The Hiding Place

by John Burley

  “Lately, I’ve been painting. I’ve always been good at art,” he said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapping one out and lighting it up. I started to reach for it—out of habit, I guess—then stopped myself, realizing whose company we were in.

  “I’m surprised they let you carry a lighter,” my mother commented.

  “At first they didn’t. You have to be responsible. Build trust. Earn privileges,” he explained. “Like going outside unattended. When I first got here, I couldn’t do that either. It was something to work toward. It’s the way they do things here.”

  He took another pull from the cigarette, turned his head and blew smoke out through the corner of his mouth.

  “Say, Lise. How about you and me shootin’ some hoops?”

  “Okay,” I said, getting up from the table and retrieving the ball from where it lay in the grass. My mother excused herself, said she needed to use the restroom. I think she just wanted to give us some time to ourselves.

  We shot for a while, played three rounds of horse—two games to one in my favor—then sat on the grass, our backs against the chain-link fence instead of the oak tree in my front yard.

  “They treatin’ you okay?” I asked. “You like it here?”

  “It’s all right. Don’t have much choice, I guess.” He was more serious now, not joking around as much as he was when my mother and I first arrived.

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” I told him, and somehow it seemed appropriate that I should be the one apologizing, that I’d let him down in a way. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was in here because of me.

  “No apologies. Didn’t have nothin’ to do with you.” He ran his fingers through the grass, plucked out a dandelion and handed it to me, watched as I blew and its florets dispersed into the air. “I’ve been sick for a long time,” he said. “Long as I can remember. It gets better and worse, but it never goes away. Not completely. It’s a part of me, you know? Something I’ve got to deal with.”

  I nodded.

  “It’s important that we take responsibility for who we are,” he continued. “We owe it to the people around us.”

  The door opened and my mother appeared in the yard. Uncle Jim and I both stood up, walked over to where she stood.

  “We should get going,” she told him.

  “Okay, yeah.” He dropped down onto one knee, but I’d had a growth spurt over the past two months and he had to look up at me from the position, almost as if he were the child and I the adult, instead of the other way around.

  “We’ll come back and visit soon,” I promised, and he smiled, giving me a hug.

  “You take care of your family now,” he said. Then, lowering his voice, he spoke only to me: “It’s a tough world out there, and they need you. You’ve always been the strong one. And remember”—he looked me sternly in the eye—“this ain’t no dog and pony show.”

  “Well, I’ve never seen a dog and pony show,” I told him, leaning forward and giving him a hug, my voice a whisper in his ear. “But I really want to.”

  Chapter 53

  The next day was the first of what would turn out to be a five-day stretch of Indian summer. I’d slept poorly the night before, my sleep disturbed by dreams of Uncle Jim and the sound of someone screaming at the end of the hall. I’d pulled the pillow up over my head, tried to get back to sleep. I suppose that when one lives in a psychiatric hospital, such nightly disturbances are not uncommon. Strange how I’d been residing here for the past five years, but was experiencing many of these things as if for the first time.

  In the morning, I showered, dressed, and entered the general population room. There was a short line of patients at the window to the nurses’ station, and I took my place in line. When I reached the window, there was Amber, my reliable barista, meeting me with a warm smile, a small paper cup of medication—“A few morsels,” she said—and a cup of water to wash the pills down. The water found its way to my stomach, but not the pills. It was irresponsible of me to cheek them—reckless after all I’d been through—but the reality of what I’d done five years ago was too fresh, too raw in my memory. My thoughts kept returning to the feel of the knife in my hand, the soft give of flesh as the blade entered his chest, the shock and confusion in Amir’s eyes as he looked down at me—bright red blood dripping from his hand, making tracks along my forehead. In a few minutes, the blood would be purple and coagulated. It would take even less time for him to be dead.

  There are routines here to be followed, daily rituals to distract us from the wasted passage of our lives. Morning medications are among those rituals, and over the next few weeks I became adept at avoiding those medications when I could. It was not that I wanted to sabotage all that I had worked for, only that I longed to forget, longed for the full protection of this place: an asylum from all that I’d done.

  As the weeks passed, I became reacquainted with my brother, who arrived on most mornings around nine and stayed until my group session at eleven. It was mid-November now, and the weather was turning once again, the days growing shorter, tree limbs stretched naked against the vast gray mantle of sky.

  “I’ve been thinking about Uncle Jim,” I told him. Jason and I were walking the open grounds, the way we’d done in a different season several months ago. We’d come to Menaker’s west end, where the property looked out over the Severn River.

  Jason was quiet for a while, considering. “What happened to him doesn’t have to happen to you, Lise. The path he chose isn’t your path.”

  I closed my eyes. Ten days after my only visit to see him, they’d found Uncle Jim hanging from the showerhead, legs folded under him, the towel cinched tight around his neck.

  I’d cried plenty, hadn’t understood it. He’d seemed so much better the last time I’d seen him: optimistic and full of life.

  “It’s when patients are at the greatest risk for suicide,” the psychiatrist at Spring Grove had explained to my parents—a conversation my mother conveyed to me later. “Patients typically don’t attempt suicide when the symptoms of the disease are at their worst. It’s often during recovery, when they have the focus and energy to formulate a plan—to engage in an attempt.”

  Maybe he finally understood what he had done, I thought, how close he’d come to killing that child. Maybe he got a good look at how the rest of his life would be and wanted none of it.

  In my mind, when I pictured him hanging naked in the shower, his neck torqued at a severe and fatal angle, I imagined that he’d taken a marker and scrawled “The Dog and Pony Show” across his chest before he died. An apology of sorts. A last message to me that he’d tried but just couldn’t stomach the road ahead any longer. There was no evidence for this, of course, and even if he’d done such a thing, they never would’ve told me. Still, that was the image I pictured. I couldn’t help it.

  I’ve been sick for a long time, he’d told me. Long as I can remember. It gets better and worse, but it never goes away. Not completely. It’s a part of me, you know? Something I’ve got to deal with.

  Jason and I moved on in silence, both of us trapped in our private thoughts. I could still see the river far below us, the earth beyond the fence at this section of the property giving way to that great empty space. For a moment, I was out there, stepping into the abyss—could almost feel myself falling.

  We were nearing the front gate at the southern end when I felt something reach out and snatch at my leg. I stopped to look down, noted the tear in my pants. A piece of bramble clung to the fabric. There was no pain—not yet—but when I lifted the leg of my pants to inspect the wound I could see that the thorns had carved a deep gouge in the flesh.

  “You’re bleeding,” Jason noted, but I told him it was nothing—just a scratch, really.

  “We’re about done for the day, anyway. I’ll go inside and clean up,” I assured him. “There’s a bathroom next to my office.”

  Jason started to say something, then stopped, his mouth going slack.

 
“What do you mean ‘next to my office’?”

  I frowned, not understanding the point of his question. He knew the place I was referring to. We’d held several of our sessions there already.

  “Who are you?” he asked, but there was a guarded wariness to his expression, as if the answer he expected might be toxic. I could sense the paranoia radiating from his skin, the product of his disease.

  “I’m Lise Shields, your doctor,” I told him. It wasn’t clear if he was hearing me. The color was quickly draining from his face.

  “Tony,” I called over to the watchman’s booth. “I need help with this patient.”

  “What is it, Lise?” Tony asked, stepping toward us, radio in hand.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “Some type of reaction to the medication, maybe. I need you to stay with him for a minute while I get a stretcher.”

  I turned and walked briskly in the direction of the medical building. I’d increased the dosage of Jason’s medications too quickly, I realized. His body had not been able to handle it. It was not the first time I’d witnessed this in a patient, and unfortunately I did not think it would be the last. The human mind is a delicate creature, susceptible to many influences. The stability of the patients I treat here is tenuous. It is important to understand that from the beginning.

  Because there are individuals here who will never leave—who will never reside outside of these grounds. Their pathology runs too deep. They will never be restored to sanity, will never return to their former lives. And the danger, I am afraid—and the great tragedy for those who love them—is to cling to the hope that they will.

  Acknowledgments

  Let’s not confuse what is real from what is imagined. The Hiding Place is a work of fiction, and I’ve taken significant creative liberties in the portrayal of mental illness and the psychiatric institutions in this story. As with most diseases, symptoms vary depending on the individual, and the array of symptoms depicted within these pages are not necessarily representative of those experienced by most patients. It is also important not to lose sight of the human being attached to the disease, and I hope that I’ve done justice to that principle along the way. Likewise, the men and women who dedicate their lives to the treatment of people with mental illness provide a heroic and invaluable service to both patients and their families, and this story is not intended to suggest otherwise.

  Thanks goes to my wife, Lorie, who reads my early drafts, is aware of my many faults, and loves me anyway. Dr. Jay Menaker was kind enough to lend his name to the fictional psychiatric institution depicted in these pages, trusting my assurance that the choice bared no reflection on his own state of mind. My brilliant editor is Jessica Williams, who once again had an unfailing eye for what the story needed throughout its development, and was not shy—thank God—about challenging me to bring everything I had to the table. The publishing team at William Morrow continues to support me with their talent and enthusiasm, and my agent, Paul Lucas, is a Jedi Master in all things literary and provides me with sound advice and enough peace of mind that I can keep my attention focused where it should be.

  My usual support group came into play—as they always do—and the list includes so many friends, colleagues, and family members that I dare not even begin to list them for fear of adding another fifty pages to the end of this book. Suffice it to say that I am grateful for every one of you.

  This novel is dedicated to my parents, who are the polar opposite of the distant and emotionally absent parents depicted in the story. They’ve been in my corner since the very beginning, and I’ve tried to emulate them in many ways. Thanks, guys. For everything.

  And thanks to you, reader, for sharing your time and imagination—for joining me in this fictional world for a while. More than anything else, it’s your presence that makes it all worthwhile.

  John Burley

  August 1, 2014

  NO MERCY

  A harrowing tale of suspense, brutal murder and the dark secrets that lie beneath the surface of a placid, tight-knit town.

  Perfect for fans of Harlan Coben and Linwood Barclay, this is a page-turning thriller.

  Read on for an exclusive extract …

  This is not the beginning.

  Up ahead, a young man sporting jeans and a black T-shirt walks casually down the concrete sidewalk. He hums softly to himself as he ambles along, Nike-bound feet slapping rhythmically on the serpentine path he weaves through the late afternoon foot traffic. He is perhaps fifteen – not truly a young man yet, but certainly well on his way – and he walks with the energy and indifference of one who possesses the luxury of youth but not yet the experience to appreciate its value, or its evanescence.

  The predator watches the young man turn a corner, disappearing temporarily from view behind the brick exterior of an adjacent building. Still, he maintains a respectable distance, for although he has an instinct for how to proceed, he now relinquishes control to something else entirely. For as long as he can remember he has sensed its presence, lurking behind the translucent curtain of the insignificant daily activities of his life. The thing waits for him to join it, to embrace it – observes him with its dark and faithful eyes. But there are times – times like this – when it waits no longer, when the curtain is drawn aside and it emerges, demanding to be dealt with.

  The young man in the black T-shirt reaches the end of the street and proceeds across a small clearing. On the other side of the clearing is a modest thatch of woods through which a dirt trail, overgrown with the foliage of an early spring, meanders for about two hundred yards until it reaches the neighborhood just beyond.

  The predator picks up his pace, closing the distance between them. He can feel the staccato of his heart kick into third gear, where power wrestles fleetingly with speed. The thing that lives behind the curtain is with him now – has become him. Its breath, wet and heavy and gritty with dirt, slides in and out of his lungs, mixing with his own quick respirations. The incessant march of its pulse thrums along eagerly behind his temples, blanching his vision slightly with each beat. Ahead of him is the boy, his slender frame swinging as he walks, almost dancing, as if his long muscles dangled delicately from a metal hanger. For a moment, watching from behind as he completes the remaining steps between them, the predator is struck by the sheer beauty of that movement, and an unconscious smile falls across his face.

  The sound of his footsteps causes the boy to turn, to face him now, arms hanging limply at his sides. As he does, the predator’s left hand swings quickly upward from where it had remained hidden behind his leg a moment before. His hand is curled tightly around an object, its handle connected to a thin metal shaft, long and narrow and tapered at the end to a fine point. It reaches the pinnacle of its arcing swing and enters the boy’s neck, dead center, just below the jaw. A slight jolt reverberates through the predator’s arm as the tip of the rod strikes the underside of the boy’s skull. He can feel the warmth of the boy’s skin pressing up against the flesh of his own hand as the instrument comes to rest. The boy opens his mouth to scream, but the sound is choked off by the blood filling the back of his throat. The predator pulls his arm down and away, feeling the ease with which the instrument exits the neck.

  He pauses a moment, watching the boy struggle, studying the shocked confusion in his eyes. The mouth in front of him opens and closes silently. The head shakes slowly back and forth in negation. He leans in closer now, holding the boy’s gaze. The hand gripping the instrument draws back slightly in preparation for the next blow, then he pistons it upward, the long metal tip punching its way through the boy’s diaphragm and into his chest. He watches the body go rigid, watches the lips form the circle of a silent scream, the eyes wide and distant.

  The boy crumples to the ground and the predator goes with him, cradling a shoulder with his right hand, his eyes fixed on that bewildered, pallid face. He can see that the boy’s consciousness is waning now, can feel the muscles going limp in his grasp. Still, he tries to connect wi
th those eyes, wonders what they are seeing in these final moments. He imagines what it might feel like for the world to slide away at the end, to feel the stage go dark and to step blindly into that void between this world and the next, naked and alone, waiting for what comes after … if anything at all.

  The cool earth shifts slightly beneath his fingers, and in the space of a second the boy is gone, leaving behind his useless, broken frame. ‘No,’ the predator whispers to himself, for the moment has passed too quickly. He shakes the body, looking for signs of life. But there is nothing. He is alone now in the woods. The realization sends him into a rage. The instrument in his hand rises and falls again and again, wanting to punish, to admonish, to hurt. When the instrument no longer satisfies him, he casts it aside, using his hands, nails and teeth to widen the wounds. The body yields impassively to the assault, the macerated flesh falling away without conviction, the pooling blood already a lifeless thing. Eventually, the ferocity of the attack begins to taper. He rests on his hands and knees, drawing in quick, ragged breaths.

  Next time, I will do better, he promises the thing that lives behind the curtain. But when he turns to look the thing is gone, the curtain drawn closed once again.

  PART ONE

  The Young Man in the Black T-Shirt

  Chapter 1

  Although it was Friday evening, Ben Stevenson found the traffic along Sunset Boulevard heading west out of Steubenville particularly heavy during his commute home. Dr Coleman’s case had finished earlier than expected, and the last specimen of Mrs Granch’s partial thyroidectomy had been sent to the lab at 4:40 p.m. The surgically resected margins had been clear of cancer cells, and he’d placed a call to the OR.

  ‘OR Three,’ the circulating nurse’s voice answered at the other end.