by Rob Cornell
I grabbed a cookie and chomped. With my mouth full, I asked again, “What kind of favor?”
Devon took his own cookie, shrugged, and took a bite. “That,” he said with his own mouth full of sweet, sweet magic, “will be up to you guys.”
Chapter 18
Devon connected with his “guy” through the net, of course, and his connection suggested I meet him in two days. I didn’t want to wait, but I also had nowhere else to go where I could get a fake identity good enough to admit myself into Sunnygale under false pretenses. False pretenses tended to make people mad. Including those in a position to snag my PI license if they so desired.
At least, under an assumed name, I could check in and check out, and any sense of fraud or misconduct would belong to someone who did not exist.
A fool’s plan, I know. But if Peter Brown was in that hospital, I felt a nose-to-the-grindstone need to get to him. This feeling meant the case had successfully possessed me. Wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. What it did suggest was that I’d close out this case one way or another.
Two days later, a couple hours after the noon lunch rush, I sat in the back booth of a Big Boy, sipping a root beer and munching on a plate of french-fries with ranch dressing to dip them in. I felt like I deserved the splurge right before I planned on getting myself locked up. I doubted mental hospital food was any better than regular hospital food.
I checked my watch. I had spent about fifteen minutes after getting my fries eating, listening to the clank and shouts from the kitchen, and staring at random patrons while I played that game where I tried to guess what their lives were like. Devon’s “guy,” whom I now knew as Patriot X—like he was a frigging spy or something—spent ten of those fifteen running late.
I didn’t let a little tardiness bother me. I had my root beer and fries. I just hoped he actually showed and delivered.
Five minutes later, I ate my last fry and a guy came huffing around the corner. He had chocolate skin and a round face that made him look like a little boy if not for the three-hundred pounds he carried around his waist and through his legs. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder. A nice Eddie Bauer that would probably last twenty years. Probably outlive him if he kept on that much weight.
He scanned the patrons of the back half of the restaurant until his eyes found me with my empty plate and glass. He trudged straight over, breathing as if he’d run from Detroit to this Big Boy in the Hawthorne suburbs. That’s about a two-hour drive for those counting.
As he came, he unzipped his backpack, pulled a manila envelope from inside, and by the time he reached my table had the envelope ready to drop next to my plate. “We’re good,” he said, and started to turn.
“Wait a sec,” I said.
He turned back, rolling his eyes as if he’d heard it all.
“Don’t I owe you for these?”
“That’s right,” Patriot X said. “And I know your number, I know where you live, and I know who you roll with. When the time comes, you’ll give me what I need.”
“That’s a lot of tough talk from a guy who can barely keep his breath coming in from the parking lot.” I didn’t really want to get into it with him, but I also couldn’t make a habit of rolling over when another dog wanted to play alpha. Sends the wrong kind of message. “Why don’t we just settle the account now?”
“Only way of doing it now is you give me back that envelope.”
We weren’t yelling or anything, but those sitting nearby could sense the tension in our talk. We started drawing gazes.
I drew my wallet, opened it so he could see the large amount of cash inside—which I carried only because I thought I’d have to pay this guy something for the docs—and said, “Why don’t I pay for my meal and we can settle up our debt out in the parking lot.”
Patriot X snorted. I’d have bet my left testicle he had sleep apnea and sounded snorty-like that all night.
He dug into his pocket, pulled out the mother of all bankrolls, clipped together with a gold money clip adorned with, I shit you not, a diamond the size of a molar. I couldn’t begin to guess how much money was in there, but I caught a glimpse of Grover Cleveland and some zeroes. If the whole roll contained thousands, that clip held and least a hundred grand.
He threw the whole wad, clip and all, onto the table. “That’s mine,” he said. “But you can keep it. I got plenty more at home.”
So do I, I was about to say. I didn’t see the point in getting wrapped up over who had more money. Especially since I suspected it was him. Doing illegal things tended to pay off well for those who knew what they were doing.
I picked up the cash clip and held it out for him.
He looked at it as if considering not to take it back. A second passed before he took it and shoved it back into his pocket.
“What are my choices again?” I asked.
“Give it back,” he replied, nodded toward the envelope, “or do a favor for me at some point in the future.”
“I’m not a criminal. I won’t break the law for you.”
He smiled, showing yellow, broken teeth. His massive shoulders bounced as he laughed. “Course not, sugar, so long as the Patriot X can break it for you.”
More gazes snuck glances at us. Time to wrap this up.
I looked down at the envelope. I thought about Peter, who’d probably learned of his daughter’s suicide from the TV or one of the employees at the hospital—if he knew about it at all. I thought of Sasha, body cold on the snow drift.
“We’re agreed,” I said. “Nothing illegal.”
Patriot X held his finger and thumb an inch apart. “Just a tiny, legal favor.”
I threw some bills on the table to cover the food, grabbed the envelope, and slid out of the booth. By this time, the glances weren’t so furtive. Some people outright stared at us, although those sitting behind where Patriot X stood would have no sight of me on the opposite side of his girth.
I had to wait until he stepped aside to fit past him through the aisle.
I could feel his stare like the laser light on a sniper scope right in the middle of my back.
* * *
The documents looked good. Scary good. If I didn’t know any better, I would have believed this was my birth certificate, that was my driver’s license, these were really my utility bills featuring not only my fake name, but fake address, too. And, of course, they all matched up. I doubted I’d need it all. But better to have too much than too little.
I couldn’t get rid of the queasy twirl in my gut about the mysterious “favor” I owed and would one day have to pay up to Patriot X. It also slightly bothered me that Devon would hook me up with someone who had to be a gangster. Dev couldn’t claim ignorance with his super-powered background checks.
I sat in my car in the Big Boy parking lot, going through the documents, engine and heat running. I separated out what I figured I’d need for sure and put the rest in the glove box. From Big Boy I drove straight to Sunnygale.
The last couple days I’d spent killing time filling out paperwork and sorting files, I had time to think about what I was doing. I got real with myself. Could have starred in my own talk show, where I played both host and guest.
What made you decide to take this case?
Sasha Brown.
What about Sasha? Did you find her attractive?
She was nearly fifteen years younger than me. Besides, she was pretty, but not attractive. Not to me, anyway. It had nothing to do with her appearance. It didn’t even have as much to do with her singing voice as I thought it had initially.
Sasha represented something. An illness unrecognized. Someone who seemed to have her whole life ahead of her but didn’t agree with that assessment. Why? What drove her to that end? And had there been any way to save her?
Because that’s what it came down to. Even though I was hired to find her father. Even though she was already dead and put in the ground as of yesterday. I wanted to save Sasha Brown. I couldn’t bring her back. But
I could save her.
Save her memory.
Save her place in her family’s hearts.
Save the sound of her precious voice in my mind until long after I forgot the sound of my own.
Palmer had felt it, too. If I got him drunk enough, he’d probably go off on some nonsensical tirade like I had for the past days, buried in my own thoughts, turning down all other work, giving the trio minor, false updates, so they wouldn’t have to know I was bending the rules a bit.
A bit?
More than a bit. A lot.
And why?
I already told you why.
* * *
From the outside, Sunnygale looked like any other hospital, only smaller. The entire facility consisted of a three-story building with mirrored windows, making it impossible to see inside. A blacktopped parking lot wrapped around one side of the building. On either side, other office buildings cast shadows from both east and west, denying the hospital the real-life essence of its name—the sun. Should have been more like Shadowgale.
Probably wouldn’t do much for PR, though.
I parked in the lot and caught a whiff what smelled like a burnt grilled cheese coming from somewhere in the building. It made my already nervous stomach more twitchy. Then I thought of Patriot X’s yellow, broken smile and his bouncing ham-hock shoulders.
This all better be worth getting locked up for a minimum of three days.
Three days was the stipulated mandatory minimum stay at Sunnygale. Their way of making sure you make the decision to leave while sober and not in the middle of a manic rage. Just a small way of making the revolving door nature of the place revolve a little slower.
I entered through the front door carrying a small duffel with clothes and my toothbrush, which, when I’d called ahead, was recommended I carry in with me if I could. I had considered going on a bender the night before to sell my story better. But a hangover could have also made me sloppy, turning a straight story into a disjointed and obvious lie.
I decided to go in like I imagined Peter had—on his own volition, packed, and ready to seek out the help he needed.
Of course, I had no way to know if that’s how he came in. (If he came in at all.)
Check-in was simple. Since I’d called ahead, they were expecting me. They took my duffle away. They asked that I undress in front of an orderly so that he could go through my clothes and make sure I wasn’t carrying any drugs or sharp objects. Once he’d done that, I got dressed and spent about an hour and a half going through an orientation process that involved copious amounts of paperwork to fill out and sign.
My wrist ached by the time it was done. Especially since I had to be careful not to accidentally sign Brone when my new papers had christened me Shultz. David Shultz.
I was shown to my room, which had three beds no bigger than army cots. One of them was occupied by a shape completely covered by the scratchy looking blanket he had pulled over his head. Occasionally the shape would moan.
“Ricky,” the orderly escorting me shouted. “Lights out ain’t till ten. You got plenty of time yet. Why not try the TV room?”
The shape under the blankets, Ricky, answered with a higher-pitched moan, then fell silent.
The orderly sighed. “Anyway, these are your new digs for the next few days, at least. But I can tell you’ll probably leave sooner than later.” He pointed to the corner of his eyes. “I’ve got the sight.” He gripped my arm and gave it a small squeezed. “Group is in thirty. Make sure you’re there. We’ll get you introduced around.”
“Are the addicts and the…others…all together?”
“That’s how we roll around here. Most the time mental illness and addiction cross over. We do a lot of DBT here, which is good for both. The docs will clear you up on things. No worries.”
With that, the orderly turned and left me standing in the sweat-smelling room on my own. I had my pick of two beds. I took the one furthest from my roommate, the one by the window with the bars on the inside. I dropped my duffle on the bed and sat on its edge, staring out the window.
I chewed on my thumbnail—something I hadn’t done since I kicked the nail-biting habit in middle school. The walls of my room felt close, so close I could feel my breath cycle back to me, bitter and hot. The bars on the window mocked me, dared me to try and pull them free, smash the window, and jump. I had taken the elevator to the third floor after my orientation, but somehow I’d survive the drop, somehow I’d land on my feet, running away from this place.
I heard a rap on the room’s open door, and looked over my shoulder. The orderly stood in the doorway, blocking most of the light coming from the hallway. “Group time.”
I checked my wrist, but they had confiscated my watch for the duration of my stay, and I found only a lighter shade of skin in the shape of the watch. I rubbed at the spot.
How much time had passed with me just staring out the window?
I had an amusing thought.
Maybe I do belong here.
God knows I could have used at least some therapy after what happened with Autumn a few years back. Instead, I had thrown myself into my work, both as the bar’s owner and my investigation work. No time to think, worry, or regret. I did what I knew would help me survive.
Maybe I ended up doing more damage.
I nodded to the orderly and stood. As I crossed the room, I gestured toward the lump named Ricky on his bed. “What about him?”
“We’re letting him sit this one out. He’s had a hard day.”
I reached the doorway and the orderly immediately headed away from the room down the hall, expecting me to follow.
I had to take a few extra steps to catch up. “What’s wrong with him?”
“For me, that’s info I can’t give. You should ask him yourself, though. He’s a lesson straight from God about all we take advantage of.”
The God talk made my internal sonar ping. Based on what I had gathered about Peter, he didn’t have much love for the religious anymore. I couldn’t remember seeing any indication that this was a religious-based facility, but I wasn’t looking at it from that angle, either.
Would Peter check himself into such a place if it were?
As we walked down the hall, passing an office area enclosed in glass with that chicken wire reinforcement in the glass, reminding me of an observatory—come look at the crazy people from the safety of our impenetrable glass cube—I noticed the crucifix hanging on the wall inside the office/observatory.
“Who funds Sunnygale?” I asked.
“Besides the insurance companies that agree to cover mental health issues? We got our start from the Church of Nazareth. Used to be this place did as much prayer as they did prescribe drugs, but times change.”
“So it’s a Christian hospital?”
He stopped walking.
Up and down the hall a few people shuffled toward a room, each of them disappearing through the doorway. Lots of folks dressed in pajamas and robes even at four in the afternoon.
The orderly turned to me. “Is that a problem?”
“Is there a heavy focus on using religion to help the patients?”
“No one can be saved without God. But if you’re worried that we just try to pray people to health, that’s not how we roll.”
The orderly was a large guy. I was fast and had lean muscle. I could probably take him if I stayed alert. But the second he got his big hands on me, I wouldn’t last long. I wasn’t trying to start a fight, though. I dropped the topic there, figuring I’d learn more once I experienced “group,” which I assumed meant group therapy.
The room everyone staggered into probably would have served better as a closet. But the hospital had made it work. A round table sat in the center of the room, plastic chairs circling the table close together in order to fit a dozen seats at the table. In order to get around to an empty seat on the far side from the room’s entrance, I had to press my back against the cinderblock wall and scoot sideways behind those already seated.
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I squeezed into a seat and surveyed my surroundings.
Besides the room’s close quarters, it also smelled like a first grade classroom—a mix of disinfectant, glue, and a sticky sweetness. Some of this may have come from the only other furniture in the room, a plastic shelving unit against the wall with plastic drawers transparent enough to see the craft supplies inside.
Tools for art therapy, I guessed.
Eight of the dozen chairs were occupied when a man in a sweater vest and tie scooted around the table and joined us, making the total nine. He had closed the door on his way in, and already the temperature in the room had ticked up a couple degrees. The snow and cold didn’t sound so bad to me now.
I checked every face in that room, but none of them was Peter.
“So let’s get started, shall we?”
“Is this everybody?” I asked.
The man in the sweater vest lifted his eyebrows, bringing them above his stylishly small glasses. “Are we expecting another?”
“I thought everybody had to come to group?” I felt I could play it a little belligerent, seeing as I was supposed to be an addict or mentally ill or both.
“We encourage group. No one is obligated, though.”
If Peter wasn’t here, I had no reason to stay. “In that case…” I stood, looked across the room to the door on the other side, then the lack of a clear path around the table to get there easily without asking five people to scoot their chairs in and sit under the table.
The man with sweater vest, who I assumed was some kind of therapist or another, held his hands out. “Why don’t you stay? You’re our newest guest, correct?”
“‘Guest’ might not be the right word.”
“I understand you checked yourself in.”
“I did.”
“You obviously came here for a reason.” He gestured to the chair I’d stood from. “Have a seat. Group therapy is truly much less painful than they make it out to be.”
Only, I didn’t need to be here. I didn’t need therapy. I needed Peter Brown, for fuck’s sake.
“Please,” the therapist said.