by H. P. Bayne
At the bottom, a solid wooden door blocked their path. This proved a simple challenge to Nate, who drew out a set of keys and flipped through them until he found the right one.
“I doubt they figured on me still having keys to the place,” he’d said with the sort of smile that had Miss Crichton wondering what else he’d surreptitiously held onto over his lifetime.
The passage lay before them, pitch black with a coating of dust disturbed only by the tracks of the men’s work boots Nate had suggested they wear. As long as the two of them weren’t seen, it would keep the heat off the nurses when the doctor tried to discover who had been down here. If they were seen, well, not much would matter then, would it, Nate had reasoned.
Thankfully, Nate wasn’t a large man; his boots fit Miss Crichton’s feet. She moved along quietly enough as the flashlight beam bounced over the floor, exposing dust and insects and crumbled pieces of wall.
Then they heard a girl scream.
The sound stalled them temporarily in their tracks, thoughts of ghosts left unspoken but clearly at the top of mind with both of them. It was likely a full minute before the fear—both of inhuman and human things—allowed Miss Crichton to forge ahead once again.
“I think that was Lucky,” she whispered to Nate, who looked to be working hard to nod in reply, his frightened face just visible in the castoff light from the beam currently shaking against the floor.
Rooms lined the way, and it was at the door to one of these where they found a busy track of shoe prints, showing movement to and fro numerous times along the hall. As Miss Crichton had suspected, they set a course from the direction of the doctor’s residence and back again.
The door to the room was closed, no doubt locked, and Miss Crichton took a moment to listen with her ear to the wood. She could hear heavy breaths from inside, the sound of a girl sobbing, and she realized with no small amount of relief that not only was Lucky alive, she was alone.
Nate was fumbling through his keys, trying them one at a time as they rattled against the old lock, leaving Miss Crichton a moment to speak quietly to Lucky behind the door.
“It’s Emily, my dear. I’m with a good friend. Just hold on. We’re finding the right key.”
The weeping changed in tone, at least in Miss Crichton’s mind, some of the desperation replaced by relief.
At last, Nate succeeded in finding a key, a long, chunky thing that looked like it predated the institution itself.
“I never knew what this one was for,” he said, his trembling hand struggling to work it in the lock. “It didn’t fit anything, thought it must be there by mistake.”
As the door swung open and the beam from the flashlight located the girl in the dark, Miss Crichton felt their luck had run out.
The wide-eyed girl was lying on the cold, white-tiled floor, clothed in a filthy nightdress, blonde hair sweat-drenched and dishevelled. In the dark as she was, she appeared feral, a wild animal in a cage. The smell wasn’t much better, the stench of human waste mixing with vomit, blood, sweat and something else Miss Crichton couldn’t put a finger on.
Nate dry heaved but managed to hold onto his stomach contents, while Miss Crichton pushed through, crossing the floor in quick strides and kneeling next to the girl. Hands latched onto the nurse, cold and clammy and small but strong. The flashlight beam wavered, lowering to a spot nearby on the ground as if Nate felt he was intruding by revealing too much. But there was enough lingering light for Miss Crichton to confirm this was indeed Lucky, no question needing asked once she saw those eyes.
She swept the girl’s hair back from her face as she looked once again at her positioning on the floor. “Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll have you out of here in no time.”
And then Lucky screamed. Her little hands squeezed Miss Crichton’s arm hard enough to bruise, as if they were trying to pass straight through bone. The older woman winced but didn't pull away as Nate stated the obvious.
“I don’t think we’re going nowhere, Em. The girl’s in full labour.”
While there was no denying that fact, Miss Crichton had hoped they could at least get her out of here, even as far as the car before the baby came. But, as she looked more closely at Lucky—needing to beg the shy Nate to bring the light in—Miss Crichton could see just how right the retired caretaker was.
“The baby’s crowned,” she said. The nurse, experienced in psychiatry rather than medicine, positioned herself between Lucky’s legs. “Nate, put the light down and hold Lucky’s hand.”
“What if the doctor comes, Em?”
Having found the girl a prisoner, alone in the dark and about to give birth to Gerhardt’s baby in a dark, dusty, filthy room, Miss Crichton was left in no doubt of her answer. “Then you leave him to me, Nate. I’ll kill him with nothing more than my bare hands.”
She ordered Lucky to bear down, thanking God the girl had at least been fed well enough to maintain her strength as she obeyed the nurse through the remainder of the agonizing process.
There was no telling how long it went on, Lucky already exhausted by the time they’d arrived. But, at last, the baby's head appeared in full and, within moments, was wailing through his first breaths.
With nothing to properly clean him, Miss Crichton wiped him off as well as she could with her shirt, then bundled him in the jacket Nate removed.
Lucky—who had yet to say a word—wept as Miss Crichton handed her the baby. While the girl’s tears had never stopped, not in full anyway, they now changed, coming through a wide grin and an occasional joyous laugh.
Nate’s voice in Miss Crichton’s ear was whispered urgency. “Em, if we’re going to get her out of here, we have to leave now. He could come back at any time.”
Miss Crichton nodded her understanding, then turned back to the girl. “Lucky? Lucky, we need to leave. Do you think you can walk?”
But Lucky was in another world, enraptured by the face of her now-gently crying baby. She said something, but her first word was whispered, heard by no one beyond herself and her infant.
“Lucky?”
The girl spoke again, this time loudly enough to be heard by the others. “Sullivan. His name is Sullivan.”
Miss Crichton smiled. “Why Sullivan, dear?”
“My grandpa. His name was Sullivan. He was the only person I ever knew who really loved me. The way I love my baby.” She looked up into Miss Crichton’s eyes, and the older woman felt her own smile growing as she recognized the joy in the girl’s face—quite possibly the first time it had ever found its way there in all of Lucky’s sixteen years on this earth. “He’s perfect, isn’t he?”
Miss Crichton looked into the baby’s face. While newborns often looked the same to her, this one was different. And she was pleased to see very little of Dr. Gerhardt in the tiny features, reminiscent as they were of Lucky’s fine bone structure and petite form.
“He’s beautiful, Lucky. He really is.”
“Em?” Nate was no longer whispering, urgency giving way to near-desperation.
Miss Crichton took another run at getting them away. “Lucky, dear, we really need to go. Let me take the baby, and Nate will give you a hand so we can—”
“No.”
“Lucky—”
“No one’s taking him from me. He’s all I have. No one’s taking my baby.”
“No one’s going to take him from you, dear. We just need to get away from here quickly and quietly, and you’re not going to be able to do that if you’re carrying a baby.”
Lucky tried anyway, but blood continued to flow from her, and she nearly dropped the baby as she doubled over in pain. She made it only as far as the hall before she admitted defeat and handed Sullivan to Miss Crichton. She then accepted Nate’s offered arm for support as they continued to make their way back down the hall, following the lonely trail of bootprints illuminated in the flashlight’s glow.
But progress was slow and so it happened that, as they approached the stairs leading from the basement level, they w
ere interrupted by a wild shout from somewhere behind and the sound of thundering footsteps echoing off bare walls and floor.
“Run,” Nate said as he placed Lucky next to the stairway’s railing. “I’ll hold them off.”
Miss Crichton opened her mouth to protest but was cut off by one last urgent command. “Go! Get out of here!”
The sound of approaching men grew louder now, and Miss Crichton had a baby and a teenage girl to consider, so she did as Nate had asked and made for the stairs.
Lucky managed the stairs but, by the time she reached the top, any strength she’d had left had waned, leaving her sinking to the floor against the wall.
From below came the sounds of a struggle, and Miss Crichton fought every urge to return when she heard Nate cry out in pain. But Sullivan was snuggled against her bosom now, and Lucky had collapsed, leaving the nurse with far too much to handle as it was.
“Lucky, I know it’s a lot, but I need you to fight through and come with me. It’s not much further. You can make it.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Lucky, please.”
“I’m so tired, Emily. I can’t do it.”
The sounds of fighting continued, and this time the yelp of pain belonged to someone other than Nate. Even so, the former caretaker wasn’t as young as he once was; he wouldn’t hold them off for long.
Miss Crichton looked from Lucky to Sullivan and back again. It felt like something of a low blow, but if she had to play on the mother-child bond, she would. “Think of your baby. Think of Sullivan.”
The tears were back in Lucky’s eyes, only this time they didn’t signify pain or fear; they were tears of defeat.
“Take him.”
“No, Lucky. I told you—”
“Take him, Emily. I’ll find somewhere to hide, and I’ll sneak out while they’re looking for me. I’ll find you later.”
“I’m not leaving without you. Now—”
“No. I mean it. I won’t make it. Please, take my baby. Protect him. Please, Emily. Please don’t let Lockwood or my family get my baby. Hide him for me, please. It’s the only way to save him. Please don’t let anyone get Sullivan.”
And so Miss Crichton made the hardest decision of her entire life.
It would haunt her forever.
Nate turned up after daybreak the next morning, bloodied and beaten and bringing with him a tale that both amazed and sickened Miss Crichton.
Nate had found himself up against the doctor and the young orderly Larson Hackman, had managed to hold his own for some time. The slight doctor provided little challenge and Hackman, though bigger and stronger, had no real experience in a fight—at least not one that didn’t involve backup from fellow orderlies.
But Hackman was stubborn, refusing to stay down, and Gerhardt wasn’t opposed to fighting dirty. And Nate had to admit he wasn’t getting any younger, and a battle that might once have been his to take now belonged to his opponents.
At least until Lucky had stepped in.
Where she’d come from, Nate didn’t know. But she’d landed a solid kick to the side of Gerhardt’s knee, dropping him howling to the floor just before he could blindside Nate.
Nate and Hackman stood a moment, startled into a temporary ceasefire as they stared down at the wild-eyed girl, and Nate recounted a chill running down his spine as he took in the expression on her face, the look in her eyes.
“She wasn’t a scared little girl anymore, Em,” he’d said that morning. “She was a woman hell-bent on revenge.”
Miss Crichton corrected him. “Not revenge,” she said. “She was protecting her child.”
The fight had not ended there, Nate breaking the spell first and lunging at Hackman. But the orderly hadn’t been far behind. The two struggled, but Nate managed to get in one last solid punch, spinning the younger man around. Hackman reeled into the wall, dropped to the floor and stayed there. Nate ushered the girl toward the stairs.
But Gerhardt, it seemed, had one last trick up his sleeve. The doctor’s hand grabbed Nate’s ankle in a vicelike grip and Nate, not expecting the move, toppled forward and banged his head, knocking himself out on the stairs.
The next thing he remembered was coming to in the woods surrounding Lockwood, head and body so pained he could barely move.
And Lucky, the young girl he credited with saving his life, was nowhere to be found. Nor, to Miss Crichton’s knowledge, was she ever seen again.
At least, not until now.
The story had been enough to change Dez’s view of Lucienne. Anyone who had risked her life to save her child—especially given that child was Sully—deserved some serious credit in his books.
After dropping off Miss Crichton, Dez tried the number Lucienne had called him from earlier, but got nothing but a message reporting the phone was out of the service area. Burner phone was Dez’s first thought, which made perfect sense given Lucienne’s need to keep her presence here under the radar.
Once again, Dez was left with more questions than answers. Was the reason for her lack of an online presence because she lived under an assumed name? If so, what was it and what would it reveal about her? And, more importantly, why had she lied about Sully’s birth? Not only had she said nothing about Gerhardt being the father, or that Sully had taken his first breaths inside Lockwood, but Lucienne hadn’t been honest about how Sully had come to be left on the doorstep.
Lucienne had said she’d left her baby there. But Miss Crichton provided a wholly different version of events, telling Dez she’d kept Sully for a full month while she and Nate—the latter in hiding after the events of that night—searched for Lucky. But the girl had disappeared, no indication she was anywhere near Lockwood and no sign of her anywhere else. Eventually, they’d run out of places to look and avenues to explore and, as Miss Crichton’s name and address were readily available in the phonebook, she and Nate eventually accepted Lucky’s continued absence meant one of two things.
Either she was on the run and had decided her son needed a more stable life than she could provide. Or she was dead.
Either way, Lucky wasn’t coming back for Sullivan.
Miss Crichton, deciding the baby was better off—and far better protected—starting over free of the stigma of his conception and birth, left Sully on the doorstep of a social worker she knew well, a lovely woman who would ensure the baby was looked after. But she’d left one clue before finding a spot to surreptitiously keep watch until Denise found the child: the note that gave his name as Sullivan. It had been a way to honour the girl who had risked her life to save her child, and a means for her to one day find him should she decide she was at last free to do so. But it also gave the baby the opportunity to carry with him a little piece of his mother, the only piece he might ever have.
Dez realized, while most of the questions remaining would require answers from Lucienne, Sully’s current location was not one of them.
Nor was the problem of how much he should reveal to his brother once he found him.
28
Sully paced in the small room, time ticking by with no sign of Brennan and therefore no answers on what had happened to Dez.
His body ached from the assault, and he rubbed at a sore spot where ribs met abdomen, worry for his brother minimizing the physical pain he might otherwise be suffering now.
The fact Brennan hadn’t returned could mean Dez had killed or hospitalized the guy, which wouldn’t trouble Sully so long as Dez hadn’t gotten himself killed in the process. Or, if Sully’s worst nightmare had come true, it might mean that Brennan just hadn’t made it back yet. If that were the case, if Brennan eventually walked back into this room, Sully had made up his mind he would kill the man or die trying. The alternative—continued life in captivity with the knowledge his brother was dead because of him—was not an option he was prepared to accept.
The wait with its accompanying dark thoughts was driving him to the edge of madness, and Sully sought a temporary out by returning to his mother’s journ
al, lowering himself back onto the mattress and pulling the notebook from his inside pocket.
He’d stopped reading when he’d first seen his own name, written in the teenager’s bubbly handwriting. She’d used strokes that appeared neater and more careful than the surrounding words. As if his name itself was sacred text to the young writer.
Needing to settle his mind, Sully forced himself to focus on the battered pages resting in his lap.
He read further entries speaking of Sullivan, of Lucienne’s fears of Gerhardt, of her anger at her mother and stepfather, of her guilt over Artie’s death and of questions about where her birth father had ended up or why Rhona never came to see her.
Then came a passage in which Lucienne mentioned a woman named Emily.
I will never see my son again, at least not through living eyes. My mother and Wayne aren’t going to let me leave here and, anyway, I’m sure by now Sullivan is being cared for by someone else. Maybe Emily kept him, but I kind of hope not. What if Gerhardt finds him? I would die before I’d allow what happened to me to happen to my baby boy. And if Gerhardt finds out Emily came for me, her life, and Sullivan’s, would be as good as over.
I hope he finds a family somewhere who loves him the way I do, the way I wish I could. If things go better than I think, I will find him one day. And if they don’t, if I don’t leave here alive, then I’ll find a way to watch over my boy. And I’ll make sure he’s never alone, not even when he feels like he is, when he feels the way I do now.
The entry ended there and, when Sully flipped the page, he discovered the journal concluded there too.
Which left him wondering what had happened after Lucienne had penned those last words. Had she ever made it out? If so, had she ever sought him out in the hopes of reforming that bond they’d had only moments to forge? Or had her life ended instead, perhaps here in this room?