Zach breathed a bit easier once he was on the street—and out of the confines of that slightly dilapidated courtyard, where his assailant had set traps for him twice already. Zach headed down the sidewalk at a brisk clip.
For a moment, he couldn’t see his car, and he slowed down. But then he realized his VW Bug was hidden in back of a big, old VW minibus. The other Volkswagen hadn’t been there before.
Zach took another look over his shoulder, then continued toward his car. He reached into his pocket for the keys. Just as he passed by the minibus, he saw someone out of the corner of his eye. Zach spun around.
All at once, the little man grabbed him by the collar. The guy was almost a head shorter than him. Zach felt a surge of adrenaline rush through him. He drew back his fist and slugged the guy in the face.
The balding, muscular man barely flinched. “Fucker!” he growled.
All of a sudden, Zach felt something slam into his crotch. The little ape-of-a-guy had just kneed him in the groin. Zach could barely comprehend anything else beyond the excruciating pain. Doubling over, he tried to get a breath. He thought he might pass out.
“Hey, kitty, kitty, kitty,” he heard the man say, followed by a low cackle.
Zach heard a car door opening. The man grabbed him by the hair. Still bent over in pain, Zach automatically moved where he was being led—into the back of the VW minibus. He couldn’t see anything, and he still couldn’t breathe. The man threw him on the floor of the backseat.
“There you go, kitty-cat.”
Zach hit the floor with a thud that was mere muted pain compared to the utter agony overwhelming him. But his vision started to right itself, and he saw what was piled beside him in the back of the old minibus. His assailant had a shovel, a pick, a pair of thick rubber gloves, and a minidrum labeled with a hazardous material warning Zach couldn’t quite read. But he was able to focus on the product name:
E-Z CHEM Lime Solution.
Zach realized it was for him—or rather, for his burial.
Unlike the others before him, he wouldn’t be the victim of an accident, or a suicide, or a murder. No, he would simply disappear. A shovel, pick, and one gallon of lime solution would help make that happen.
Zach let out a cry of protest. He tried to pull himself off the floor of the minibus. He saw the ape-faced man snarling at him. His lip was bleeding, and Zach figured he must have done that to him. The little man had something in his hand. It looked like a blackjack. “Shut the fuck up!” he growled.
Zach recoiled. He saw the leather-cased little weapon coming at him. It was the last thing he glimpsed before he fell back against the minibus’s floor. Then it was only blackness—and one more sound.
“There now,”
he heard the man say through the thick darkness.
“There now, kitty-cat.”
“Okay, it’s noon, and this is my second message for you. I’m officially worried.”
Bridget was dressed in a black suit with a white silk blouse and pearls. The outfit smacked of affluence and good pedigree—the kind of qualities she hoped would help her get her foot in the door at Glenhaven Hills.
She was on the phone in the kitchen, throwing some last-minute things into her purse. “So where are you?” she continued—onto Zach’s machine. “We were supposed to meet here at my house a half hour ago. Anyway, Zach, I need to leave now if I expect to make it to Olympia by two. Don’t worry about me going alone. Scott, the private detective on duty here, he’s driving me. I’ll be all right. I’m just worried about you. Call my cell—or my house—as soon as you get this message. I’ll keep checking in. Please, let me know you’re okay.”
Bridget clicked off the phone. She threw on her trench coat, grabbed her purse, hurried out the door, and double-locked it behind her.
“I’ll ride shotgun,” she told Scott, who was opening the back passenger door for her. “Unless you want me in back.”
“Up front’s fine,” he said, shutting one door and opening the other for her.
“Thanks, Scott.” She paused before climbing inside the white Taurus. “Promise me again, you won’t tell my brother about this trip to Olympia.”
“I said I wouldn’t, and I won’t,” he replied, unsmiling.
“Good, thanks.” She ducked into the passenger side.
Once they started on the road, she asked if he could swing by an address in the Hawthorne District. Bridget had only been to Zach’s apartment once, but she was able to give Scott accurate directions.
Within fifteen minutes, she was walking up the courtyard of the apartment complex. Scott was at her side. Bridget knocked on Zach’s door and rang the bell. She tried the door. Locked. She even peeked into the front window, but she didn’t see anything suspicious.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” Scott said. “But if you want to make it to Olympia by two, we’re already running pretty late right now.”
She took a piece of paper out of her purse and scribbled on it:
Where are you? Call me—B. 12:20.
She stuck the slip of paper between the door and its frame.
Returning to the car, Bridget phoned Glenhaven Hills and got Mr. Jonas. “My driver and I ran into some traffic here in Portland,” she explained. “We’ll be arriving closer to two-thirty. I hope that won’t be inconvenient.”
Mr. Jonas said it would be fine. After she clicked off the phone, Bridget turned to Scott. “Sorry about that ‘my driver’ crack. I was trying to sound rich and important.”
Eyes on the road, Scott smiled a little. “You
are
rich and important,” he said. “Okay if I play some music?”
He popped in a tape cassette, and Vivaldi’s
The Four Seasons
came on. Bridget hadn’t taken him for a fan of the classics. Then again, she didn’t know Scott very well at all. In a way, she was glad it was quiet, brooding Scott driving her to Olympia—and not the more friendly guard, Phil. She would have felt obliged to make conversation with Phil. And right now, all she could think about was Zach. He should have called by now. Where in God’s name was he?
Scott stayed quiet, kept his eyes on the road, and made good time on the interstate. While passing through Longview, Washington, Bridget left her third message on Zach’s cell and home phones. Forty minutes later, in Centralia, she checked her home line for any voice mails from him. Nothing. Bridget phoned Zach again when they reached Olympia. This time, she hung up when she got the machine.
She’d printed directions to Glenhaven Hills off the computer. When Scott drove past the Tip Top Kwik & Redi Mart at the base of Old Summit Road, Bridget knew they were close. Zach had called her from that spot last night. He’d been right about the winding, hilly road up to Glenhaven Hills. Bridget felt her ears pop just before the road leveled off. “Should be along here some place,” she said, glancing at the
Mapquest.com
printout.
Her stomach had been in knots for the last three hours, because she was worried about Zach. It was even worse now, and she felt sick with nervousness. She had a half-baked plan for getting in to see Sonny Fessler and wasn’t sure she could pull it off.
They turned onto Glenhaven Drive and drove past the gates. Bridget gazed at the beige brick building at the end of the long, tree-lined driveway. It looked stately, yet a bit sinister too. Something about those iron deer in front of the main entrance gave her the creeps.
“Can I go over this again with you?” she asked Scott.
“Yes, ma’am, suit yourself,” he replied, watching the road.
“You’ll call my cell phone a half hour after I step inside the place,” she said. “If I can’t sneak away while I take your call, you’ll need to phone the front desk and ask for Mr. Jonas.”
Scott nodded. “I ask for Mr. Jonas. It’s an emergency concerning one of his patients. Matter of life and death. I can’t call back.”
“And once you get him on the phone—”
“I’ll ask him a lot of questions about the hospital and keep him on the line as long as possible. I know.” He pulled into the parking lot. “I’m a private detective, ma’am. I do this kind of shit all the time.”
She gave him a nervous grin. “Thanks, Scott. I don’t know how long I’ll be in there. It may be an hour—maybe two.”
“I’ll be waiting,” he said.
Scott parked the car, then hopped out of the driver’s side and got the door for her. “I’ll walk you into the lobby,” he said. “It’ll make you look even more respectable. And be sure to dismiss me in front of him.”
Bridget nodded. “Thanks, Scott,” she said again.
They started up some steps by a wheelchair-access ramp. Bridget paused along the walkway to the main entrance. She pulled out her cell phone and tried Zach’s number one more time. She got a recording again. “Damn,” she muttered, clicking off the phone. “Where is he?”
With a sigh, she put the phone away and let Scott escort her to the main doors.
He heard his cell phone go off.
Zach opened his eyes and saw only blackness. He realized an old blanket was covering him from head to toe. He wanted to pull it off, but his arms were asleep. He couldn’t move them—or even feel them. Every part of him ached, and he felt sick.
He stirred restlessly and managed to shake the blanket off his face. For a moment, everything was blurry. He felt as if he were a kid again—without his glasses.
Even before things came into focus, Zach realized what had happened to him. The blanket had been covering him—so no passing truckers and minivan drivers would see him on the floor, in the back of that little creep’s VW minibus.
They must have been driving over a bumpy road. He kept getting jostled back and forth. Even with the blanket, he felt cold, and Zach realized that somewhere along the line, after knocking him out, the goon had stripped him down to his T-shirt and undershorts. He couldn’t feel or move his arms, because the blood wasn’t circulating in them. When the guy had taken away his clothes, he must have also tied his hands behind him. Zach’s feet were tied up too. And his shoes were gone.
“Your girlfriend just called again,” said the man at the wheel. “You awake? You still out, numb-nuts?”
Zach didn’t answer. He thought he might be better off playing possum—until he figured out what to do. His vision began to correct itself. He looked up at the minibus’s windows and saw trees looming above. They seemed to be in the mountains some place. Obviously, that was where the guy planned to bury him—in a mountain forest.
Zach looked around for the shovel, the pick, and the drum of lime solution. Maybe he could use something to defend himself—once he wiggled out of the binding around his wrists and ankles. But all the burial apparatus had been shoved to the far back of the minibus—out of his reach.
Frustrated, he looked beneath the seats for something that might have accidentally dropped under there. Nothing.
Zach tried moving his hands back and forth. It felt like tape around his wrists. It pulled and pinched at the hairs above his hands. He turned on his side and tried to reach back for the tape around his ankles. All the while, he did his damnedest not to bump into the back of the driver’s seat. He had to bend and make contortions within such a limited space. He merely grazed the tape around his ankles with his fingertips.
“I feel you moving back there, fuck-face,” the man said in a singsong, chiding tone. “Have a good nap?”
Zach froze. He didn’t answer him.
“Well, just sit tight, asshole. We’re almost there.”
Zach kept trying to scratch at the tape around his ankles. All the while, he heard the man in the front seat humming. The car seemed to accelerate. Zach looked up at the minibus’s window and saw the trees whooshing by.
He told himself that he wasn’t going die in some godforsaken woods. He wasn’t just going to disappear. That might have happened to the very first victim from the Gorman’s Creek incident. But it wasn’t going to happen to him.
She looked for Sonny among the Glenhaven Hills residents wandering around the neatly manicured grounds. An iron “nature sculpture”—obviously by the same artist as the deer monstrosity in front—desecrated the back lawn. This piece had two huge bears on a stone pedestal. One bear was on all fours, and the other stood on its hind legs with a fish in its mouth.
A croquet game was heating up on the lawn. Along the winding trail, Bridget noticed nurses pushing people in wheelchairs. There was a cluster of old ladies, huddled by the dahlia garden with their kneepads, spades, work gloves, and sunbonnets—even though the skies were overcast. About a dozen senior citizens sat in wheelchairs on the back veranda, but Bridget didn’t see Sonny Fessler among them. Of course, she might not be able to recognize him without his hunting cap and his Schwinn. And he was in his seventies now.
“Have you ever seen a more beautiful setting?” Mr. Jonas asked. He was a persnickety little man with glasses and a blue three-piece suit. “These grounds stretch nearly a half mile. If your father likes to take walks, this is the place for him. What you see here is just a preview to the many activities that we have at Glenhaven Hills. Would you like to take a look at our nature trail?”
Bridget glanced at her wristwatch. Scott was supposed to call her cell phone in five minutes. “No, thank you,” she said. She’d adapted a slightly haughty,
please-me
tone with Mr. Jonas. She hated the snooty way she sounded. But he seemed to lap it up, and hung on her every word.
“You’re right though, it’s a perfectly lovely setting,” Bridget continued. Then she turned toward the building. “I’m very impressed with what I’ve seen so far. But I’m wondering about that area with the bars on the windows. You haven’t shown me that wing yet, have you?”
“No, but your father wouldn’t be staying there. That’s Ward C, where we house residents who need constant, special attention. The bars on the windows are just a precaution. We needn’t concern ourselves with that particular area.” He turned and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “During the summer, we have picnics on this lawn. If you—”
“Actually, I’d like to take a look at Ward C,” Bridget interrupted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, in addition to looking for an assisted-care residence for our father, Brad and I are also looking for a private institution in which we can invest a—well, a rather
sizable
donation. I’d like to see
all
of Glenhaven Hills.”
Mr. Jonas seemed a bit perplexed. “I’m sorry, Ms. Corrigan, but we’re simply not prepared for a tour of Ward C. We don’t—”
“Are you implying that you have to
make preparations
for tours here?” she asked. “You’re not hiding anything from me, are you?”
“Of course not,” he said.
She gave him a cool smile. “Mr. Jonas, I’d hate to tell your board of directors that my request for a complete tour here was denied.”
His eyes narrowed at her from behind his glasses. “No, we wouldn’t want that, Ms. Corrigan. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to C Ward. We have nothing to hide here at Glenhaven Hills.”
Bridget glanced over at the section of the building with the bars on the windows, then followed him into the building.
She was running late, and hoped Scott’s call wouldn’t come until she was well inside C Ward. She’d planned to use the call as her excuse for “a little privacy”; then she would slip away from Jonas and start looking for Sonny’s room, 9-C.
Jonas led her down a long corridor. “You’ll find the conditions in Ward C are no different from Ward A,” he said. “But the residents in C Ward have special needs and special problems.”
“Are some of the patients there mentally ill?” she asked, stealing a look at her wristwatch.
“Some are challenged in that area, yes,” he allowed.
Bridget wondered if Sonny Fessler would even be able to communicate with her—once she found him. Maybe he was catatonic—or in a padded cell somewhere.
“I’m going to ask that you remain close by my side for this part of the tour, Ms. Corrigan. We don’t want to disturb any of the residents.” He stopped by a closed door and punched some numbers in the keypad by the door frame.
Bridget tried to sneak a look at the code. Out of four numbers, she only caught a 1 and a 7
.
The lock clicked, and then Jonas pushed the door open and held it for her. Ward C smelled more like a nursing home than the other wing—bedpans and body odor. It was also at least five degrees warmer in there, almost oppressive. The hallway had tan linoleum tile on the floor, and stark-white walls. Bridget heard a TV going in one of the rooms. The only other people in sight were a nurse and an elderly man whom she led down the corridor. He wore a striped robe and kept rattling his head back and forth as if he had a spasm.
As Mr. Jonas closed the door behind him, Bridget noticed another keypad by the door frame. She wondered how she was going to slip away after talking to Sonny. “So—you can’t get in or out without the code?” she asked.
“That’s correct,” he said. “Not without setting off a security alarm in our control center.”
“What if there’s a fire or some other emergency?” she pressed.
“Then the doors automatically unlock,” he said. “This way, please.”
He led Bridget down the corridor. She looked at the room numbers by the doors as she passed. C-32 . . . C-30 . . . C-28. Some of the doors were open. The units were different from the little studios in Ward A, which resembled snug one-room apartments. These were hospital rooms—with hospital beds, some of which had fleece-covered wrist and ankle straps to restrain the patients. From the grounds, she’d seen the bars outside the windows. But she hadn’t noticed that inside, chain-link-fence-style screens prevented the patients from getting at the windows in their rooms. There were no mirrors in the rooms either. Obviously, the residents in Ward C weren’t trusted around glass.
She didn’t see any raving maniacs. Most of the patients strapped in their beds—or slumped to one side in their wheelchairs—were quiet and docile. Bridget noticed another corridor that branched off this one, and a small placard on the wall:
C-1 THRU C-9
.
Her cell phone went off. “Oh, pardon me,” she said, reaching into her purse. She pulled out her phone and glanced at the caller-ID pad. “Oh, I really need to take this in private,” she said, edging toward the other hallway. “Do you mind?”
“As a matter of fact, I
do
mind, Ms. Corrigan,” he replied in an officious tone. “Use of cell phones is prohibited here inside Glenhaven Hills.”
“Oh, well, then I’ll make it quick.” She clicked on the phone. “Hello—”
“Ma’am?” Scott said on the other end of the line.
“Ms. Corrigan!” Mr. Jonas hissed. “Please!”
“Um, I’m sorry,” she said into the phone. “Call back later.”
“Call
you
back?” Scott asked. “Or call his number?”
“Yes, call the other number and leave a message for me.”
“You mean, leave a message for
him
?” Scott asked.
“Yes. Thanks very much. Good-bye.” She clicked off the phone and shoved it back in her purse. She smiled at Mr. Jonas. “My apologies. I’m afraid the more we tend to use our cell phones, the ruder we become to those around us. Do you have an activities room in this ward? If you do, I’d like to take a look at it.”
Jonas gave her a pinched smile. “Why, certainly.”
He began to lead her down the hallway—in the opposite direction from C-1 through C-9. Bridget glanced back at the other corridor, where Sonny Fessler had his room. She reluctantly followed Mr. Jonas. At least she would know where she might look for Sonny if he wasn’t in his quarters. So far, she’d passed several empty rooms. She heard a TV set blaring, and figured they were getting closer to the activities room.
Mr. Jonas abruptly stopped in his tracks. “Excuse me,” he muttered. “I’m being paged.” He pulled the little pager off his belt, and then glanced at it. He must have had the mechanism on vibrate, because Bridget hadn’t heard a sound. “I need to answer this,” he grumbled.
“First, could you point me to the restroom?” she asked.
“There’s an employee restroom near the nurses’ station, where I’m answering my page,” he said. “It’s just this way.”
“Terrific. Thank you.”
They continued down the hallway toward a nurses’ desk. He stopped, took out a set of keys, and unlocked a door marked
STAFF ONLY
. “Here you go, Ms. Corrigan,” he said. Then he nodded toward the counter only a couple of doors farther down the hallway. “I’ll be right over there.”
“Thanks,” she said, ducking into the bathroom. She closed the door behind her. She’d been hoping to give him the slip, but the damn nurses’ station was less than forty feet from the bathroom door.
Bridget glanced around the small, white-tiled lavatory—one toilet, one sink, no other door, and no window. With a sigh, she turned the knob and pulled the door open half an inch. She peeked through the crack—toward the nurses’ station. Mr. Jonas was leaning on the counter with the phone to his ear. He was staring right back at her.
She shut the door again. “Shit!” she whispered. She waited a few moments, then pried the door open another half inch and peeked toward the nurses’ station again.
Mr. Jonas was fussing with a spot or something on his tie while he talked on the phone. Bridget could hear him: “Who? What kind of emergency? Well, all right, put him on.”
She waited until he turned away. Then Bridget opened the door wider. Still eying him, she crept out of the restroom—and almost ran right into a heavyset woman. Bridget let out a gasp.
The woman was about sixty, with gray-brown hair and listless eyes. She wore a periwinkle-blue robe. “Have you been inoculated yet?” she asked.
Bridget quickly shook her head, then ducked inside an empty room.
“There’s someone here who hasn’t been inoculated!” the woman declared. “We have a young lady here in our hallway and she hasn’t had her inoculation! This is serious! No one should be allowed here without the proper documentation and an inoculation. . . .”
Bridget held her breath and listened to Mr. Jonas on the phone, trying to talk over the woman. “Well, what kind of emergency are you talking about?” he said loudly. “What’s the name of the patient? Just a second—Sandra, can you take her down to the activities room? I can’t hear myself think. Now, which patient has the emergency?”
Bridget poked her head out of the doorway. Jonas was on the phone—with his back to her. A nurse was walking the hefty, middle-aged woman farther down the hallway. Bridget stepped out to the corridor and crept in the opposite direction—toward the wing of rooms marked
C-1 THRU C-9
.
As she turned the corner, she glanced back at Jonas one more time to make sure he hadn’t seen her. He was facing her, but still on the telephone and fussing with his tie again.
Bridget hurried down the hall to room C-9. The door was open just a few inches. She tried to catch her breath, and then knocked softly. No one answered. She knocked again. After hesitating for a moment, she pushed the door open all the way.
Sonny wasn’t there.
“Oh no,” she whispered. She couldn’t go looking for Sonny in the activities room, because she’d have to walk past the nurses’ station—and Jonas—to get there. He was probably off the phone now, and wondering why she was taking so long in the lavatory.
Bridget heard footsteps behind her. She quickly hurried inside Sonny’s room and closed the door halfway. She listened to the footsteps coming closer. Then, whoever it was passed by. Sighing, Bridget turned and took a look at Sonny Fessler’s quarters.
The room had bars on the window—and the chain-link screen so he couldn’t touch the window. But that was where the similarity to the more dreary, hospital-like rooms in Ward C ended. Bridget felt as if she’d stepped into a time warp—and into the bedroom of a young boy in the early fifties. On the walls were framed prints of ships, railroad engines, and several black-and-white shots of Guy Madison from the old
Wild Bill Hickok
TV series. There was also a photograph of Mrs. Fessler, the same one the
Cowlitz Country Register
had printed when they’d run the story about her suicide. None of the frames had glass in them.
On the bureau, she noticed another glassless framed photo, which seemed anachronistic compared to the others. It was of Christopher Reeve as
Superman
. Also on the bureau were a View Master with several round slides, an antique piggy bank, and a bust of Lincoln. The bust looked like bronze— until Bridget touched it and realized it was made of cheap plastic and had a coin slot on top of Lincoln’s head.
There was also a stuffed rocking chair with a throw pillow that had a hula girl on it. The bedspread on the half-made bed was off-white—probably from age and wear—with a mallard design. At least there were no restraint straps on the bed. The room smelled awful—like sour milk.
Bridget noticed a series on the Old West from Time-Life Books on his bookcase. She pulled out one of the volumes and found an old
Playboy
from 1984 hidden between the books. Sonny must have smuggled it out of his old bedroom—from the Briar Court house. Most everything in this room had probably come from there.