TWELVE
His phone is more modern than my crap pay-as-you-go phone, and it offers us a route to a place far enough from the city center that the buildings get replaced by trees. His phone also has access to the Internet, and I can run a search on Eden Park while he drives. His phone's screen is small, and the search results are tiny, but I find enough to jog his memory.
“Yeah,” he says. “I've heard of the place. I thought it was shut down though. It used to be a lunatic asylum when it was first opened, like, forty years ago. And that's why it closed, I think. The term fell out of favor, and other places that were more politically correct started springing up.” He laughs nervously. “A cottage industry, you know? The pharmaceutical companies want us taking more pills, right? They don't want us to get over our depression or our phobias. They want us to be taking some sort of medication for them. We can't make you normal, but we can make you look normal.”
“Appearances are important,” I say, staring out the window.
“What happened on the boat?” he asks suddenly, trying to catch me out.
“Someone panicked,” I reply. “And then they tried to hide their mistakes.”
“Why do you care?”
“It's good to care about something, Ralph,” I say, turning my head toward him. “Don't you think?”
He gets flustered and the car wiggles on the road a bit as he fusses with the steeling wheel.
“What happened at the hospital?” he asks.
“Nothing you want to put in any story you write,” I tell him.
“If you did anything illegal for this information—”
I cut him off with a laugh. “Do you think the people at Eden Park—if this is where they're all locked up—are there legally? Do you think Secutores is doing anything other than helping to establish a legal precedence for curtailing people's rights?”
“That's not the point,” he sputters. “Where does it end if I don't—I mean, how does the system work if no one adheres to it?”
“How old are you, Ralph?”
“Forty—forty-six.”
“Keep holding on to that childlike idealism as long as you can,” I say.
From the outside, Eden Park looks like a respectable private estate. Set back from the road and hidden by a wide screen of oak trees, the main grounds are nicely manicured and the three buildings try hard to pass for Nouveau Colonial. The only sign it is something other than it appears is the lack of shadows. Mounted floodlights keep the darkness at bay, and the grass shines unnaturally in the harsh light. There's no sign of external patrols, but I'm sure the persistent light is to ensure a clear picture on the many closed-circuit cameras.
It's quiet in the trees around Eden Park. I haven't heard a single car pass since Ralph slowed down enough along the main road for me to hop out. No sound comes from the buildings either. This iteration of Eden Park is one of those kinder and gentler psychiatric facilities than its original incarnation, and the lack of B-movie shrieks certainly suggest the unfortunates are resting quietly.
It's certainly not the same as Bedlam in its heyday.
I skulk around the perimeter, a ghost among the trees. If there are motion detectors, no one is paying any attention to them, and the only activity I see is a pair of gray rabbits who I flush out of a squat bush as I pass along the northern verge of the property.
The staff parking lot is in the back, and it's where shadows are allowed to gather. I slither across the damp grass and hug the tailgate of a pickup truck. I count cars, and making a guess purely based on the make and model of the cars in the lot, I surmise most of the staff on-hand tonight are only a notch or two above hourly wage.
The trio of identical black sedans parked in a row gets my attention. Same make and model as the car the mercenaries were driving in the garage. Rentals, I realize.
I'm considering the brazen approach when a door opens on the rear of the closest building. A pair of suits exits. One is fumbling in her purse for keys and the other has his ear glued to his cell phone. Their outfits match, though the man's jacket is ill-fitted in comparison to the woman's tailored top. Her haircut is more precise than his as well, and I'm a bit surprised when she finds her keys, clicks off the alarm to one of the three sedans, and holds open the back door for the guy. He ducks into the car without missing a word in his conversation, and she shuts the door. She opens the driver-side door, climbs in, starts the car, and then gets back out. Leaning against the car, she lights a cigarette, and stares at the building which they had just vacated. She's waiting for him to finish his call, and judging from her expression, this isn't the first time he's made her wait.
I wonder who he is talking to.
She finishes her cigarette—a Gauloises Blonde from the smell—and crushes it out beneath the smart heel of her black oxford pump. She looks around, as if she senses me watching, and I can tell from the slackness of her face that it's been a long day. She's not really looking, even though the lizard part of her brain just reached up and yanked on her consciousness.
I consider taking both of them. Certainly easier than any sort of assault I had considered in the parking garage. Drop her first; yank open the back door of the car; lean in and pop the guy on the phone. It would take me ten seconds, max; but then I would have to decide what to do with them later. And the first few suggestions that float to mind aren't really options, as much as I'd like to fantasize otherwise.
Invisibility is better, and so I stay put as she gets back into the car. It backs out of its space, pivots, and drives around toward the front of the facility and the long driveway to the main road. After it is gone, the silence returns.
Two rentals left. Somewhere between four and eight passengers. It's after ten o'clock. If there is a shift change coming anytime soon, it'll be midnight. I have two hours.
The scent of the Gauloises hangs in the air, a tantalizing hint of an idea.
The smoker's corner is under the overhanging eaves on the northern back corner of the main building. There are two plastic chairs and a tall cylindrical ashtray. A single video camera points directly down on the spot, the baleful eye of Eden Park's administration offering not-so-subtle distain for the lung-burners.
Having seen the unedited toxicological reports from the 1960s, I can't say I blame them.
Fortunately for me, any serious smoker is going to need a couple smoke breaks during an eight-hour shift. I shouldn't have to wait too long.
He's a three-pack-a-day man and although he washes his hands obsessively, there's still a nicotine stain on the inside of his right middle finger. He breathes heavily from the mouth when he's afraid, and I gag at the rot coming out of his lungs. His circulation is bad enough that it doesn't take much pressure on his neck to make his pass out. I lay him out on the ground, swipe his ID badge and his wallet, and after a moment's hesitation, I dig through his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and shred them.
The video camera hangs crookedly on its post, its eye no longer watchful.
I swipe the ID card on the nearby door and slip into the main building.
Inside, it's all puce walls and off-white trim. Prints of very restful landscapes are arranged neatly along the walls. Someone left the mood music on—Chopin, from the sounds of it—though it's so quiet most wouldn't know they were actually humming along with it. Got to keep the natives placid.
I'm behind the scenes at the psychiatric hospital, and there aren't any cameras watching the watchers. The first floor is most likely administration, with the upper floors and basement given over to the rooms for the residents and rooms filled with therapeutic opportunities, respectively. A pair of orderlies is hanging out in a break room not far from the staff kitchen, and as they're staring tiredly at a video feed from a sports channel, it's not too hard to slip past them. I ponder putting the pair of slightly less bored guards in the security cage to sleep, but I suspect the current administration at Eden Park isn't keen on putting real names on the room roster.
I'm going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.