Identity (Eyes Wide Open) (6 page)

He could attest to that himself.

Fact: His headaches had become more intense and frequent in the past seventeen days, and meds had a decreasing impact on his symptoms. Likely the result of a tumor forming beneath his skull, but that wasn’t yet fact.

Fact: All diagnostic tests had been inconclusive until now, but inside in his doctor’s office sat a man about to tell him if he was going to live or die.

Fact: Christy had called him, but he didn’t yet know why.

He veered left, leaving the sidewalk, and entered the alley that separated the shops from the hospital.

“Austin… I’m trapped in your…”

The desperate sound of her voice hung in his mind. He passed the dumpsters and angled for the door.

With each step the pain in his head grew worse. How long had it been since his last meds? An hour? The intensity was likely psychosomatic, a result of obsessing about his test results. Put under continued stress, the mind could create physical conditions within the body to match the thought patterns—a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy.

Screw it
.

He stuck his hand into his jeans pocket and withdrew two pills, which he didn’t bother bagging anymore, then swallowed them.

He pulled up in front of the old battered door and fingered the crack where he kept the makeshift key.

Gone?

He peered into the crack, suddenly alarmed. Christy was the only other person who knew where the key was.

Austin reached the door and tested the knob. It twisted easily in his hand. He leaned into the door and pushed into the musty room. It fell shut behind him.

Austin scanned the room. The light was on. He was meticulous about shutting it off every time he left. Someone was here, or had been.

“Christy?”

His voice echoed.

A swirl of dust motes orbited the light bulb overhead. No sign that anything had been disturbed, except for…

The stack of caskets beside the far wall drew his attention. The one Christy sat on last night had been moved. However stoic he might be, logic didn’t preclude the sudden rise in his concern.

Austin slowly approached and leaned over the coffin, half expecting to see the worst. Nothing but a wooden floor. And a piece of jewelry he could hardly mistake.

He reached down and plucked the object from the floor. Christy’s locket.

Austin held it in front of him. The small heart dangled from the thin silver chain and swung under his hand. She must’ve dropped it last night and come back for it. So then, where was she?

He looked again and only then noticed the hairline seam in the floor.

Setting the locket down, he knelt behind the casket and traced the splintered boards with his finger. A trapdoor?

His mind cycled through the scenarios. It was possible that she had fallen through, but into what? What was below? He’d never moved the caskets before.

He braced one hand at the edge of the trapdoor and, with the other, gave the floor a sturdy shove. It opened downward. Spring-loaded.

He leaned close, careful not to fall forward.

“Christy?”

His voice disappeared into the smudge of shadows below.

Again he called her name, this time louder.

Silence.

She could’ve been trapped or might be lying injured in the darkness. Unconscious.

He pulled his hand away and the door snapped back into place. He had to assume that she’d gone down. He also had to assume she was hurt. Or worse.

Moving with urgency now, Austin hurried to the corner of the room where an old wooden extension ladder leaned against the wall behind the cluster of IV stands. He could use it to prop open one side of the trapdoor and climb down, assuming the old ladder wasn’t rotted through.

It took him less than a minute to haul it over to the trapdoor, shove it down and through to prop the door open, and descend carefully, testing each rung as he lowered himself to the floor below.

Light filtered in from above and illuminated the small concrete room around him. It was some sort of abandoned storage room. No sign of Christy.

He dug his apartment key from his pocket and thumbed the attached penlight with RadioShack logo. He’d purchased this two years ago and never used it. Still worked.

“Christy?” He walked to his right, sweeping the bluish-white circle of light from one side to the other. Crates of dust-covered bottles. Scattered newspapers. To his left, a large timber with an eyehook on it—a sliding door to a storage compartment maybe. Christy wasn’t here but someone had been recently: prints covered the dusty concrete.

He peeled one of the old newspapers off the ground.

December 18, 1923.
A paper from the Prohibition era
.
The old hospital had been a hotel then. Someone had built this room to store and move illegal moonshine.

His light zeroed in on the thick sliding timber in the wall. A way to pass illegal alcohol in and out of the building.

He tilted his light down at the base of the wall. One of the bottle trays lay beside the tracks on the floor.

The thought that he might miss his appointment hardly mattered to him in light of the unfolding evidence. If she’d fallen in, she’d also managed to get out, and the only way he could see was past that board.

Austin held the light between his teeth, squatted, and gripped the bottom of the plank. It slid open with some effort, but it wasn’t terribly heavy. Christy could’ve managed.

He nudged the crate into the gap with his foot and lowered the beam, wedging the crate between it and the floor.

He shone his light inside what appeared to be a crawlspace that connected this room to another. The far end of it was covered by plywood. A sliver of light edged its perimeter. A way out. But it was the cell phone on the concrete floor inside that snagged Austin’s attention.

Christy’s. The yellow case was plain enough.

He reached in and grabbed the phone. Pressed the power button. Dead. But why leave it behind?

It had been a long while since Austin felt the kind of concern that swept through him as he considered the possibilities.

He crammed her phone into his left pocket and crawled inside, moving as quickly as the low ceiling would allow. She’d probably made the frantic call from here before managing to kick her way out the other end.

At the far side he shoved the plywood into something that blocked its path. Another grunting shove and the wood slid, pushing several large barrels out of its way as it opened.

Another worry crossed his mind as he pushed the drums aside and stood. Someone had taken the time to slide the drums back in place. Christy, trying to cover her tracks? If so, why?

He stood in a boiler room, no doubt belonging to Saint Matthew’s Hospital. Rows of thick pipes hugged the left wall and ceiling.

If she made it this far she’d probably found her way to the main lobby and was already on her way home. But why hadn’t she returned for her locket or her phone?

He looked at his watch. Already late. Dr. Bishop was as punctual as they got. Austin would have to rebook the appointment.

He stepped toward the exit, hitting dial on his phone as he moved. The call connected to voice mail. He left a quick message saying he’d been delayed and would like to rebook as soon as possible.

Pocketing his phone, he slipped out of the boiler room and headed for the EXIT sign. He surged forward, passing beneath banks of fluorescent lights that buzzed in the ceiling.

He’d reached the exit, taken one step into the stairwell, and was already releasing the door when he heard the distant but unmistakable sound of a woman’s voice speaking urgently enough to stop him. A male voice rumbled through the walls, just barley audible. Again, fairly urgent.

For a moment his mind spun through a reasoning cycle that led him to the thought that this might be Christy. She hadn’t returned for her locket. She hadn’t called from a landline to say she was all right. She’d essentially broken into a hospital.

She was being detained?

He left the stairwell, eased the door shut, and crossed to the other side of the hall, letting the speakers lead him. The exchange became less urgent. The voices were coming from beyond the last door on his right. SUPPLIES, a black plastic sign read in print and braille.

He leaned close to the door and listened.

The girl’s voice came again. She was crying?

Austin twisted the knob quietly and slipped inside.

To his left, large gray cabinets lined two walls. A squat metal desk was shoved against the third. A single banker’s lamp, the only light in the room, cast an amber halo across the tabletop. Straight ahead, the room faded to a patchwork of shadows and a drawn curtain that hung from a track in the ceiling.

“And if I say yes?” He could hear the girl’s soft words clearly now, just beyond the curtain. It wasn’t Christy’s.

“I’ll let you out,” a gentle male voice said.

“I already know the way out. I’ve been there. I’ve seen it. I know.”

“You’ve seen nothing, Alice.”

“I’ve been there. I’ve seen it. I will get out.”

“Not unless I allow it, which I won’t. I just explained the rules. Or weren’t you listening?”

“I don’t care about your rules.”

“Then you’ll suffer.”

“I’m used to it,” she said.

Austin felt his heart rate surge as the low voice chuckled. The old hospital was now a pysch ward. All he could think was that he was overhearing some craziness between two patients. It wasn’t Christy—he should just leave.

And he was about to, but what the man said next stopped him cold.

“If I say you’ll suffer, you will, make no mistake.”

Austin turned toward the curtain, reacting only to that part of him that overrode common sense. This wasn’t his business. Christy was. This wasn’t Christy. Therapists had their ways… this might just be one of them. A good one, for all he knew. Mental illness sometimes brought cycles of suffering that could only be broken through atypical therapy. Was he a psychotherapist? No.

But none of that held him back. He approached the curtain carefully, walking as if the floor was made of cracked glass. They’d stopped talking.

He turned his head and listened intently. One second stretched into five. A faint ripping sound. What, he had no idea.

Leave, Austin. Find Christy
.

The movement of the curtain being swept open on its tracks sealed his course.

Austin jerked back and blinked as light stuttered to life overhead. A man in a white coat stood before him, regarding Austin without expression.

Austin took him in with a single glance.

He was tall, six-two, with close-cropped hair. Brown. Sure eyes stared through black-rimmed glasses that perched high on his angular nose. His facial features were chiseled and square. He was meticulously groomed from his starched white dress shirt and perfectly Windsor-knotted crimson tie to his pleated gray slacks, the hem of which fell perfectly to the top of his coal black shoes. A badge with his picture and name clung to his lapel.

DOUGLAS FISHER, it read. Below his name: ADMISSIONS DIRECTOR.

Austin drew a breath and tried to calm his startled heart.

“Lost?” the man said calmly.

Austin searched for the right response. Nothing presented itself, so he just said, “Yeah.”

For a long time the man looked at him like someone watching a common animal in a zoo. There was nothing threatening about Douglas Fisher, nothing that seemed out of place. Only the exchange that Austin had overheard.

A smile slowly formed on Fisher’s face. “You strike me as the kind of person who thinks he knows what he doesn’t.”

“No, not really. I’m looking for a friend who’s missing.”

“I see. And what would your name be?”

His mind spun, but he saw no reason not to answer. “Austin.”

“Austin?”

“Hartt.”

“Austin Hartt. That’s strange. I don’t think I know you. Being the Director of Admissions, I should at least be aware of everyone in our care. But I don’t recall an Austin Hartt.” He paused. “And you say you’re looking for a friend who’s missing?”

His own predicament settled into his mind. He wasn’t exactly eager to explain his path of entry. Giving his name had been a mistake.

“Yes, but I must have taken a wrong turn and wandered into the ward. She’s probably in the main hospital. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t. Strange how easy it is to miss the right door.” The man’s smile said he was congenial but the circumstances weren’t adding up. Fisher must know that Austin had overheard part of their conversation. And yet he seemed unworried, which could only mean that what Austin had overheard presented no problem for Fisher.

He shrugged. “True. I should be going,” he said, and as he spoke, he glanced past the man. A white porcelain sink with exposed plumbing was bolted to the wall. A wooden stand in the corner next to it. A bar of soap, a glass with a toothbrush sticking out. A six-inch handheld mirror, resting against the corner.