicap, and the vague familiarity of his foreign name would all be critical to breaking down the resistance of hospital security. Sarah would be the lawyer, Robert would be the policeman. Shorty would be their ace in the hole.

  “The ace of spades,” Shorty said, when Archie took away his gardener’s hat and made him dress in burying clothes. “Death’s business card.”

  Archie also chose Sarah’s pseudonym. Connie Rubirosa was one of the beautiful and clever assistant district attorneys from the Law and Order series. No one remembered the names of supporting actors, especially the pretty ones.

  “But it will ring a bell,” Archie said. “Hard to think when bells are ringing in your head.”

  Maybe the security team would be too confused to notice Robert wasn’t driving. Maybe they’d open the gate and send Marie walking out. Sarah looked at her watch. She turned the crystal toward the camera and tapped it several times. “We’re waiting.”

  She fished a legal-looking piece of paper out of her shoulder bag and waved it in front of the camera. “This is a warrant. Duly issued by the State’s Attorney, permitting us to search the facility and to interview members of your staff. It also grants us access to such records as we deem necessary.”

  Sarah knew the guards couldn’t read the warrant through an instrument as crude as a gate security camera. She counted on that. She’d produced the document using her laptop and a high-quality inkjet printer owned by Victoria and Albert Tiger. It looked convincing from a distance, but wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny.

  Back in Oklahoma City, Sarah had thought Archie’s rescue plan was well developed, even unnecessarily thorough, but faced with a locked gate and a faceless team of security guards, she realized it was hardly any plan at all. She didn’t even know for certain her mother was being held in Stringtown.

  “Hashilli will take Marie where he feels comfortable and in control,” Archie had explained. “Everything about the witch screams Civilized Tribes and whispers Choctaw.” Hashilli had focused his kidnapping scheme on Indian casinos. Used a Choctaw-funded child development center to hide stolen children. Passed himself off as a dealer in Native American antiquities. Drove an SUV with Choctaw Nation tags. “Which everyone seemed to notice without writing down the numbers.”

  Sarah had been surprised and a little intimidated by the number of enterprises owned, controlled, or funded by the Choctaw Nation. Of all her Google-strikes, Stringtown Mental Health Facility stood out as most likely to serve as a hiding place for Marie. The hospital was built just after Sarah and Marie moved to New Mexico. Operational costs were covered by a combination of Choctaw tribal money and federal grants administered by a Choctaw committee. Most of the clients and a majority of the professional staff were Native American. No one named Hashilli, Luna, or Moon appeared on the public roster of employees, but a Dr. H. Selene was listed as a board member and a consulting psychiatrist.

  “Another moon name.” Good enough for Sarah. Archie agreed after he “smoked it and dreamed it,” whatever that meant. Robert went along because he liked the name, Stringtown, and because he would go along with anything that allowed him close proximity with Sarah.

  The only dissenter was Big Shorty. “Can’t change facts with a majority vote.” He admitted Stringtown was as good a place to start looking for Marie as any other, even though he had a list of don’ts. “Don’t like the plan. Don’t want to be a shrink. Don’t want to wear a suit. Don’t like the name Samaday. It’s a French word. Don’t like the French.”

  So easy to hate the French. Even a crazy cemetery caretaker can do it. Sarah wanted to ask Shorty about his Francophobia but she was afraid he’d launch into a bigoted rant that would poison their relationship. Even worse, he might persuade her he was right.

  The security gate didn’t open when Sarah held her fake warrant in front of the camera. She had no idea what to do next, but Robert was already on the move. He opened the passenger side door, walked around the front of the SUV, kicked the chain link gate hard enough to make it rattle and then took up a position in front of the camera too close for it to accommodate with a sharp focus.

  “You will open this gate immediately.” He spoke in a flat monotone as though he might be reading the words from a teleprompter. He moved even closer to the camera, opened his mouth wide enough to provide his audience a view of his uvula. He fogged the lens with his breath. He wiped a fingertip-size clear zone in the center of the glass and stepped back.

  Sarah imagined a clear image of Robert’s angry cop-face appearing on a television screen surrounded by a halo of blurry color. She hoped the effect would be as impressive in reality as it was in her mind.

  Robert read names from the list of employees Sarah had taken from the hospital web site.

  “These people will be arrested for obstruction of justice if we are not admitted immediately.” He turned to Sarah. “Get ready to crash the gate.”

  She pressed on the accelerator pedal and watched the tachometer needle move to three thousand. She placed her hand on the gearshift lever and prepared to commit criminal trespass at Robert’s signal.

  “On the count of four.”

  Sacred number, Sarah thought. That number would resonate with Indian guards, even if they didn’t understand why. Robert might be crazy, but he was smart. Maybe he did have the soul of a Pueblo Shaman.

  “One, two, three.” No ambiguous pauses between the numbers. No doubt in Robert’s voice. He flipped a finger up for each number. A clear sign of the digital age.

  “Wait!” The degree of emotion conveyed through the tiny monotone speaker below the camera exceeded anything the designing engineers could have imagined.

  Robert stood in front of the camera holding three fingers in the air like a demonic Boy Scout preparing to recite the Oath. There was a mentally awake clause, if Sarah remembered correctly.

  “We will meet you at the gate!” The speaker wasn’t engineered to deal with shouts. The anonymous guard’s words lost their sharp borders and hissed into static. His exited exhalations over his microphone resembled wind sounds closely enough to give Robert an enigmatic smile the secur
ity team was sure to misinterpret.

  “Our attorney wants to examine your warrant, then we will cooperate fully.”

  Their attorney. Sarah didn’t like the sound of that. Why would a mental hospital have an attorney on the premises?