The Lost and the Damned (7 page)

“Hello,” I said, “I’m…”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but our visiting hours are closed. All our administrative staff has gone home as well.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I really am,” I said, “but I’ve traveled so far and I just got to town. I know I should wait until tomorrow, but I just needed to know. I needed to know if she was here, if she was safe…” Okay, I admit, I was laying it on thick.

“I’m sorry…?” she said, both concerned and confused.

“My niece,” I said, “she’s been missing. We’ve been looking everywhere for her. She’s been gone a year and the police can’t do anything. We’re at the end of our rope, but we had an idea. Just an idea. Maybe, just maybe someone checked her in here… maybe she’s been safe all this time. Maybe her friends were wrong when they said that she…” I trailed off for dramatic effect. Even acting, it was hard not to act sad and flustered without feeling that way myself.

“I-I’m sorry, sir, I really am,” she said, “but patient records are not something I could open or disclose. If you came back tomorrow, I’m sure our hospital administrator could help you…”

“Wait! Wait!” I fumbled in my pockets and pulled out the high school picture of Katie, putting it on the table in front of her. “Do you recognize her? Have you seen her?”

She stayed silent, staring at the photo. I watched her face. There was some sort of reaction, but I couldn’t read it. I prompted her with my frantic act. “Have you seen her? Is she here?” She looked up at me and we shared a look, her face shocked, and I knew. “She’s here, isn’t she?” I grabbed her shoulders, shaking her and her look revealed more. “She’s here? Thank the Lord, she’s here! Please tell me she’s here!”

“I-I, M-Mr…” she stammered.

“Vanderholm! Scott Vanderholm!” I said. “Please tell me our dear Katherine is here!”

“I-I,” she stammered. She looked down again, taking a long look at the photo. Her next words were a whisper. “She’s here.” She looked through each of the glass doors and then leaned close to me. “Kate Doe… I mean Katherine. She’s here.”

I stood back in my best impression of stunned. Then I gave my best doe-eyed smile and stood there. “We’ve found her,” I said. I kept track of the nurse’s body language out of the corner of my eye. She seemed relieved and leaned backwards. I reached forward and grabbed her hand, scaring her for a moment. I pumped her hand up and down in a furious handshake. “Thank you, thank you!” Her face was pale. For a moment I worried it was too much. I had pushed the act too far.

She finally smiled weakly. “I’m glad I could help,” she said. “But please, don’t tell anyone I told you. I could lose my job. I just… I just wanted you to know. But please, don’t tell.”

“I won’t!” I said. “At this point, I’d name my first child after you!”

She giggled. “Please, just act like you didn’t know tomorrow.”

“I won’t, I swear it!” I said, which was true. Once I called the record company in, they would have their own way to verify she was here. “Thank you, very much. I’ll be back tomorrow!”

She smiled and said goodbye, as I left, stopping to say an excited, “God bless!” before leaving through the doors. I walked through the parking lot with a large smile, not from an act, but rather from the promise of half a million dollars and a job well done.

Believe it or not, I don’t like lying. I like the truth, I enjoy telling it. Lies are complicated, lies are work. Lies beget more lies and just weave a tighter and tighter net around you if you keep telling them. I try to be as honest as I can in my personal life, a trait that has gotten me in trouble before and ruined a few relationships. When it comes to a job, then things get a bit different. Gaining information is difficult to begin with and some of the best things to know come from people. The problem is they’re never going to tell it to me, John Keats. They might tell it to me, the sympathetic uncle, or me, the air conditioner repair man, or me, the fast-talking talent agent with an upcoming role in a blockbuster film just for them. They’re perfectly willing to give up that information to the right person. It’s just a matter of making myself the right person. Sure, you could call it dishonesty, but it’s more of me taking on a particular persona so that people become more glib. It’s not lying, it’s acting, and something I’ve worked on improving. Consequently, I’m a big fan of the Rockford Files.

The sky was dark and the moon visible in the sky when I got into my car. I pulled out of the parking lot, through the gate, and onto the road. Rather than drive back to town, I was excited and wanted to share my good humor. I pulled off the road into the same spot within the trees as before. I looked out the window where I could still see the sinister hospital through the trees. I grabbed my cell phone and autodialed. It was six rings before I got an answer.

“Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art -- / Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night / and watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite.”

“Jesus, Morty,” I said, “Did you run and get the book? Is that why it took you so long to answer?”

“I actually keep it right here by the phone,” he said. “I bookmarked this one. I found it when I was in the bathroom earlier and decided I liked it.”

“I’m not sure if I should be disturbed that you’re thinking about me in the bathroom,” I said. “But I do have news. Very good news.”

“You found her?”

“Everything but laid eyes on her,” I said.

“You’re kidding,” said Morty.

“I’m not one hundred percent yet, but I have two positive IDs on Katie’s high school picture. She’s here, I’d bet money on it.”

“Where is here?” he asked. “You were flying out of Chicago, but you were vague on the what-next.”

“Vermont. Sommersfield.” I looked out the window at the hospital on the hill. “There’s this… really creepy mental hospital up here. And I mean creepy. Seriously, you should see this place. We’re talking House on Haunted Hill creepy. I’m going to have nightmares about this place.”

“How does the hospital figure in? You checking yourself in?”

“No, she’s here, Morty. Katie Vanders, queen of the top forty list, has checked herself into a mental hospital. I don’t know what that says about the sake of American music, but it is what it is.”

“You’re sure?” he asked, still not fully convinced.

“I got positive ID from the night nurse at the front desk, Morty. She got all bug-eyed when she saw the picture. Katie’s gotta be here.”

“I just worry about overconfidence, my friend,” he said. “It’s been said, a bird in a hand…”

“Morty, I think our relationship is past you giving me cheesy proverbs in a fatherly way. Yes, I know I shouldn’t be overconfident, but she's right here with no other detectives in sight. I’ve got this, everything is under contr-“

This is when I heard a deafening crash, kind of like an explosion.

I twisted my head to my left and looked out the window at the hospital, which was in the direction of the crash.

“John? John? Are you there? What was that I heard?” Morty’s voice might have well been a million miles away instead of pressed against my ear.

I stared at the hospital, not quite fathoming what I was seeing. I wasn’t even sure what it was, much less understand what type of sense it should make. All I knew was what I kept telling myself: This is bad. This is very bad.

Out of one of the west wings of the hospital erupted a pillar of bright white light. Accounting for distance and scale, the pillar must have been at least ten feet wide. It pulsed upwards and there was a high pitched whine that was audible even from where I was.

“This is bad,” I said out loud.

“What is it? John? What’s going on?”

I kept staring at that white pillar heading skywards, my mind freaking out with possibilities, my teeth grinding. In one quick second, I made a decision.

“Morty, I gotta go, I’ll call you back,” I said, not even waiting for an answer. I leaned over and grabbed my emergency bag from the glove box and jumped out of the car. I sprinted through the trees in the direction of the hospital. I wasn’t letting her get away. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but it was trouble. I needed to find her and make sure she was safe.

Halfway through the trees, I tripped and hit the ground hard. There was a sharp pain in my left ankle. I was winded too, revealing that I needed to do more exercise, more cardio at least. I cursed and gently moved my foot. The last thing I needed was a broken ankle. There was some pain, but it wasn’t strong enough for a broken bone. I probably just twisted it. I saw that an exposed root had tripped me. I slowly untangled my foot from it and stood up. I tentatively put weight on my left foot. It hurt, but I could work with it. I’d probably just be limping for an hour or two. Not ideal, but workable. The high pitched whine was more audible. I stared up again at the white pillar of light and cursed. I couldn’t run, but I limped quickly toward the hospital.

A few minutes later and I crouched at the stone wall that surrounded the hospital grounds. I carefully made my way through the brush along the wall to the gate. With a twisted ankle, I didn’t want to risk hurting myself more climbing over a wall while a gate should still be open. I didn’t know that time was running short. I didn’t know that I’d just barely make it.

I also didn’t know that being a minute or two slower probably saved my life.

Skulking through the bushes against the wall, I finally saw the gate. The brush grew in a ditch and the ground sloped upwards to where the road was as it passed through the gate. Seeing it gave me relief from both my scrambling through the brush and the scratches from that same brush. I moved toward the sloping ground, about to take a step up onto the road when I heard a different crash and laughter.

I’m not sure why the laughter affected me in such a strong way. The laughter of strangers generally doesn’t bother me. But this laughter was different. It came from deep inside its host: loud, shrill, and tinged with death. Something about this laughter touched my very basic fight-or-flight instinct, something inside me yelling, “Danger!” Without thinking I pulled back midstep and crouched in the brush, waiting.

At first, all I could hear was the beating of my heart and the rasp of my breath as I tried to calm down while my danger sense was screaming. I almost thought it was a false alarm, but then I heard footsteps and a faint chuckle. I could hear the footsteps of someone – no, some
ones
walking across the parking lot. The next reasonable thought was that I shouldn’t be so scared. It was a night watchman, some nurses, orderlies getting off their shift, maybe some relatives of patients being turned away. It was still best I lay low, so I didn’t have to explain skulking or my curiosity about the white light. But reasonably, rationally, it was nothing to be so freaked out about. Luckily, those rational thoughts did not win out in my scared animal mind and my body tensed to run, scampering back into the trees if I needed to.

The footsteps grew louder. When I could hear breathing I knew that they were almost at the gate. My heart pounding, I held my breath to conceal as much of my presence as I could. It was just a moment later when they came into view. My eyes grew wide and I froze; I’m not sure if I could let go of my breath if I could. I’m glad I didn’t. Thankfully they walked right past me, intent on the road instead.

There were five of them. I hesitate to say that they were five people, for if I said that, I would be using the term “people” very loosely. The only one who would clearly qualify as a “person” was one who stood at the center of the pack. He walked with his back very straight, constantly lighting and relighting a Zippo lighter than he held at chest level with both hands as if it was a treasured possession. It was by the brief light cast by the appearing and disappearing flame that allowed me to see the strange smile on his face. It was by that same light that I caught brief glimpses of the other four, who I would have preferred to have stayed as silhouettes.

The largest was a goliath of a man, nearly seven feet tall when he stood straight; he never actually stood straight as he seemed permanently hunched forward. His massive arms hung down low, almost too long for a man, giving the impression of an ape. In a normal situation, this would have been the most striking characteristic of this man. However, crouched in the brush on that accursed night, what I noticed first were the spikes. From his shoulders, his arms, his back, and his bald head grew thick spikes, a foot or two in length. I couldn’t get a good look to see if these were metal pieces imbedded in his flesh or instead some type of porcupine-like spines. Frankly, I didn’t want to know. In the flash of Zippo-light, I saw rage carved into the giant’s face.

In contrast to the massive giant, there was a smaller figure that loped along on the ground. I could not tell the sex of this one, it was difficult enough to believe that they could be human. Though humanoid in structure, their slight and wiry form crawled along the ground as if a dog or beast of prey. It was not an awkward movement, like my niece when she imitated her dog at four years old, but instead the deliberate movement of a hunter. Rather than a parody of animal movement adapted to the limitations of the human form, it was instead as if their body were transformed to adapt their human form to the movements of a beast. In the brief flashes of the lighter, I saw tattered clothes and tangled hair on the feral form.

The next was an excruciatingly thin woman, almost an anorexic. Her hair was black and thick, cascading over her face and down her head. I could not see her face at all, looking more like Cousin It than anything. Her neck was sharply and permanently bent to the left, as if someone had broken it. Her hips and waist were also severely bent to the left. Somehow she could still walk in a strange lurching gait, probably to compensate for her problematic form. I could see her spine sticking out through her back and other strange angular proportions, bones sticking out where they should not.

The last seemed as ordinary as the first at a quick glance. She was just a little girl, probably not more than seven years old. She had bright red hair which grew past her waist and was tied up with white string. She skipped along as if she were out with friends on the playground. At second glance, something was very wrong. As I looked at her, a fog rolled in on my mind, all my thoughts disconnecting in television static. The world grew darker and began to fall away, while the little girl seemed to grow bright red, almost a glowing crimson aura around her. I must have tensed up and tightened my hands in fists, because that’s the only thing that saved me. My fingers tightened on a prickly leaf, the pain distracting me and causing my attention to pull away from the girl. I must have made a sound when I pricked myself. I can’t be sure, but it did not go unnoticed.