The Long Count
Page 11
The welfare officer could tell him nothing about the fire except that it had happened six weeks previously and that the patients had been shipped to various other secure establishments throughout the country. She told him that if he wanted to know any more he would have to talk to the fire department’s investigators. Their initial reports indicated kerosene, but given the hospital kept a massive store of the fuel, they could not say whether it had been used to start the fire deliberately or not.
It was something at least, and when he hung up the phone Quarrie was considering the fact that Mary-Beth Gavin had mentioned a place called Trinity to the girl at the grocery store. It might be nothing, but then it might have been something she let slip to someone she thought would not be talking to anybody else.
Picking up the phone again he called McIntyre’s shop and asked to speak to Jane Perkins.
‘Mrs Perkins,’ he said when she came on the line, ‘did Mary-Beth ever talk to you about a hospital called Trinity?’
She seemed to think about that. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The only Trinity I know is the Catholic church on Merrill Drive – and a hospital, you say? I guess I’d remember that.’
‘What about Carla Simpson. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘No sir, it doesn’t.’
‘So you didn’t call her in Tulsa, Oklahoma?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
She transferred him to the office and he asked McIntyre about Trinity but he’d never heard of the hospital either.
Hanging up once more, Quarrie sat back in the chief’s chair as the door opened and Billings came in. ‘Quarrie,’ he said, ‘I hoped I’d find you here. What’re you doing right now?’
Quarrie caught the weight in his expression. ‘I’m planning on a road trip. Why?’
‘Marshall, Texas,’ the chief said. ‘I think our boy came back for the car.’
The door to the Baptist mission cottage was standing open and two city cops occupied the path between it and the gate. The area was not taped off yet and the children were home from school. Five of them divided between the back seats of two Marshall City prowl cars. Two more cruisers blocked the road and Quarrie followed Billings as he pulled over just ahead of where an ambulance was parked. Quarrie was driving the Ford the county had loaned him. Fitted with a shortwave radio, but unmarked, he looked through the windshield where the two paramedics were waiting with a gurney.
Together he and the chief passed between the cars that were stopping traffic and Quarrie glanced at the pale-looking faces of the children. ‘Who found her?’ he asked. ‘Who was it called this in?’
A grim expression on his face, the chief nodded towards the children.
Inside the house all was silent. Quarrie made his way along the hall to the kitchen where he could see blood spattered in the open doorway. He could smell it, the metallic tincture where it caught in his throat.
The maid was sitting with her back to the sink and her head flopped so her chin seemed to balance on one shoulder. Her mouth was open, blood smeared across her lips and one of her front teeth was broken. Blood and tissue, brain matter coated the units and the base of the sink where the back of her skull had shattered. For a long time Quarrie studied her, then he turned to the window and garage across the yard where two beaten-looking doors hung open. Again he looked at the maid sitting there with her hands upturned at her sides and her legs thrown out where her heels had scuffed up the floor. He could see a puddle on the linoleum where her bladder had emptied. Her eyes were glazed, vacant pools fixed on a patch where wallpaper was peeling.
Outside, he worked a cigarette from his pack and hunted for his lighter. The chief followed him across to the garage where Quarrie paused with the unlit Camel in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, looking at a patch of oil on the concrete floor.
‘Do we know what was in here?’ he said.
The chief moved alongside. ‘We’re waiting on the pastor to tell us.’
Taking his Zippo Quarrie put the flame to his cigarette. ‘I’m headed south right now, Chief. Panola County. As soon as you get a handle on what this sumbitch is driving, I’d be obliged if you give me the heads up.’
He drove the blacktop with an image of the dead girl in his head, thinking about how Isaac had told him he had a brother with issues that were serious enough to put him in a sanatorium, but had said nothing about an asylum for the criminally insane.
Crossing the freeway he drove Route 59 through the wetlands with Martin Lake to the west and passed beyond the city of Carthage. He had been there once before, though that was a few years ago, when they had been investigating vote rigging during the county elections.
South of town he drove beyond the dirt road that led to Murvaul Lake and took the east fork towards the hamlets of Paxton and Joaquin. At Joaquin he was on dirt himself heading deep into the woodland and with the way the trees pressed the lake, he was reminded of the Bowen property.
A dozen miles further the road forked and he made a right turn, passing through stand after stand of mast-straight hardwood where a breath of wind toyed with the upper branches. Nothing on the road out here and the thought of an asylum so deep in the woods made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Finally he came to an opening in the trees where the road was pot-holed and weeds were beginning to overtake the gravel. Hunting trails led off both left and right and he picked out an old deer blind built for bowmen.
Spotting a sign up ahead, he slowed the car and considered where the dirt road threaded into a narrow causeway.
Trinity: he could make out the printed letters, a little worn and weathered, on a piece of painted plywood. Turning onto the causeway, he rumbled deeper into the woods. Half a mile farther and a red-brick wall overgrown with lichen and moss formed a barrier among the trees. Twin gates in heavy scrolled iron hung between a pair of brick pillars with the causeway winding between. Quarrie nosed the Ford through those gates and fifty yards deeper the trees gave out and he was in a meadow where the grass was knee-high, and he was reminded of what Isaac had said about his last firefight.
A little lopsided to look at, the building appeared to stagger, almost as if it wavered on loose foundations. Only half of it still intact, the panels that remained were scorched the color of charcoal. Southern clapboard, it still bore the Gothic imaginings of its architect. Built over three floors, or at least it had been, the top floor was all but gone and what remained of the squared facade seemed to hang like some kind of suggestion.
Stopping the car, Quarrie let the engine idle for a second before he shut it off. He remained where he was seated behind the wheel peering up at the ironwork balconies. Beyond them windows that were glassless and empty were marked with more iron, only these were vertical bars. The second floor was supported by a pillared veranda that seemed to work its way around the entire building. Clearly there had been a number of smaller buildings but all that was left were the stone foundations.
Climbing from the car he put on his hat and stood with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, gazing across the tumbledown grounds to the darkened remains that seemed so stark against the trees. Movement behind him, a sound from the gates, instinctively his hand snaked inside his jacket. As he turned he saw an old Mexican pushing a bicycle. He wore a beaten-looking hat and a Mackinaw and he stopped when he spotted Quarrie.
For a moment they just looked at each other, then the Mexican came on, wheeling that bicycle along the overgrown road with a squeak sounding every time the wheels made a revolution. A bushy, gray beard seemed to shuck from under the stampede string of that hat, the old man with a kind of nonchalance about him as he stopped next to the car and rested the bicycle. From somewhere in the pocket of his Mackinaw he produced the stub of a cigar and, palming his Zippo, Quarrie tossed it.
‘Gracias,’ the man said.
‘De nada.’
‘¿Habla español?’
With a nod Quarrie continued. ‘¿Quien es usted?’
‘Un viejo, joven; un homb
re viejo.’
‘I ain’t that young, and you ain’t that old come to think on it.’ Still speaking Spanish Quarrie caught the light in the old man’s eye as he considered the pair of Blackhawks pouched under his jacket. ‘Texas Ranger,’ he said. ‘I’m here on account the fire.’
‘Ah.’ The Mexican nodded now, his gaze shifting from the guns to the burned-out building. Working the cigar stub between his teeth he rolled it from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘A terrible blaze, and if there had been any kind of wind that night the smoke jumpers would still be back here.’ Wheeling the bicycle closer he peered inquiringly into Quarrie’s face. ‘You must have come a long way, señor. I left a pot of coffee on the stove when I went out and there should still be some if it’s not already burnt to the bottom.’
With the old man pushing his bicycle Quarrie fell in beside him and together they made their way along the pathway that veered to the left of the building where various other paths bisected the overgrown grounds. It was only then Quarrie noticed the saddlebags the man had fixed over the back wheel and how they were bulging with groceries.
‘What’s your name?’ Quarrie asked him.
‘Pablo. My name is Pablo Mendez.’
‘I’m John Q,’ Quarrie told him.
Pausing for a moment the old man wiped the palm of his hand over the skirt of his jacket, and when they shook Quarrie noticed that his little finger was missing at the first knuckle.
‘What brings a Ranger all the way out here when there’s nothing to see but a burned-down building?’
Quarrie hunched his shoulders. ‘I don’t really know, to be honest. Guess I was hoping to find out a little about what happened.’
They crossed the grounds to the wall where it was split by a heavy gate. The old man led the way through and they were in the trees briefly, before the path spilled into a clearing. Quarrie picked out a low-lying shack on the far side that was so well camouflaged it was all but swallowed by the forest.
‘Mi casa,’ the old man stated with a certain solemnity. ‘I used to pay rent but I don’t pay anymore. They charged me rent when the hospital was here, but then they paid for my power as it came off their generator. Now there is no power so I don’t pay rent anymore. I just mind the place as I did before, only there is less to mind of course.’ Leaning the bicycle against the wall he pushed open the door.
A single room dimly lit by a fading sunlight that was just about breaking through the unwashed windows. A stone fireplace at one end, the old man had firewood stacked and an assortment of wax candles covered almost the entire expanse of the mantel. Two seamy-looking armchairs were set before it, and against the other wall was an old-world wood-fired stove where a coffee pot was warming.
‘They’re still paying me,’ the Mexican stated. ‘The trustees, they pay me to watch that old ruin in the hope that one day someone will drive up here and see its potential. Meantime, the insurance company is taking care of the trust so I imagine I’ll be here for a while yet.’
Taking off his coat he hung it on an iron peg behind the door and offered Quarrie a chair.
Sitting down, Quarrie crossed his ankle over his knee. ‘Pablo,’ he said. ‘The fire, do you know what caused it?’
The Mexican made a face. ‘I’m afraid I cannot tell you. I’ve had fire marshals here and the investigators, asking all kinds of questions. There was talk of the power shorting; some kind of outage that set sparks flying.’ His eyes had darkened quietly. ‘There was also talk of kerosene. This is an old place and not all of it was given over to electric. I mean, some of the outbuildings had no power and that’s what the stocks of fuel were for.’ Vaguely he indicated beyond the copse to the gate. ‘None of those buildings are there anymore. Every one of them was razed, and with the way that blaze caught hold it’s a wonder there is anything left.’
He took a cloth to the handle on the coffee pot and poured two tin mugs, dark and sugarless; he passed one over and Quarrie thanked him.
‘Tell me about the hospital,’ he said. ‘I talked to a lady from Panola County Welfare and she referred to this place as an asylum for the criminally insane.’
‘That’s what it was.’ Pablo settled in the other armchair. ‘A place where dangerous people with mental illnesses were kept well away from normal people they might otherwise wish to harm. That’s why they have the wall. It was never here back when this was a private house: the wall was built to keep the patients in, and this location was chosen specifically because it was so remote. If anyone escaped there would be plenty of time for the dogs to find them before they could get anywhere they might hurt somebody. Half a dozen Walker hounds the trustees paid for and a man called Briers took care of. Somebody told me they use Walker hounds to tree cougars, but they’re just as good at hunting people.’
Taking a sip from his mug he nursed it between both palms. ‘As far as I know nobody ever escaped from Trinity, at least not before the fire. The hospital was patrolled by armed guards just like a regular prison. The patients were allowed to exercise of course, and the regime encouraged hard work. I had a detail helping me with my chores, fixing doors, painting, clearing leaves in the fall.’ He looked almost wistful then at the memory. ‘But there were orderlies everywhere and, as I say, guards who were always armed.’
Setting his cup down on the hearth, Quarrie hunched to the edge of his chair. ‘What happened to the patients that survived the fire? The welfare officer said that most were accounted for but not all.’
Pablo lifted his palms. ‘That’s right,’ he stated. ‘People are missing and only two bodies were found – at least two sets of badly charred bones. There were no other bodies recognizable but that does not mean they didn’t succumb, and I imagine they did. Kerosene you see, with that fuelling the flames the heat would’ve been incredible and even bones would be incinerated. Nobody can say how many died. I was told that as of now there are seven people still unaccounted for and all of them patients. They might have got away of course, but it’s much more likely they burned.’
Through the low window Quarrie could see the woodland outside and beyond the wall the sagging shoulder of the building. ‘Pablo,’ he said, ‘how long have you been here?’
‘Working as the caretaker? About twelve years.’
‘I guess with what you did and all, you must have been around the patients?’
With a nod Pablo peered beyond him. ‘Yes, I was. And they were all right, most of them. One of the things that changed after Dr Beale arrived was how the patients were treated and how members of staff were encouraged to interact with them.’
‘Dr Beale?’ Quarrie said.
‘That’s right; he was the chief psychiatrist here, though he also looked after another sanatorium in Louisiana. Shreveport, I think it is. He arrived about four years ago and just a few months after Dr Sievers resigned.’ The old man’s gaze soured a little. ‘Nobody liked Sievers; not many of the staff and certainly not the patients. There was a cruel streak in that man and he treated the patients merely as prisoners, which of course they were. But he made no effort to deal with the afflictions that had brought them here in the first place.’ Flaring his nostrils a little he sighed. ‘He left after the orderly was stabbed.’
Quarrie shifted his weight where he sat. ‘An orderly was stabbed? What happened?’
‘One of the patients put a knitting needle through his eye, a woman considered to be one of the most dangerous.’ A shudder seemed to cut between the old man’s shoulders. ‘A stick of a thing she was, I used to see her in the grounds sometimes, and yet she was strong enough to do that to a fully grown man.’ He crossed himself. ‘She was a special case, a patient who had been here since long before I arrived, and she wasn’t allowed outside with the other women. She could only go out when they were inside on account of how she was so violent, and it was all to do with her baby. Leastways, that’s what Ms Gavin said.’
Aware of a little tension in his shoulders Quarrie looked up. ‘Mary-Beth Gavin you mean?’
‘Anyway, this patient ended up not only in the common room, but sitting with some of the older women who had access to knitting needles.’ His eyes were somber now. ‘An orderly came in and he knew she shouldn’t be mixing with the other patients so he tried to get her up from the chair, but he made the mistake of grabbing her doll with one hand while he reached for her with the other.’ His voice puttered into stillness and he crossed himself a second time. ‘That tiny woman, she got hold of a knitting needle from one of the other patients and jammed it through the orderly’s eye.’
Quarrie wrinkled his brow.
‘He survived,’ Pablo told him. ‘But of course he lost the eye.’
‘And the patient? What happened to her?’
Pablo shrugged. ‘Nothing. She was here for life already and it was a mistake by the staff. They just took her back to her cell, but Dr Sievers retired soon after.’
‘And Mary-Beth Gavin: what do you know about her?’
‘Not much,’ the old man told him. ‘She left right after the fire. Funny that, she was the kind of person any establishment would jump at recruiting and I’d have thought Dr Beale would’ve wanted to take her.
‘But he didn’t?’
‘No. She took off right after the fire. And I mean as soon as it was clear all the records had been destroyed. She just left and nobody seemed to know where she’d gone, and nobody seemed to know why she had gone so suddenly either.’ He looked askance at Quarrie. ‘Nobody ever said anything. But I’m not a fool: something had scared her badly.’