by Jason Parent
After passing the joint back to Dylan, he pointed at the binoculars. “What are those for?”
“Well...” Dylan leaned over and grabbed the binoculars in his free hand. They appeared to be high quality, like something hunters or the military might use, not those cheap plastic things you could get at a dollar store. “That’s so I can see who’s coming. As you probably know, we aren’t supposed to have this.”
He handed Michael the binoculars. “Go ahead. Take a look. You can make out the back door to Brentworth if you aim it just right.”
Michael took another hit, returned the joint to Dylan, then grabbed the binoculars. He kneeled in front of the window and peered out it, but everything he saw through the lenses was blurred. His fingers adjusted the small gear on the top of the binoculars and cleared the resolution.
“Wow!” He scanned the top of the trees and could see well beyond the start of the forest. “I can see like a mile with these things.” But he couldn’t see Brentworth, the trees standing much taller. With minute movements, he lowered his gaze, lower and lower until—
He shrieked, dropped the binoculars, and scuttled back from the window.
“What?” Dylan asked, reaching out to help Michael up. “What is it?”
Michael’s lips trembled. He was so stunned that he couldn’t get out the words that were terrorizing his mind. Instead, he pointed at the window.
Dylan stubbed out the joint and picked the binoculars off the floor. Gazing out the window, he again asked, “What did you see?”
“Th-Th-Three,” Michael stuttered, “maybe, f-four men... w-wearing Indian masks. Looking this way. Looking right at us.”
“Where?” Dylan continued to look out the window. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Toward Brentworth, b-b-but in the woods.”
Dylan looked again. After a moment, he said, “Well, there’s no one there now. And if anyone was there—”
“They were there!”
Dylan took a deep breath. “And if anyone was there, there’s no way they could have seen us. Are you sure the weed’s not making you paranoid? It does do that to some people.”
“I’m not being paranoid.” Michael spat out the words as if there was no contesting them, but he had to consider the possibility he’d imagined those figures. He’d only seen them for a second. Maybe the drug had caused it, but as far as he knew, weed didn’t make people hallucinate. “We should go. It’s getting dark.”
“Go where?” Dylan began to pace, head tucked so he wouldn’t scrape it along the ceiling. “Let’s say I believe you. Wouldn’t we have to walk right into them? Either that, or we’ll just end up lost in the woods.” He nodded in the direction of the back wall. “I don’t know what’s out there.”
“Do you know any other ways back?”
“No.” Dylan ran a hand through his hair. “Mike, you’re freaking me out. Is this the reason the cops are following you? I thought you said it was just one guy?”
“It was just one guy!” Michael’s heart thudded in his chest. His lungs hurt as he sucked in air, wheezing out the last remnants of smoke.
“Okay, okay.” Dylan stopped pacing. “Let’s just stay calm. Here’s what we’ll do. The sun’s going to set any minute now. We wait for that, then we quietly creep back to the hospital, where I’ll get my dad to drive us home.”
“But we won’t be able to see them.”
“And they won’t be able to see us.”
Michael nodded and forced himself to breathe deeper, unsure if he was panicking for nothing. He knew what he’d seen—four people standing side by side, each wearing that same plastic Indian mask Sam’s attacker had been wearing six weeks earlier. But that day, there had only been a single man in a mask. And Michael hadn’t smoked.
Am I high? He didn’t know what being high felt like to know whether he was or wasn’t. I hope I’m not just being paranoid, for Dylan’s sake. He chuckled despite his fear, wanting more to have not lied to his new friend than to actually not have any real threat in the first place.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
Dylan tugged on his chin. “Well, we should get down after all. We’re sitting ducks up here.”
Michael exited the treehouse and crouched on the landing outside, readying to climb down.
Dylan patted his shoulder. “Not that way. Too slow, and what are you going to do if halfway down you see someone waiting at the bottom?” He pointed to the far side of the treehouse. “Watch me.”
On the outside of the structure, someone had rigged up a rope and pulley system. “Now this, I built,” Dylan said, a big metallic grin on his face. He tugged on one end of the rope, the other end attached to a tree far below like a clothesline rigged between two tall buildings. As Dylan tugged on the upper rope, the wheels on each end of the contraption squeaked. Michael glanced nervously over his shoulder to see if the noise had attracted any unwanted attention but saw no one. A bucket rose slowly from the base of the tree, affixed to the upper rope. Something shiny twinkled inside it in the dying light.
Hand over hand, Dylan drew the bucket up. “When I let go of the rope, the bucket will automatically go back down. I’ll put the grip back in it, but you’ll have to pull it up just like I did.”
Letting go of the rope with one hand, he removed a silver bar with a doughnut at its center. It looked like a giant eye bolt with two arms or something to work out his arms at a gym. It might have been the handlebar from a scooter. Dylan shuffled past Michael to the tree’s trunk, where he reached up to clasp the bar to a cable Michael hadn’t even noticed.
“Always put it on this way,” he said, holding the bar over the cable. Then he pressed until the wire squeezed through a small break in the doughnut’s center. “If you do it upside down, the hole in the bar is up, and you and it go straight down.”
He winked and grabbed both arms of the bar. “But don’t worry. It’s perfectly safe. Just like in the movies. Lift your feet and make sure you let go before you slam into the tree at the other end. And whatever you do, don’t grab the cable to try and slow down. I’ll put this back in the bucket when I land.”
Michael mouthed wait, but Dylan was already zipping down the cable. When he let go of the bar, he hit the ground with bent knees and tumbled head over heels until he was back on his feet, no worse for wear. The bar hit the tree with a twang that made Michael cringe. He hoped he and Dylan were the only people in those woods who’d heard it.
Dylan ran over to the bar and dumped it into the bucket, then gave a thumbs-up. With a deep breath, Michael began pulling the rope. It seemed like the wheels squeaked louder with each tug. When the bucket reached the top, Michael swallowed hard as he reached over the drop to grab the bar. It was much heavier than he’d anticipated, and he teetered on his toes over the ledge for a panicked second before regaining his balance. Heart in his throat, he connected the bar to the cable, took the grips in his hands, and prayed to any god who would listen.
Then, he closed his eyes and jumped. He whipped toward the ground at a much faster speed than he thought, and his instincts screamed at him to slow down. Halfway down, he forced his eyes open and glanced up at his hands. One grip was much lower than the other, the bar venturing vertically and probably to disaster. Without thinking, he released his higher hand and grasped for the cable.
Fiery pain ripped across his palm and he cried out, letting go with both hands and crashing onto his feet. He heard a crack as he landed, either snapping bone or twigs, as more pain shot through his ankle. His momentum pitched him forward, and he slammed face-first into pityingly soft, damp earth.
He looked at his hand as he laid in dirt and pine needles. His glove and the flesh under it were shredded, the muscle beneath raw and sticky.
“That was close.” Dylan grabbed him under his arm and helped him to his feet. He gestured at a tree, only a half foot or so from where Michael’s head had landed. “Can you walk?”
Michael tested his ankle. As he p
ut more weight on it, he found it sturdy enough to limp on. It was probably just a mild sprain. He nodded.
“Good,” Dylan said, still propping him up. “Sun’s nearly set. We should start heading back.”
Together, the two crept quietly toward the lot as the sky turned from lavender to deep purple. The woods fell into night. Dylan’s shoulder served as a crutch until Michael’s pain dulled enough for him to walk on his own. Every now and then, Michael would freeze and throw a finger over his mouth, swearing he saw a face in the dark, only to look again at where it was and find nothing. His hand hurt, his ankle hurt, and he’d scared the hell out of his new friend, and for what? Weed-based paranoia? Dylan never saw anyone Michael thought he saw.
They were no more than a few feet from the lot when another face rose from the shadows. It rushed at him.
“Now, I’ve got you, you little bastard!” a female shouted.
“Wait,” a man said, his voice filled with alarm. “Don’t touch his—”
A cold hand clasped around Michael’s neck. He began to seize.
CHAPTER 12
Tessa felt good. Like, really good.
She’d seen a new doctor that morning, and in just one session, the new treatment had sapped away all her negative energy, turned misery into acceptance, and a nightmare into a dream. And afterward, she slept deeply and soundlessly as a baby swaddled in her sheets, comfort and warmth like she’d never felt before hugging her body closely.
When she awoke, it was already late afternoon. She stretched her arms out to the ceiling, her shoulder popping as she did. Her mouth was dry, tongue thick and numb as she pressed it against her teeth. She picked the crusties from the corners of her eyes and hopped out of bed. Without changing out of her pajamas or even putting slippers on her feet, she headed to the bathroom. There, she urinated for what seemed like an hour, then went to the sink and turned on the cold water. Craning her neck, she stuck her mouth under the faucet and drank long and deep the cold liquid. When she’d had her fill, she smiled into the faux glass mirror above the sink, wet hair plastered to her face and water dripping from her cheeks and chin.
Her body was light as air as she glided over the floor, out into the hall, and toward the adult rec room. On her way, she spotted Nurse Francine heading in the opposite direction and stopped to say hello.
“Why, hello to you, too, Tessa,” the nurse said, smiling wide. “And don’t you look lovely today?”
Tessa giggled. “Thank you!” Elated by the compliment, she nearly skipped to the rec room.
That late in the afternoon, it was mostly empty. The bridge club dealt out another game, and Tessa pulled up a chair to watch. But not understanding how the game was scored, she soon lost interest. She headed over to the bookshelf and grabbed what appeared to be a brand new crossword puzzle book, sans dick pics. Score!
She snatched up a few brightly colored crayons and headed with the book over to the small plastic table, where she pulled up a chair. Flipping to the first puzzle, an easy one, she began to complete it. The answers came to her lightning fast, her intense focus and clarity no longer hampered by her old prescriptions. In fact, the doctor had said she wouldn’t need them anymore. And that was just wonderful!
She completed the first puzzle and was a quarter way through the second, pondering a six-letter verb to make someone or something more lively, when someone spoke behind her. She jumped, and the crayon flew from her hand. But the briefest flash of annoyance was dead and gone before she could even catch her breath. She just felt too good to let such a little thing bother her.
“Where have you been all day? I’ve been looking all over for you.”
A boy about her age with red hair circled the table then sat across from her. He was kind of cute and looked sort of familiar. She frowned, trying to remember, then shrugged, deciding she must have just seen him around the hospital.
She smiled and teased, “Not much for manners, just sitting down there uninvited.”
The boy gave her a quizzical look, an eyebrow raised and eyes unblinking, as if she were the weird one.
She scoffed. “What?”
“Are you okay?”
Tessa chuckled. “Who wants to know?”
“Tessa?” The boy leaned forward. “What’s going on? I woke up, and you were gone. I’ve been worried all day that something might have happened to you.”
Icy fingers tickled Tessa’s spine, and she glanced about nervously. The Bandage Man watched them from a chair in the corner. She met his scowl with one of her own then stuck her tongue out at him. Her gaze returned to the stranger in front of her, who she’d just about been ready to dismiss as a confused patient. But the fact that he knew her name caused her pause.
She thought back to last night, trying to remember what she’d done. “I... I went to bed early last night.”
The boy leaned forward and whispered. “You spent the night with me. Don’t you remember that?”
“I...” The words vanished from her mind. She ground her teeth and began to fidget. Her nose crinkled. “Is this some weird trick to get me into bed? I think you should go away now, or I’ll call Jeb over there.” She pointed over to the orderly the kids called the Missing Link on account of the size of his head. Kids can be so mean.
“Tessa.” The boy reached out and grabbed her hands.
“Don’t touch me!” She tore her hands free and exploded to her feet. Cute or not, whoever this boy thought he was, he had no right to put his hands on her.
Jeb looked over and snorted. He made no move to come to her aid, but the Bandage Man was on his feet. He stormed over, his scowl contorting into an outright snarl. Tessa didn’t know who she should fear more—the man or the boy.
Though the Bandage Man was wiry, he grabbed the boy’s shoulder, pinning him to his seat despite his squirming. The boy winced and tried to break the grip, swatting at the man’s hand with no success.
“Listen to me.” The Bandage Man leaned over and growled low into the boy’s ear, but Tessa could still hear him clearly. His voice was scratchy and gravelly as if his vocal cords had been treated with sandpaper. “Leave here now. Stay away from the girl, or you’ll be next.” He yanked the boy up and pushed him toward the door.
“Tessa,” the boy whined. “It’s me, Jimmy. Don’t you remember me?”
Tessa shook her head, her eyes downcast. She refocused on the crossword puzzle as if it might make the boy and the Bandage Man go away. She’d been having such a good day. If she could only get back to her puzzle—
“Go,” the Bandage Man said, loud enough for all to hear. He gave Jimmy another push toward the door.
Jimmy clenched his fists and puffed out his chest, meeting the Bandage Man’s stare. Tessa thought he might take a swing at the man, but after a tense few seconds, he skulked out of the room with his tail between his legs. The Bandage Man nodded at Jeb, who nodded back then yawned as if the whole scene had been a bore to him. The older patient returned to his seat.
Whether he continued to stare at Tessa, she didn’t know. After only a few minutes, she lost herself in her puzzle again, the feelings of tranquility soon returning.
“Two little Indians fooling with a gun,” she muttered softly. “One shot the other and then there was one.”
CHAPTER 13
Sam stood at the reception desk for the psychiatric department, a fiberglass partition separating her from some prim and proper Barbie doll with the personality of a sock, who calmly told Sam exactly what she did not want to hear. “I’m sorry, Detective, but we can’t give out any information about our patients.”
A flush crept up her face, and Sam had to pause before she responded. She’d had about all she could stomach of bureaucracy and red tape—the Feds kept their secrets while she and Michael were hung out to dry—having gotten little more out of Frank. The FBI was investigating the hospital for experimental, possibly illegal and even unconscionable, treatment methods, unexplained disappearances, and suspicious deaths, as well as possible
ties to Carter Wainwright and the so-called Four Pi. They had a man undercover inside the hospital, but beyond that, Frank remained tight-lipped.
She scowled at him as he stood beside her, eyes downcast and hands stuffed in his pockets. The FBI agent was hiding more than he was sharing, and even that didn’t seem to check out. As far as Sam could tell, Brentworth was a state-funded facility being investigated for criminal activity under her jurisdiction, unless the hospital’s acceptance of federal grants or some other bullcrap she didn’t really understand brought them under the FBI’s radar. Even so, the FBI never sent just one or two guys to investigate an operation of this size. Where were the surveillance vehicles, geek squads, posted operatives, and endless parade of black suits with earpieces?
No, Frank was working something off the books and on his own. And he didn’t trust Sam enough to bring her all the way in on it.
She took a breath, reached into her coat’s inner pocket, and withdrew a sheet of paper. Unfolding it, she palmed it against the partition. “I understand your policy and have received the proper consent.” Her frustration began to subside. She had everything she needed. Cooler heads would surely prevail. “Harlan Bowes has granted us full access to his records.”
The receptionist’s Botoxed lips parted, and she stared blankly as if she’d disappeared into some inner happy place. After a moment, she blinked, tilted her head, then smiled. In a pacifying voice bordering on condescending, she said, “Let me call his doctor.”
Sam sighed as the receptionist picked up her phone, dialed an extension, and explained to whoever had answered that two detectives were badgering her for Bowes’s medical records. As she hung up the phone, the corners of her mouth twitched. “The doctor will be out to speak with you in a moment. Please, have a seat.”
Sam suppressed a smile. Bowes’s medical records were only half the reason for her visit. Speaking with his doctor was the other half. She turned to face the reception area. Over a dismal green rug, chairs lined the walls of a sadly empty room. A monitor propped in a corner was tuned to the news, the sound off but closed captioning appearing on the screen in a broken form that couldn’t keep up with the actual dialogue. Not that anyone was there to read it.