by J. V. Speyer
“Santo Gelens?” Patricia curled her lip. “I busted him fifteen years ago. What the hell is he doing on trial again? He shouldn’t even be out on the street from the last time. Never mind. It’s not important right now. So we know who she is.”
“She’s from Chelsea.” Alex sat up a little bit. His color looked a little better now that he had some food in his stomach. “I don’t know if that’s helpful. I’m not from here. I’ve heard the name, but I don’t have any experience with that part of town other than showing up at the field office there sometimes.”
“It actually is helpful. I worked in Chelsea for years.” John pulled out his phone. “I still know a bunch of people there. And a lot of the beat cops there will answer questions for me. I remember the Hatch family. Her brother was a little shit.” He typed with his thumbs as he spoke, already sending messages.
“I’ll get on things with the EMS company.” Scott pulled out his phone. “They might have some insights.”
Kevin stared. Then he turned to Donovan. “Is it always this easy to get help?”
Donovan snorted. “Are you kidding? My little finger still sticks out funny from when Scotty broke it when we were nine and ten. And then he had the audacity to tell Mom I slammed it in the oven door.”
“It builds character, dear.” Patricia patted his hand. “Now. Let’s see the map. Donovan, why don’t you put Agent Morales to bed? He looks like he’s going to pass out right there.”
“I’m fine.” Alex sat up straighter. “Really. I can’t sleep until Luis is back with us.”
Donovan shook his head. “Alex, look. You’ve got a serious injury. You checked yourself out AMA. You need to take care of yourself if you want to be there for Luis when we do find him, okay? Come on. I’ll bring you upstairs.”
Donovan escorted Alex back up to the guest room, brought him his pain pills, and made sure he was as comfortable as he could be. Then he headed back downstairs.
Both of his brothers were on the phone with contacts who could help with the search. His mother and Kevin were bent over Kevin’s laptop, looking over a map of Massachusetts. Donovan smiled.
The situation was still pretty bleak. Luis was still out there in the wind, and Tammie Hatch could kill him at any moment. Now that Donovan’s family had gotten in on the search, Donovan couldn’t help but feel like they’d have him home at any minute.
Chapter Eight
Luis made a mental note never to walk around an abandoned mental hospital in the dark again. At least, he would never do so if he could possibly avoid it. Walking around this place hadn’t exactly been a choice. He’d found the elevator just fine. The elevator door, as with many elevators from the time when this place had been constructed, didn’t stand out from the rest.
Luis didn’t know where the actual elevator car was, but it wasn’t in its spot. And while Luis was definitely in the basement, apparently there was a subbasement. At least one. Maybe two. It was too dark for Luis to tell.
Lightfoot and Mike both caught him in time, before he could tumble down the shaft.
He stood there breathing deep for a few moments. Even though the basement was cold enough to store food, sweat dripped down his back.
Then he pulled himself together. Panicking wasn’t going to get him out of this place. He had to find his way out and get back to Donovan.
“Donovan must be worried sick.” He only spoke when he could do so without his voice shaking.
“That’s one way of putting it.” Lightfoot snorted. “It’s well yer friend Kevin was with him, otherwise him and poor wee Alex would be spinning themselves into oblivion fretting.” He reached out and took Millie’s hand. “I’d mock ye worse, lawman, but I suppose I can understand a mite better now. A mite, look ye.”
Millie let out a little laugh. “We’ll find a way of getting you out of here, Agent. Just you wait.” She pointed to another closed door. “There are stairs here.”
Luis took a breath and pushed the doors open. These were big solid doors—fire doors. Opening them could only make noise. “If we go back the other way, will we find a ramp leading to the outside?”
“Sure.” Millie giggled a bit. “You would, but she’s gone and nailed boards over the doors. Hyena Lady is a lot of things, but none of them are stupid.”
Luis bit back a curse. “Is it too much to ask for her to assume I’d drink the drugged water and be down for the count?” He shook his head and carefully pushed on the ancient fire doors.
They creaked. Of course they creaked. They didn’t creak as loudly as he’d expected though. He glanced quizzically at the hinges, and Lightfoot gave him a smirk and a wink. He chuckled to himself. He should have guessed his friends would have found some way to help.
The stairs were in bad shape, but Luis had expected that. He hadn’t expected to see the forms of developmentally disabled children running up and down the stairs, laughing or crying until they tripped and fell.
The ghosts didn’t seem to notice him, but they provided a thin pale kind of light that showed him where the risers were.
“They’re not really here. Just echoes, thank God.” Millie’s voice was subdued. She put a chilly hand on Luis’ arm. “Their families thought they were doing the best thing for them, leaving them here. They believed they’d get better care than could be provided at home. But there were so many.” She turned her head and looked away. “I tried to help.”
Lightfoot put a hand on her back. “I know you did, Millie.”
Luis couldn’t tear his eyes away. He knew the spirits he was seeing were residual, not sentient beings able to interact with him at all. And he knew the history of institutions like this. He couldn’t go back in time and change things. At the same time, these were children. They’d deserved better from everyone.
Sure, treatment options had been limited. Sure, people had listened to the experts. It didn’t take a higher degree to see that children were harmed.
He closed his eyes and made himself concentrate on the here and now. He had to focus if he wanted to survive this. He’d never forget seeing these children making what looked like a break for freedom or at least a break for fun, but he couldn’t help them. All he could do was put one foot in front of the other and get back to Donovan.
One benefit of the ghostly lighting was that Luis could see every hazard on the stairs. The linoleum covering the concrete risers had worn away in several places, which was fine as far as he was concerned. The occasional dead rat was more of a concern. Some had decayed to bone, but some were fresh enough to be a slip-and-fall hazard.
He’d never live it down if he wound up getting carried out of here on a stretcher because he slipped on a dead rat and hit his head. Assuming, of course, anyone could find here.
He made it up to the ground floor. There was no light, other than what his companions provided.
There had once been doors separating the stairwell from the main corridor. One of them lay on the ground, glass from the window smashed beyond all repair. At least Luis wouldn’t have to try to ease the doors open quietly. He stepped over the mess and into the hallway, making no more sound than any of the spirits with him.
Luis was at one end of the building. He knew freedom lay at the other end. “How many exits are there?” he whispered. “The sooner we can get out, the better.”
“Five, not counting windows.” Millie didn’t have to keep her voice down. Even if Hyena Lady were around the corner, she wouldn’t be able to hear Millie. “But this whole building has been boarded up for twenty years and more. The doors have been nailed shut, except for where Hyena Lady peeled them off.”
“Not concerned about fire safety, I guess.” Luis shrugged. “Awesome. Do we know which entrances she opened?”
“It looks like she’s been using the front.” Lightfoot pointed. Footprints stretched out in the light from his outstretched arm.
Hyena Lady was definitely prepared for her work. She seemed to be wearing good, solid work boots, or at least the treads visible
in the grime and dust suggested. He flexed his hands. He could, maybe, find her, take her down, and bring her in with him when he got out.
It was a nice mental image to hold. He wouldn’t be the loser who’d gotten kidnapped because he was too stupid to keep himself safe. Then he’d be the one who turned it around, made the arrest, came out smelling like roses.
Okay, it would have to be a metaphorical smell because everything connected with this place stank. But still.
He let himself bathe in the fantasy for a minute. Then, with no joy at all, he wadded it up and put it away. He had to prioritize getting back to Donovan. He had no way of knowing whether or not Hyena Lady was working with other people or what kind of training she had. He might want to wash away the shame of being helpless, but he couldn’t risk everything on his own ego. He could work on that wound later.
After a long bath.
He had to move slowly, both because he couldn’t afford to alert his captor to his mobility and because he didn’t want to outpace his light source. He stuck close to the wall, just in case, but when he put his hand on the wall itself he found slime and mold.
He didn’t try to use it to guide him again after that.
The voice of his father, dormant for several months now, put in an appearance. You always knew it would end like this, didn’t you? I mean, you’re locked up in an asylum, only the dead for company, and no one is coming to save you. You seriously think Donovan’s coming for you? He’s glad to be rid of you! God knows the Bureau’s long since done with you. They’re probably all drinking champagne together right now.
Luis visualized a cell door slamming shut on his father.
When he got out of here, he was going back to the office, getting that ring out of his drawer, and getting down on one knee. He might not even bother changing or showering first. He had a long list of things he hadn’t done yet, but he wasn’t going to let a minute go by without letting Donovan know how he felt. Donovan could say no. He very well might say no, and he’d probably be right to do so.
He still needed to know that Luis loved him that much.
Luis found another doorframe. Based on the size, it wasn’t the main entrance. The door was gone, like the one to the stairwell, so Luis could look inside.
It was another residual haunting. The dim light provided by the ghosts showed the remains of an office, strewn with papers and office supply containers. Luis hadn’t seen so many boxes of staples since he’d had a summer job at an office supply warehouse as a teenager.
His other eyes, the ones that saw the dead, saw a completely different scene. Superimposed over the chaos of a move was an orderly, almost elegant office. A doctor with a handlebar mustache that would have been comical under other circumstances sat at a desk across from a disheveled man with stubble and track marks all up his arm.
“This is your third attempt to rid yourself of narcotics, Mr. Richards. The court has commanded that you be confined to this institution until such time as you are free from your enslavement to heroin. I would dearly love to tell you this will be a matter of several months, but Mr. Richards, we both know you will never be free.”
The doctor gave Mr. Richards a thin-lipped smile, and an orderly appeared to guide the addicted man away.
Luis grimaced. Heroin addiction was difficult to beat even in the modern era, with modern therapy and medication-assisted treatment. A century ago, when this building had been built, that hadn’t been an option.
And based on Dr. Mustache’s commentary, they hadn’t wanted to do much but lock people up and throw away the key either.
“That’s how it was.” Mike spoke softly in his ear. “They had all kinds in here, back then. They didn’t separate us out either. You had guys like me—the criminal insane. You had guys like him. You had ladies like Millie. You had folks who had fits, and you had kids like the ones you saw, and you had them after they grew up. And we were all jumbled together. No one was going to get better. Not like that.”
“No.” Luis looked down. “No, they wouldn’t. It’s different now.”
“I’d hope so.” Mike chuckled. “But that’s why these places are all haunted. So much pain, and so many people who needed something they couldn’t get here. The staff couldn’t keep up.”
Boots slammed against linoleum. A bright flashlight pierced the darkness. Luis looked up.
“What the fuck?” A female voice, thick with sleep, cracked out from somewhere far too close to Luis. “How the hell are you even awake?”
Luis threw a punch in the general direction of the voice. He connected with something, but not hard enough to do much damage.
A heavy metal bar slammed into his face, sending him staggering into the slimy, moldy wall. Then the light shined directly into his eyes, blinding him.
“Son of a bitch.” The woman had one of the worst Boston accents Luis had ever heard.
He grabbed at the area he thought her wrists would be and hit pay dirt. He managed to force her to turn the flashlight away, but she broke out of his hold before he could take it from her.
“That’s it.”
The gunshot was deafening in the silence of the abandoned hospital.
Donovan jumped up when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, although the Miami area code was familiar enough even after all these years. He picked up after signaling to Kevin that he was taking a call from an unknown number.
It wasn’t as though phone numbers weren’t easy enough to fake.
“Lieutenant Carey.” He watched as Kevin started the device that would record any incoming calls. “Who’s calling, please.”
“Is this Donovan? This is Jose Perez, Luis’ foster dad.” The caller sounded like a wreck. Donovan heard a computerized female voice in the background, but he couldn’t quite understand what it was saying. “We haven’t met face-to-face, but I know we’ve spoken on the phone. It’s been a while though.”
Donovan swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember. How are you, sir?”
“I’ve had better days, to be honest. But I’m sure you have too. Look, I’m on the first flight to Boston. It doesn’t leave until eight, but I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”
A jolt of sheer terror shot up Donovan’s spine. “Sir, that’s not necessary. We’ve got the FBI field office, the state troopers, Boston PD, and pretty much every local agency in southern New England working on this.” He gulped.
“I’m sure you do, Lieutenant.” Jose’s voice cooled by several orders of magnitude. “What you don’t have is the only father Luis ever really had. I am already booked on that flight, you cannot keep me from that flight, and I will be at your front door whether or not you think it is necessary. Is that clear?”
Patricia appeared, as if by magic, and took the phone from Donovan. “This is Captain Patricia Carey, Boston PD. With whom am I speaking?” She paused, obviously letting Jose speak. “Captain Perez, it’s delightful to make your acquaintance. This is Donovan’s mother. I could wish we were meeting under better circumstances. I’ll apologize for my son. He was already dealing with the death of one of his detectives before all this hit, he’s badly sleep-deprived, and he’s not expressing himself the way he normally would. No, it’s not the way he’d normally want to meet his partner’s father. What can you do though?
“I’ll be honest with you, Jose. I’m hopeful that we’ll have Luis back safely before your plane lands. That said, I know he’ll be happy to have you here when we get him back, and I know we’ll all be thrilled to have you here one way or another.” She hung up and shook her head at Donovan.
“What?” Donovan didn’t need to ask, but he did anyway. Then he hung his head in shame.
John perked up from the kitchen, where he had his laptop open on the breakfast counter. “Looks like I’ve got a hit on the type of vehicle she might have used after she transferred your boy out of the ambulance.”
Kevin jumped up and jogged over to the kitchen, peering over John’s shoulder. “I took a look through RMV records e
arlier, and all I found was a beaten-up 1980 Honda Civic. No way she’d get a gurney into that. No way she’d get Luis into that, willing or no. My first car was one of those, and it was a tight fit for a sixteen-year-old.”
“That’s why I dug a little deeper, big guy.” John winked at Kevin. “Tammie Hatch might even be driving your discarded ’80 hatchback, but she’s got an uncle in Waltham who’s got one of those sweet shag vans. Ford Econoline, 1978. I asked a buddy to swing by the house and take a look-see, and it’s not on the premises.”
Kevin winced. “He didn’t have a warrant. He could have gotten us into a huge mess.”
John smirked and held up a finger. “One, you don’t need a warrant to look from the street. Two, said uncle has an open warrant for a probation violation. So when he popped out of the house, high as two skyscrapers stacked on top of one another and mad about even seeing a cop car on his street . . .”
Even Patricia cringed. “How bad was it?”
“Well, he got Janie to do the drive by. She doesn’t play, but she’s not going to mess around either. She got him in cuffs and on the ground in something like fifteen seconds.”
Donovan grinned and shook his head. Janie McInnes was a cousin. Her mother was Patricia’s sister. She was just barely tall enough to meet physical requirements to be a police officer, and she could take down a suspect in seconds without leaving any damage behind whatsoever.
“So he’s in custody? We can interview him?” Kevin was all but bouncing in place.
“Your boss, Agent Holcombe, put out an alert for information related to Luis’ disappearance. The sergeant in charge of this shift notified her. But it just so happens that he might have also asked a question. You know, during booking. Off the record, since Waltham’s favorite creepy uncle was so eager to know why a cop had been in the area in the first place.