At 4 p.m., when the city skyline grew a dark grey with the threat of night and impending rain clouds, Dex and I piled our gear and equipment into his car and piloted off toward the Riverside Mental Institute.
After our discussion in the den, Jenn came back from her workout and I hopped on the computer to Google the shit out of the institute. Though I hated him for saying it, Dex was right, and there was no reason why I couldn’t be prepared.
The institute was built at the turn of the century to take care of the Pacific Northwest’s finest, most depressed people. I guess they had something to do with the first research into Seasonal Affective Disorder, and if there is any place where SAD affects most of the population, it’s probably here. I know I get more moody and have more panic attacks when the sun disappears and the gloomy winter clouds park themselves over Portland.
According to the official website, the institute was spread out over a massive acreage, housed three huge brick buildings and a spattering of cottages where the wealthiest patients would stay and rest until their health improved. The photos online were scans from about 80 years ago, showing patients playing crochet and bridge. Not your average mental hospital. At least, not on the surface.
Of course, like most mental hospitals in the country, only one building is still operational, with funding being cut drastically over the years.
But it wasn’t all just about curing the blues for wealthy Seattleites. The smallest brick building had been used as a sort of holding station for some of the most heinous criminals back in the day where they would undergo tests to see whether they could plead insanity or not. Naturally this was the place Dex was interested in exploring. The building, called Block C, had only been officially run for 20 years before a few accidents shut it down. Turns out a mental hospital wasn’t always the most high-security place to hold serial killers and the like.
Tonight, though, we probably wouldn’t be allowed to wander around the supposedly haunted Block C (and that was fine with me), though there were some weird stories about even the main building, which still housed mild mental cases. Regardless, I felt a bit more prepared than I had earlier, especially since Dex kept saying how we were just going to interview Dr. Hasselback and that was it. It put my mind at ease – as much as that was possible.
Back to the car. Abbey Road had picked up from where we last left it and we were treated to the moody, yearning sounds of “I Want You.” Though I tried not to listen to the lyrics, I knew they were expressing something I wouldn’t dare admit to Dex, and it was making me uncomfortable in my seat. I needed to drown the words out before they melted into that jagged, tumultuous ending.
“So, thanks for always driving us around,” I said to Dex after he slammed on his breaks before going through a fast-changing yellow light. I said it to just say something.
“No problem. We don’t have much choice, do we?”
“Well I guess I could stick you on the back of Putt-Putt,” I teased.
He shook his head and said adamantly, “No way. I’d be off that thing in two seconds.”
“Oh come on. I’ll give you a lesson while I’m here; you’ll pick it up in no time.”
“I don’t think I’d be good at it.”
I smacked him lightly on the arm. “Declan Foray, you are good at absolutely everything. And besides, if a klutz like me can ride a motorbike, then anyone can ride a motorbike. It’s more like a scooter anyway. Come on, I’ll teach you.”
His eyes slinked to the side and he smiled slyly. “We’ll see.”
The light turned green and we went through the intersection, heading out of the city and into the darkness. Light drizzle began to fall. Dex peered at the signs on the side of the road. “Can you do me a favor and get the map out of the glove compartment?”
I leaned forward and pushed the latch. The compartment was crammed full of junk but I eventually found the map book. And a rectangle box that said EpiPen on it.
I took out the map and the box and flashed the latter at Dex. “Is this yours?”
He took a quick look and nodded.
“What are you allergic to?”
“Bees,” he said grimly. “Wasps, hornets, et cetera.”
The image of the wasps floating on the sea of blood flashed across my mind.
“What happens if you get stung?” I asked carefully.
“If I don’t get that EpiPen in 20 minutes, I die.”
The way he said it so casually rattled me. “You…die? Is it that bad?”
“Yep.”
“Why the hell do you keep it in the car? It should be on you at all times!”
“I keep one in the car and one at home. But it’s winter, bee season is over. Can you look up the Issaquah area of the map? Please?”
I did so, but still thought about Dex’s allergy. He could die in 20 minutes if this wee injection didn’t make it into his system in time. I did not like those odds. Not one bit.
Then I thought about the scorpions we encountered in Rudy’s hogan while we were in Red Fox. The image of Rudy made me sad. We still didn’t know what happened to him but it was apparent that he was never coming back, and the scorpions confused me.
“What about the scorpions? In Red Fox. They were stinging us. Could they have killed you too?”
He gave me a funny look. “I wasn’t sure. I was freaking out a bit there until I realized they weren’t real. I don’t think scorpion venom is as deadly to me as bees, but then again, I’ve never asked.”
Freaking out a bit. That must have been an understatement.
“When did you find out?”