The Other

by L. J. Sellers

  What the hell?

  Anxiety rolled around in her gut, and Rox gripped the steering wheel. She hated crowds. The noise and jostling. Strangers touching her. She forced herself to look past them. Beyond the group stood the prison-like building with a door that would probably lock behind her as she passed through. Could she handle that? Or had she made a huge mistake in taking this case?

  Maybe she wouldn’t go inside. For now, she decided to drive around the facility and check out the entry and exit points. Signs near the front indicated that Admissions were to the left and Deliveries were to the right. Rox turned and drove around to the fenced area where supplies were dropped off. The eight-foot fence looked easily climbable, and the gate didn’t seem to be locked, but she couldn’t tell for sure. The big overhead door was closed at the moment, but when opened, it would allow trucks to back up and offload goods directly into the building. She took mental snapshots of everything, including the smaller entrance for pedestrians. She and Marty might need to come through this way. As she backed out, she spotted a fenced vegetable garden behind the back wall. A special privilege that could be earned?

  Rox circled back to the other side of the building. The Admissions area had an overhead entrance as well—probably for ambulances—as well as a regular walk-in style door. The red buzzer nearby indicated it was kept locked. She didn’t see how to make this entry point work, unless they staged a phony admit. She didn’t know anyone who would go along with that.

  She drove back to the front, parked in a Visitors space, and took long deep breaths. She could do this. A young boy was trapped inside and needed her help. Rox climbed from her new Honda CRV, missing the headroom of her Cube. She’d just traded in her quirky car for a vehicle that looked like everything else on the road. As a private detective who needed to blend in, she often had to suppress her natural impulses. People didn’t trust oddballs, and she was grateful she’d learned to socialize and curb her bluntness… most of the time. Still, her inability to accurately read people’s expressions had kept her behind a desk at the CIA. That and her gift for analysis, especially with numbers. She could sift through large chunks of data and spot both patterns and anomalies. But after a decade of staring at digital information, she’d grown bored. The fieldwork she did now was both terrifying and exhilarating.

  Another deep breath and Rox pushed forward, darting through the demonstrators and keeping her arms at her sides to avoid contact. She admired their passion for a righteous cause, but the chanting was annoying. So was their presence at the hospital—an unpredictable factor.

  Were the protests daily? Or sporadic? Most important, would they interfere with her ability to rescue Logan? The boy himself was an unknown too. His reaction to their rescue attempt could turn out to be the biggest hurdle. She kept coming back to the issue of mental patients and how their behavior was often dependent on medication compliance. What meds was Logan taking? She assumed all incarcerated patients took some sort of prescription drug. If she and Marty extracted the boy, and no one forced him to take his pills, would he be a risk to the community?

  Marty was right in wanting confirmation that Logan wasn’t dangerous. She would make it her priority to find out. And she would give Shay Wilmont’s money back if her nephew actually belonged in the institution.

  Rox had almost made it through the crowd when a heavyset man backed into her, his huge butt pressing against her stomach. She yelped, shook him off silently when he tried to apologize, and rushed across the opening in front of the building. The protestors had obviously been told to keep a certain distance back.

  The electronic door—similar to those in minimum-security prisons—wasn’t inviting. A camera above captured her approach and someone, or some software program, released the lock to slide it open. She stepped inside and glanced around the lobby. The solid walls and lack of daylight made her chest tighten. Surprised by the intensity of her reaction, Rox sucked in a quick breath. She wouldn’t be here long, she promised herself. She’d already assessed the front entrance and wasn’t optimistic about the back, which was surrounded by a twelve-foot-tall fence.

  On the other side of the front desk, a young blonde woman talked on the phone and ignored her. Metal doors flanked both sides of the reception counter. One probably led to the staff offices, and the other—which was propped open—likely connected to patient-access areas, like a rec room or cafeteria. But she was guessing. Rox stepped toward the opening. At the end of the narrow passage, daylight glimmered as someone entered through a back door. A faint click and the light disappeared. She wanted to scoot down there, but a man promptly came through the door, carrying a box. He nodded at her, then slid sideways through an opening at the end of the counter.

  Once he was on the other side, the blonde receptionist yelled, “I’m taking a break now,” and disappeared out the back. The middle-aged guy with thinning hair turned to her and asked, “Can I help you?”

  Rox had hoped for more time to look around but hadn’t expected it. The lack of security still surprised her. She remembered that the front building housed voluntary and non-dangerous patients. She smiled at the administrator and moved toward him. Why was he wearing a sweater vest? “I’m doing a little research for my book and wanted to see the inside of a mental institution.”

  “We give tours you can sign up for, but the next one isn’t scheduled yet.”

  A woman in a small office behind him rolled her chair and stuck her head out. “Not anymore.” It was the same voice from the canned message earlier. The assistant director was thirty-something and wore a turban-style headscarf.

  Rox thought she already knew the answer but asked anyway. “Why not?”

  The A.D. scowled. “We can’t let the protestors in here. Also, the hospital is closing soon, so why bother?”

  “What will happen to the patients?” A long shot, but she might learn something.

  “They’ll be transferred to other facilities.” The woman rolled back to her desk, clearly done with the subject.

  Rox turned to the administrative man in the sweater vest. “What are visiting hours?”

  “Ten to five, Wednesday through Sunday. Plus six to eight on Friday and Saturday nights.”

  The numbers locked into a slot in Rox’s brain. She would be able to recall them years from now. “Thanks. Can I look around for a bit?”

  He shook his head. “There’s no one to escort you.”

  The sliding front door clicked and they both turned. A tall woman with silver hair stepped through the threshold. As the door began to close, a bearded man with a sign shoved past. The older woman made a startled noise and clutched her purse, while the intruder rushed to the counter where Rox stood.

  “I want to see the director!” he shouted.

  Sweater Vest reached across his workspace and pushed a button. He looked up and warned the protestor, “Mr. Strada isn’t available, and you should leave now.”

  “Closing the hospital is morally bankrupt!” Emotion made his voice scratchy.

  A moment later, two security guards rushed from the building’s interior. The men, both in their fifties and straining their uniforms, grabbed the protestor on either side. The bearded man struggled, accidentally whacking one of the guards with his sign.

  Sweater Vest scooted around the counter and joined the effort to expel the intruder. Rox glanced at the small office to see how the assistant director was reacting, but she had disappeared. What the heck? Maybe she had enough time to snoop a little.

  Rox slid through the opening at the end of the counter and scanned the administrator’s work area. No folders or papers in sight, but the computer was easily accessible. She glanced sideways through the assistant director’s door. A stack of papers sat on her desk. The top one looked like an Excel grid and seemed to be a list of patient names. Rox stepped inside and scanned the list across the desk, reading it upside down. In the column next to Logan Wilmont’s name was Serenity House. Score!

  Before she could read the date i
n the next column, someone shouted, “Hey! What are you doing in there?” The turban-wearing woman rushed into the small office, startling her.

  Rox tried to look innocent, but felt her face flush. “I wanted to summon more help.” It sounded lame, even to her. “I was looking for a security button.”

  “Everything is under control and you need to leave.” The woman grabbed her arm.

  Rox pulled free. “Please don’t touch me!” She quickly stepped away and headed for the exit, surprised by her outburst. She’d always hated when strangers put their hands on her, but she usually just pulled away without saying anything. Was she regressing from the damn treatments? She wished she’d never done them.

  None of that mattered at the moment. She’d learned the name of the facility where Logan would be transferred. With that information, she could probably con someone into telling her the date. For the first time, she felt optimistic about rescuing Logan.

  Chapter 7

  Thursday, October 11, 9:22 a.m., Portland

  Marty hummed as he spread glue, then pressed the last piece of border tile into place. The wall trim was a shade darker than the caramel-colored floor, and he’d used some intermittent decorative pieces. Pretty fancy for one of his home improvement jobs. He was getting damn good at this stuff. As he pushed to a standing position, he groaned out loud with pain. Damn. He hoped he hadn’t injured his back. He had a date with SiriKaren that evening and she liked sex. He’d gotten over his fear—rooted in a heart attack during a naked encounter with a previous girlfriend—and SiriKaren had become the most adventurous lover he’d ever had. The woman was wild in bed, and he worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up.

  Better take his vitamins.

  On the way to the kitchen, his phone rang. A number he didn’t recognize. “Martin MacFarlane.”

  “This is Dr. Carlson, a psychiatrist at Mt. Angel Psychiatric Hospital.” Her smooth voice was almost creepy. “I see that you applied to visit Logan Wilmont.”

  The call surprised him. “Did I screw up the paperwork?” Marty chuckled, hoping she had a sense of humor.

  “No, but I’m curious about your association with Logan. How do you know him?”

  Marty scrambled for a reasonable connection. “I’m a friend of his aunt’s. And a volunteer with the Big Brother program here in Portland.” Oh hell, what was their client’s name? “She asked me to spend some time with Logan.”

  A full two-second pause. “Have you ever met him?”

  “No, but he’s obviously a kid in need.” Shay! That was her name.

  “Logan isn’t ready for outside influence. I’m trying to get him stabilized.”

  “What do you mean by stabilized?”

  “I can’t discuss his case details, but you may find a visit with him to be disturbing.”

  Marty held back a scoff. “I was a police officer for forty years. I’m sure I can handle it.” Oh hell, maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned his background.

  “I’m sure you can. This is about Logan and what’s best for him.”

  He bristled at the phrase. People who used it were often control freaks. “Did Logan approve my request?”

  “We haven’t shown it to him.”

  Were they isolating the boy? That didn’t seem right. “Please show the application to him right away. His Aunt Shay says he’s lonely and wants company.”

  Another long pause. “Logan is a minor and his mother would prefer that no one interferes with his treatment.”

  That was interesting. Marty decided to tread lightly. “I won’t. I just want to visit, maybe play some cards with him.”

  “We’d like you to wait. At least until after he’s transferred.”

  “When will that happen?”

  “Next week.

  Whoa. That gave them little time to plan an extraction. “Can you be more specific? I have a lot on my calendar.” If you considered golf and sex a full schedule.

  “No, but I’m sure you’ll be able to see him at his new facility.” The psychiatrist abruptly hung up.

  Marty’s jaw clamped. Something about this whole situation stunk like yesterday’s socks. Even if the boy was bat-shit crazy, what harm could there be for him to have a visitor? Shay’s claim that her sister wanted the boy kept out of sight certainly rang true now. It seemed that Logan’s mother had even convinced the hospital staff to keep him isolated. Rox was right about this case. He’d had serious doubts in the beginning, but now he not only wanted to visit the boy, he wanted to break him out too. Rox needed to know about this new development, and they had to kick this investigation into high gear.

  Marty washed the last of the tile glue off his hands, chuckling to himself. How quickly he’d gone rogue after a lifetime of playing it straight. He grabbed his phone—in case his girlfriend called—and rushed next door. After his special knock, he waited for Rox to yell “Clear,” but the house was quiet. Maybe she was dancing or in the shower. He looked at his phone. It was after nine; she would be done by now. A glance at the driveway confirmed that her new vehicle was there.

  He knocked again. This time Rox answered, but her voice was weak. Was she hurt? Pulse escalating, he used his key to open the door. Rox was trudging up the hall, holding her head.

  “Sorry, I had to lay down after my workout.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  She frowned and her dark eyes lacked their usual intensity. “I had another one of those little episodes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, that’s right. I never told you.” Rox eased to the couch.

  Marty rushed over and sat across from her. “Told me what?”

  “In addition to the headaches I’ve been having…” She paused, as if asking for confirmation.

  “Yes, you told me about those. I thought they were getting better.”

  “Sort of. But I’ve also had a couple of incidents where I felt fuzzy, with a second or two of memory loss.”

  Shit! He’d read about the possible side effects before she started the damn magnets, and the literature claimed they were rare. “You mean like a seizure?”

  “Only milder.” Rox blinked and sat up straighter. “I’m feeling better already.”

  “Did you tell your doctor?” Anger flashed but he suppressed it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I meant to. I kind of thought I did.”

  “Well, you didn’t.”

  “Sorry.” She gave a little shrug. “Dr. Benton says they should go away in a few weeks.”

  “Are you kidding? She didn’t prescribe you anti-seizure medicine?”

  Now his daughter blushed. “Actually, she did, but I didn’t get it filled.”

  Harsh words formed in his mouth, but Marty bit them back. “But you will now.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.” Rox gave him a sly smile. “You’re not exactly a model patient either.”

  “I know. But I’m too old to change my ways, and you’re too young to take chances with your life.”

  After an awkward silence, they burst out laughing. When she had control, Rox said, “I’m surprised we’re both still alive.”

  He’d been shot during one extraction, and they’d been run off a cliff during their last one. Still, he couldn’t bear the thought of Rox being hurt. Before he could say anything, she asked, “So what’s up? You rushed in here like you’d won the lottery.”

  “I got a call from Logan’s shrink.”

  “What?” She sat up, looking stunned.

  “I applied to visit him,” Marty explained. “Then his doctor called me this morning, asking why and essentially telling me I couldn’t.”

  “I wish I could have heard that conversation.” Rox stood. “I need more coffee.”

  “Me too.” Marty scurried to the kitchen to start a pot. He was still worried about Rox, knowing that she’d probably downplayed her seizure.

  “What did you say about visiting?” Rox watched him as he measured the grounds. She was picky about the proces
s and had already ground the beans to the fineness she liked.

  “I used the Big Brother program and claimed his aunt was a friend who asked me to mentor the boy.” Marty poured the cold water, then turned, knowing Rox had more questions.

  “Why did she tell you no?”

  “She says Logan is unstable and that a visit would interfere with his treatment.”

  “That sounds like bullshit.” Rox scowled. “I mean the interference part. But I guess that depends on what kind of problem he has.”

  “We need to call his aunt and ask. But there’s more to tell you first.”

  She sat down. “I’m listening.”

  “The shrink, Dr. Carlson, said his mother wants everyone to stay away. One, or both, of the women are probably control freaks.”

  “Or there’s something going on with Logan we don’t know yet.” Rox snapped her fingers. “That reminds me. I checked with Bowman, and he says Logan’s name doesn’t come up in any police reports.”

  “That’s good to know. I also found out that Logan is being transferred next week.”

  “Well, hell. We need to make a plan ASAP.”

  They didn’t have enough information. “First we have to find out the day and time of the transfer.”

  Rox pulled out her work phone. “I’m calling Shay. You pour the coffee.”

  Marty grabbed oversized mugs from the rack on the counter, noting that her backsplash was swelling with water damage. He turned to his daughter. “Hey, you should let me replace this laminate with some nice tile.”

  She gestured at him to be quiet, then put the phone on speaker. But their client didn’t pick up. Rox left a message. “Shay? It’s Karina Jones. I need information about Logan’s transfer. We know it’s next week and that he’s going to Serenity House, but we still need the date.” She started to end the call.

  Marty stepped forward to cut in. “We have to know about Logan’s delusions too. They could be important in planning his extraction.” Rox added the request to her message, then hung up. Marty poured coffee and asked, “What if his condition involves paranoia?”