by Kathy Reichs
It’s not every day that Bolton Prep’s most illustrious student is committed to a mental institution.
Psychiatric care facility, I should say. Chance had been a patient at Marsh Point Hospital since the shootout at Claybourne Manor three months earlier.
“Will he agree to see us?” Ben asked.
“Leave that to me.”
Nestled within a tangle of creeks, ponds, and meandering swampland, Wadmalaw Island is one of Charleston’s most bucolic districts. Quiet, pristine, and intensely rural, its acreage is some of the least developed in the Lowcountry.
Winding country roads criss-cross the landscape, which is lined with family farms and roadside produce stands. The local population is sparse: most residents are farmers, fishermen, and employees of America’s only active tea plantation.
With only a single bridge connecting Wadmalaw to the outside world, conditions were perfect for the island’s most discrete tenant.
We drove north to the Maybank Highway, then headed southeast across Johns Island. Minutes later we crossed to Wadmalaw and followed signs toward Rockville. Several miles before the small village, Ben turned right onto a narrow private drive.
“Guardhouse,” he warned. “Dead ahead.”
Three officers sat inside a roadside booth, each wearing a firearm, their attention focused on a small TV. We stopped at the gate and waited.
Finally, a guard peeled his eyes from the screen, emerged, and walked to the driver’s-side window. Bald, paunchy, and well past forty, the guy’s name tag announced him as Officer Mike Brodhag.
“Name?” Bored, and slightly annoyed.
“Tory Brennan,” I answered from the passenger seat.
“ID?”
I handed over my Bolton Prep library card.
Brodhag’s gaze shifted to Hi and Shelton in the backseat before returning to me. Everyone was wearing a Bolton Prep uniform.
“State your business.”
“We represent the Bolton Academy student council,” I said cheerily. “We’re here to present Chance Claybourne with this year’s Human Spirit Award.”
Brodhag appeared unimpressed. “Do you have an appointment with someone on the medical staff?”
“I spoke to a—” quick glance at my notes, “—Dr. Javier Guzman. He’s expecting us.”
Brodhag retreated to the guardhouse and picked up a telephone.
“Human Spirit Award?” Hi whispered. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. And why would we give it to a lunatic?”
“Shhh.” My eyes stayed on Brodhag. “I thought something official-sounding would be more likely to get us inside.”
Brodhag cradled the receiver and returned with a yellow guest pass.
“Proceed directly to the building and park in a visitor’s spot.” Monotone. “Do not stop along the way. Display this tag in your vehicle at all times.”
We rolled forward through dense swampland. Massive ferns and droopy willow trees crowded the driveway, creating a natural tunnel. The air was thick with the smell of stagnant water and the buzz of flying insects.
Twenty yards down the blacktop the shoulders dropped away and the road became a bridge across a shallow tidal lake. Reeds and bulrushes rose from the water. Tricolored herons searched for food on long, spindly legs.
“Prime gator country,” Ben said. “Look at those sandbars.”
Dry land reappeared a few hundred yards ahead. Stretched across it, on the crest of a small rise, was a massive building that looked like a medieval nightmare.
“The grounds are an island within an island,” Shelton said. “Creepy.”
“You couldn’t design better security,” said Hi. “This road must be the only way in or out.”
Another quarter mile brought us to the hospital itself. Three stories tall and built completely of stone, the brooding monstrosity was a moat and drawbridge short of being a full-blown castle.
Ben parked in a gravel lot beside the main entrance. A smiling dark-haired man stood before the front doors. I guessed his age at maybe thirty-five.
“Let me do the talking,” I whispered.
“No problem,” Hi said. “I couldn’t sell this Human Spirit garbage if I tried.”
Dr. Javier Guzman was a compact man with bronze skin and a neatly trimmed black goatee. Old-fashioned spectacles sat high on a thin nose. Behind them was a pair of intelligent brown eyes.
“Miss Brennan?” Spoken with a slight Spanish accent.
“A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Guzman.”
Guzman’s smile revealed dazzling white teeth. “The pleasure is mine. Welcome to Marsh Point Psychiatric Hospital. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“You’re welcome.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but didn’t let that stop me. “The council is excited to bestow its award upon such a worthy recipient.”
Guzman nodded seriously. “For a while I worried that Bolton Prep would sweep Mr. Claybourne under the carpet, so to speak. I’m pleased to learn I was wrong.”
Totally lost. But I bounced Guzman’s smile right back at him.
“We are thinking of allowing him regular visitors soon,” Guzman said. “I think a school delegation such as yours is an excellent starting point. Please come inside.”
“Chance hasn’t had any visitors?” I asked as we passed through the main lobby.
“None. His father is in prison, and, frankly, a major cause of Mr. Claybourne’s psychological rift to begin with. He has no other family to speak of.”
Despite all he’d done, I could empathize with Chance. I know what it’s like to feel completely alone.
“There’s a long road ahead,” Guzman continued. “Of course, professional ethics prohibit me from discussing the particulars of Mr. Claybourne’s condition, but I’ve grown convinced that he’s neither suicidal nor a danger to others. His main issues appear to be ones of trust.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said.
“Mr. Claybourne has been largely isolated since his breakdown.” Guzman led us up a flight of marble steps. “The catatonia subsided some time ago, but he only recently resumed speaking. I’m hoping some friendly faces will spur him to seek more human interaction.”
Friendly faces? I had no clue how Chance would react to our visit. He’d been humiliated and locked away as a direct result of my actions. He might flip the frick out.
My pulse quickened. Too late for second thoughts now.
We entered a bright, airy room with pastel walls. Art supplies filled one corner. Easels. Paints. Stacks of blank canvas. Circular tables sat in casual disarray beneath a row of large bay windows. The space had a happy, optimistic feel.
“This is our artist’s retreat,” Guzman said. “Mr. Claybourne spends a great deal of his time here, so I thought it would be a comfortable meeting place.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I began to sweat. Awesome.
“I can only allow two of you to meet with the patient.” Guzman wore a pained expression. “I’m terribly sorry, but he’s not ready for a larger group at this time. There’s a bench in the hallway where the others can wait.”
“We understand completely.” Shelton.
“I wouldn’t dream of endangering a patient’s recovery.” Hi.
The two beelined back out of the room.
I glanced at Ben, who nodded.
“Ben and I will handle the presentation.”
“Wonderful.” Guzman gestured to one of the tables. “Please have a seat. Mr. Claybourne will arrive in a moment.”
“You’re not staying?”
Though it caught me off guard, this was a lucky break. I hadn’t worked out how to question Chance in front of his doctor.
“I think it best if you talk unaccompanied by medical staff.” Guzman’s face went serious. “Mr. Claybourne is highly suspicious. I’m hoping time alone with friends will be beneficial.”
Friends. That word again. I swallowed hard.
“I hope so, too.”
> “I’ll return in five minutes.” Guzman’s heels clicked sharply as he strode from the room and down the main hallway.
Seconds later, Chance ambled in through a rear door. He was wearing navy sweatpants and a gray Bolton lacrosse tee. Dark crescents hung below his piercing, deep brown eyes. A scraggily beard clung to his chin.
No matter. Even in nuthouse garb, the guy was freaking gorgeous.
Chance was grinning as if remembering a joke and trying not to laugh. He made it two steps before seeing me.
He froze. His eyes locked on mine. Then his head moved slowly from side to side.
Chance’s gaze flicked to Ben. Returned. Crossing to the table, he sat, leaned back in his chair, and regarded me.
An awkward silence ensued.
Eventually, I had to break it.
“On behalf of the students of Bolton Academy,” I began, “we are honored to present you with this year’s—”
“Stop.” Never taking his eyes from me, Chance pointed at Ben. “Leave.”
Ben snorted. “Piss off, Claybourne.”
Chance’s jaw tightened. “Leave. Now.”
“Go, Ben,” I whispered. “We don’t have much time.”
Ben hesitated, then stood and strode from the room. Chance never glanced in his direction.
I started again. “On behalf of the students—”
“Give it a rest,” Chance said. “The Human Spirit Award? I only agreed to this farce because I wanted to see who was yanking Guzman’s chain. I’ll admit, you surprised me.”
“I needed to talk. It worked.”
“Like my new home?” Chance waved an arm. “I always wanted to live in a castle. Does it count if I’m a prisoner?”
“You’re not a prisoner,” I said. “You’re a patient.”
“I can’t leave, so what’s the difference?” He winked. “But at least I dodged jail.”
“Don’t worry, charges will be waiting when you’re deemed mentally fit.”
“You think so? I doubt the DA will bother pursuing a few petty misdemeanors. They already got the big fish.” Chance smirked. “Otherwise, I could be looking at six whole months of probation. Not sure I could bear it.”
“So this is all a big act? You’ve got them all fooled?”
“Of course.” The dark eyes narrowed. “I’m not crazy. I was stressed for a bit, I admit, but I’m much better now. Sound as a pound.”
Despite the bravado, Chance seemed edgy. His hands darted from place to place. One foot tapped incessantly, as if on its own accord.
“Take advantage of the rest,” I said diplomatically. “I remember that night. After what Hannah—”
Chance slammed the table with both fists.
“Do NOT mention that name!”
I jumped back, astonished by the outburst. Ben charged back into the room.
“It’s okay!” I waved Ben away. “Watch the hall.”
Ben looked hard at Chance, withdrew.
“Why are you here, anyway?” Chance was examining his nails. I noticed the cuticles were red and raw.
“Fifteen years ago, Hollis Claybourne bought an artifact at auction.” I chose my words carefully. “I thought you might know something about it.”
“My father buys lots of artifacts. I can’t possibly recall every one.”
“He purchased a rare Celtic cross. It’s distinctive. The top portion curves to the right.”
Chance paused, as if weighing possible answers. “Why do you want it?”
“So you do remember the cross?” I pressed.
Chance folded his arms. “Why should I help you? I’m in here because of you.”
“That’s not true, Chance.” I spoke quietly, but firmly. “Think what you like of me personally, but you know I’m not responsible for … this.”
Chance opened his mouth, seemed to change his mind.
“This cross,” he said. “You need it for some reason?”
“Yes.” No point being coy.
“I remember it. Even better, I know where it is.”
“Will you tell me?”
“So you can steal it?” He chuckled. “No Tory, I’ve seen firsthand your lack of respect for Claybourne family property.”
Chance leaned forward. “But I’ll do you one better. I’ll take you to it.”
“Take me?” I didn’t like where this was going. “How can you do that?”
“Because I’m leaving.” A wicked gleam danced in his eyes. “You and your pals are going to help me escape.”
DEBATE RAGED ON our drive home.
“No way.” Ben passed the guardhouse and turned onto the highway. “Chance is a total ass-clown. Why should we help him?”
“Because he can deliver Bonny’s cross,” I said. “He can actually take us to it.”
“Chance isn’t a map you can stuff down your pants,” Shelton argued from the backseat. “How would we spring him? That place is a fortress.”
“In the middle of a lake,” Ben added.
Hi poked his head between the front seats. “The staff will notice the minute he’s gone. Then Guzman will put two and two together and call Bolton. And the police.”
“We aren’t student council,” Ben said. “And you used your real name.”
No reminder necessary. If we helped Chance, I was almost certain to get caught. It was a desperation move.
“Why can’t Chance just run away?” Shelton asked.
“The only road out leads past that guardhouse,” I said. “Not that it matters, because he doesn’t have a car.”
“He’d be legitimately crazy to try the marshes on foot.” Hi shuddered. “They must be crawling with alligators. Might as well wrap yourself in bacon.”
“A fortress,” Shelton repeated. “We can’t get a car past the guardhouse, either.”
“Plus, how can we trust him?” Ben aimed the question at me. “He’s a whacko.”
“We did just leave an insane asylum,” Hi agreed. “For all we know, Chance spends his nights dancing naked with sock puppets, plotting to invade Canada.”
“I don’t think so.” I raised a hand to forestall Hi’s reply. “Chance is emotional, and definitely has issues, but he isn’t nuts. Just … upset. And maybe a little scared. You heard Guzman say he’s not a danger to anyone.”
“Then Chance is playing us.” Shelton changed tack. “He’s probably never even seen Bonny’s cross. Did you ask him to describe it?”
“There was no time.” Shoot.
“Guzman said we’re his first visitors.” Shelton wouldn’t let it go. “Chance would’ve said anything to get our help.”
We rode several miles in silence, reached James Island, and turned south onto Folly Road. Twenty-five minutes from home.
I made my choice. “Until we translate Bonny’s poem, the cross is our only lead. Chance holds all the cards. I’m willing to risk it.”
At first, no one responded.
“Suppose we decided to help Chance,” Ben said slowly. “How would we do it?”
It was the opening I needed.
“We do it our way,” I said. “No guardhouse, no bulky SUV.”
“Crap!” Hi was peering out the back window. “Crap crap crap!”
“What?” Hi’s melon head blocked my sight line. “Was there a wreck?”
“Red Studebaker! Three cars back.”
“Are you sure?” Ben punched the accelerator. “Is it following?”
As I turned, a red wagon darted into the left lane, passed two vehicles, and swerved back to avoid an oncoming truck. Horns blared in protest.
“It’s keeping pace!” Shelton was staring out the back window. “Not good!”
“How long has it been there?” Ben’s eyes shifted between his mirrors and the road. “Since the hospital?”
“No idea,” Hi said. “I just noticed.”
We crossed the Intracoastal Waterway and entered Folly Beach, then turned left on Ashley. Ben slowed as we passed through the busy residential area.
; “The wagon’s following!” Shelton exclaimed.
Traffic thinned as we neared the northern edge of town. Ahead lay nothing but a long strip of beach houses and the crossing to Morris Island.
“Still there.” Hi’s voice was up an octave. “The windows are tinted. I can’t see inside.”
“There’s zero chance that car just happened to be headed this way,” Shelton said. “None.”
Water now bordered both sides of the narrow street. There were fewer than a dozen beach homes ahead, and beyond them only the unmarked pavement to our little enclave.
“Summer Place Lane is the last turnoff,” Ben said, as we drove past it.
I held my breath.
The Studebaker stuck to our tail.
Everyone groaned.
Ben pulled into the cul-de-sac at the end of the state road. The unlined blacktop leading to Morris Island began just ahead. A yellow sign warned: Private Property—No Outlet.
If the Studebaker followed, it could have only one destination.
Ben pulled onto Morris Island’s private drive, rolled a dozen yards, and stopped. “I want the driver to know we see him.”
Four sets of eyes watched the Studebaker roll into the cul-de-sac. Stop. Idle. Rev its engine.
Seconds ticked by. We hardly dared breathe.
Then the Studebaker circled back the way it came.
Sighs of relief filled the 4Runner.
“Did anyone get a look at the driver?” I asked.
Head shakes. The windows were too dark.
We drove the last mile in hushed uneasiness. Had the wagon been stalking us? My brain was too exhausted to focus.
At dawn, I’d dragged myself out of Charleston Harbor. Then I’d visited the bunker, haggled with Dr. Short, talked to Aunt Tempe, and faced Chance in a mental hospital. All on less than two hours’ sleep.
“Guys,” I yawned. “It’s time to call it a day.”
Coop greeted me at the door.
My luck was holding—Kit wasn’t home. Thank the Lord for small favors.
Collapsing into bed, I nearly whimpered with pleasure. I planned to sleep forever.
Then my cell exploded. I ignored the first three rings, pretended it wasn’t happening.
“Blaaaaargh!”