I prayed under my breath as I climbed the rest of the way up. At the top, I pressed my ear against the door. Hearing nothing, I tried the crystal knob. Unlocked.
The next corridor was stuffy and windowless, housing a series of closets and storerooms. At the last door on the right, I struck gold. The room was small, plain, with a flagstone floor. As I peered through the gloom, I saw a huge metallic bin seated against the left wall. It emitted the distinct aroma of dirty sheets and musty towels. A draft filtered in from the crack beneath a door on the far wall that I figured must lead up to the outside. Above the bin, one lone sheet draped from the lip of a laundry chute, like a ghost too tired to make the final leap.
The rest of my stealthy journey through Greenwood Institute consisted of a series of wrong turns, backtracking, and gut-churning close calls. By the time I reached the set of double doors labeled GREENWOOD MEN’S WARD D, I was wound so tight a mouse fart would have sent me right over the edge.
Deep within the confines of the mental asylum, a clock bonged the hour. One. Two. Three. Four.
Four a.m. Shift change. You got this, Walton.
From the floor below came a muffled wail that was soon taken up by others throughout the building. One after another, patients cried out in pain or loneliness.
Back home, before it all went to crap, Mom, Dad, and I would sometimes sit on the front porch to watch the fireflies gather. In the balmy, deep summer silence a train would pass, or a car alarm would go off, and it would begin.
It always started with one dog. Then the entire canine population of our small town would join in, filling the night with a chorus of creepy howls.
These were not dogs. They were human beings, whose combined pain oozed up the walls, bled across the floors, and dripped from the ceiling of what should have been a place of healing.
Men’s Ward D was still undecorated, the floor gritty with plaster dust. Wires protruded from unfinished walls and ceiling, awaiting electrical fixtures. The only light in the long corridor came from two oil lamps set on the floor at either end. The far lamp guttered, but I grinned as its light revealed the square outline of a laundry chute, just as Sergeant Peters had promised.
Bare soles skidding in the powdery dust, I approached room 14. My pulse jumped thirty beats at a movement that turned out to be dust bunnies scampering in a shadowed corner.
I swiped damp palms over the velvet day gown, and selected a key from the iron ring. As no alarm had yet been raised, I assumed the guard had decided not to reveal his carelessness. Not yet. But my luck wouldn’t last forever. We had to get out. Fast. Before the doctor’s surgical team arrived at my room and realized “patient zero” had decided against having her brain split in two.
Relief washed me head to toe as I keyed myself into room 14, and saw the big form huddled beneath a blanket.
Tiptoeing so as not to alarm him, I whispered, “Doug? Doug, are you awake? It’s me. Can you—?”
The shove caught me flat in the chest. I flew back and slammed hard into the wall. My vision flashed to white as the back of my head smacked into solid wood.
“Get the fuck away from me, you sick bastards!”
I crumpled to my knees. “Doug,” I managed to croak. “’S Hope.”
The floor vibrated when Doug thumped to his knees beside me.
“Oh, bloody damn,” he cried. “Hope! What are you doing here? Jesus, I’m sorry, lass. Are you a’right, then? I thought you were one of them. That nurse, she told me they were going to take me to . . . to surgery today.” Doug shuddered. “Jesus, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
Doug snatched his glasses from the small table and squinted through the smeary glass. “Shit. Oh, shit. You’re bleeding.” He plucked a wadded handkerchief from the dresser and pressed it to the back of my head.
“Ow.”
He flinched as I yelped. Spots of red dotted the white cloth. I gingerly touched the lump that was erupting on my scalp. But my head was clearing and there was no time to worry about it now anyway.
“I’m fine.” Doug’s image doubled, but fortunately the two worried faces quickly merged back into one. “Seriously. But what about you? Are you okay?”
He nodded, though I recognized the strain of fear and isolation. I knew it all too well. He reached for me and wrapped me in his muscular arms.
“Jesus,” he said as he hugged me tight. “I was terrified I’d never see any of you again. I tried to escape. Tried to kick the bloody door down. But the wankers kept drugging me.”
“Me too,” I told him. “Ass wipes.”
He pulled back and I grinned up at his dear, sweet face. “What now?” he asked.
“Now we get the hell out of here.”
Doug nodded and scrambled to his feet, giving me a hand up. Though the room wobbled, there wasn’t time to let it steady.
“What’s the plan?” he said.
I laid it out for him. “But it will all be for nothing if we don’t get out before daylight.”
“Then let’s roll, aye?”
My hands shook, and for a horrifying instant, the small key wouldn’t turn in the laundry chute lock. “Oh God. Oh no. No no no.”
“Let me try.”
I stepped aside, gladly. With a slight jiggle, the lock disengaged and the chute clicked open.
“Awesome,” I said. “Now go.”
We’d worked out that if, by unlucky chance, anyone happened to be in the laundry room when we emerged, Doug had a much better shot at kicking their ass.
Something creaked behind me. I whipped around, eyes on the double doors at the far end. “Take the keys so you can unlock the door to the outside.”
Doug nodded and hugged me hard. “Hope,” he said. “I can never thank you enough. You could have snuck out. You didn’t have to come after me.”
“Are you kidding?” I told him. “If I left here without you, Phoebe would take those knives of hers and use me for target practice.”
Doug grinned, then maneuvered his head and broad shoulders through the opening. It was barely wide enough. He wormed inside until only his legs protruded. His voice echoed back to me. “Looks like a fairly steep drop-off here.”
The lock at the far end of the ward clicked, loud as a shotgun in the quiet. Doug froze, but I shoved him as hard as I could until, cursing, he dropped away.
The chute snapped shut on its tight hinge. I whipped around just in time to see the ward door open. The stunned look on Dupree’s weasel face was almost, almost worth it.
“Well, well. Ain’t this a pip.” Hands on his hips, he bared his rodent teeth. “Whatcha doin’ up here, girlie?”
Without turning, I eased the chute door down until it mawed open behind me.
“Don’t. You. Dare,” he warned, then turned and shouted, “She’s here! I got her!”
Boots pounded on the wooden floorboards as I turned and thrust myself headlong into the dark opening.
Go! Go! Go!