by Katy Munger
It was an old-fashioned monstrosity of a building, a turn-of-the-century hotel mixed with a castle. It was all gingerbread trim, peaked roofs, and wings stuck on as if the house had been made out of giant blocks. The first floor was dark, with narrow windows that I suspected meant office space. The second floor had bigger rooms, judging from the width of the windows facing into the night. Lights were blazing in one of the largest rooms and I could see the shadows of people walking back and forth. Probably a common area where the residents could enjoy a little free time and line up for their nightly medications from Nurse Ratchett before bed. The third floor seemed to be a compromise of the first and second. If, as I suspected, Haven House had once been a resort hotel, than the third floor had probably held guest rooms, now converted into bedrooms for the patients. But where would Robert Jr. be? Many of the third-floor windows were already dark, though a handful were cheerily lit, spilling fractured light onto the lawn below. I knew what that meant. The third floor windows were newer and wire had been embedded into the glass, ensuring that no one could break through and escape. They had the same windows in the Durham County jail, although at least those windows overlooked the ballpark nearby, giving some of the inmates a birds-eye view of the Durham Bulls games. The residents of Haven House were not so lucky. Even if they did manage to slip out of the building unseen, there was nothing around but miles and miles of undeveloped mountain land, thick with black bears, boars, coyote invaders, and other creatures guaranteed to scare the everloving crap out of you.
Bears. I had not thought of bears until then. Just the thought of bears made me want to run. Or curl up in a ball and play dead. Or climb a tree and scream for help.
Damnit. Why could I never remember what you’re supposed to do if you meet a bear nose-to-nose?
I put my fears aside and kept thinking about the best way to sneak into Haven House. Facilities like this were built to keep the patients from being able to get out. I wanted to get in. I knew there was probably a way.
I spotted a drainpipe nestled into a corner where two of the wings of the building met, but discarded the idea immediately. I had not shimmied up a drainpipe since about forty pounds ago and the last thing I needed was to end up on the ground, back broken, and paralyzed for life. They’d probably just drag me inside by my lifeless legs and never let me out again. And there was no way I could slip inside one of the doors. A few staff members had left while I was watching the building and the heavy thud of the doors shutting behind them made it plain that Haven House compensated for a lack of window bars and fences with serious door security. But I knew there was always a secret way in and out. Always.
As the moon rose above the horizon of a valley in the distance, the glow caught the edge of something metal clinging to the building. I crept a little closer. A network of old-fashioned metal fire escapes snaked along one edge of the building, a reminder of long ago glory when it had been a hotel packed by wealthy Carolinians escaping the relentless heat of the lower lands. Did I dare? For all I knew I'd be stepping right into security guard headquarters if I found a way in.
I had to try. I had no other options. I jogged back to my car and retrieved a crowbar from the trunk before returning to Haven House, grateful for the cover of darkness but trying hard not to think about how black bears would blend perfectly into the night. For one heart-stopping moment I heard leaves rustling and froze, but it was only a possum trundling through the forest. The creature saw me and stared back with rat-like eyes buried in a narrow, pinched face. It gave me a disdainful look, its butt arched in the air, making it plain how little it thought of me encroaching on its world.
“God, but you’re ugly,” I told it.
The possum ignored me and kept moving.
Acutely aware I was not the only creature stirring that night, I followed the shadows of Haven House until I reached a far wall. The first fire escape I came to creaked alarmingly under my weight and I abandoned it in favor of finding a sturdier ladder. I was finally able to haul my fat ass up a series of rusty rungs onto a metal platform and peer into a second story window. The room was dark inside, but the door to it had been left ajar. I could see a thin sliver of light leaking into the room from the corridor beyond, enough for me to verify that no one was in the room. Beggars can't be choosers and I knew this was the best I could do.
The window was locked, but it had not been modernized like the patient bedroom windows. It was an old-fashioned wooden sash window, secured by a metal clasp, and it had been painted so many times that the lock probably barely held the window shut. With enough power, I thought I could pop it. I started by working my Swiss Army knife along the bottom of the window until I broke the paint seal. Eventually, I pried it open enough to insert my crowbar tip. I moved the crowbar back and forth along the bottom of the window, putting pressure on it every few inches. When I was convinced that I would be able to force the bottom pane up, I jammed the crowbar into the middle of the window, right below the lock, and pushed down on it with all of my weight. The window shifted, strained, held, and then tore free with a groan that disturbed a few nearby owls. They answered the sound with an eerie series of owl screeches and chatter, no doubt alerting the bears that dinner was nearby should I make a mistake and fall. Snitches.
I stuck my head inside the dimly lit room. It smelled like rubbing alcohol and coffee. A break or supply room, or both. I shimmied inside and dropped to the floor, landing in the middle of a small space surrounded by shelves on three sides. The shelves were stacked high with staff uniforms, adult diapers, cleaning supplies, and all the other accoutrements of a long-term care facility. I doubted I could conceal my identity for long, but it would be stupid not to take advantage of the long row of nicely folded scrubs that greeted me at eye level. I selected a pair with green and purple elephants dancing across the fabric, slipped the pants and shirt on over my jeans and T-shirt, then smoothed out my ponytail until it vaguely resembled one that a medical professional might actually wear, at least on a bad hair day.
There was no one in the hallway. I knew from the lack of activity that either no patients lived on this wing or everyone was asleep. I walked quickly toward the opposite wing of the building, ducking into an alcove when I heard a stairwell door open. But it was only a man with a mop who stuck his head in, surveyed the hallway floor, and apparently deemed it clean enough for his standards. He left without entering any further. I waited for my heart rate to settle, then followed him into the stairwell. I could hear him clattering down the steps below. Fortunately, I was headed up to the third floor. That’s where Robert Jr. would be.
Several dark hallways later, I found a stairwell that led to the resident’s wing. I could hear the noise of patients as I grew closer. Someone was laughing. Someone else was crying. I understood both impulses all too well at the moment. As I slipped quietly down the hall, checking the name tags on each door, I heard two male voices arguing in one of the rooms. Right after that, I passed a man with a remarkably sturdy pair of lungs shouting, "I want hot chocolate!" over and over without stopping. I knew I'd go crazy living with that kind of noise day after day, night after night. Finally, realizing that skulking was no way to blend in, I began walking briskly down the hall, trying to project an air of having somewhere important to go.
I peered into each room I passed. Apparently, there was a rule at Haven House that everyone had to leave their door at least half open at all times. I saw many people already asleep, while others wrote in journals, and still others stared aimlessly out their windows. All of the patients on this hall were men, though I was certain I also heard female voices as I passed some of the rooms. I wondered if the staff allowed in-room visits from other patients or just looked the other way.
A door opened at the far end of the hallway and I stepped quickly into the nearest room, praying it would belong to one of the early-to-bed patients. The room was dark and I could hear rhythmic snores rising and falling behind me. God bless tranquilizers. Efficient footsteps tap-tapped pas
t and I risked peeking out to see the rear view of a woman in a white uniform walking toward a metal door at the opposite end of the hallway. She pushed through it and disappeared. Probably the entrance to the area where the female patients lived. I had about ten more rooms to check in my search for Robert Jr. and knew I needed to move fast, before the nurse returned.
I found him in the next-to-last room. He was sitting on his bed talking to someone nearby, or at least I hoped he was. Who knew how far gone he might be?
When I poked my head inside his room, I discovered an emaciated brunette who could not have been more than 15 years old sitting on the chair by Robert’s bed. She was unbuttoning her blouse.
"Hold it right there," I said sternly. The girl looked up, startled, her hands reflexively crossing over her white bra.
"I didn't ask her to do that," Robert Jr. said quickly. His voice had an odd, almost metallic tone to it, as if he were forcing it out with an effort the rest of us didn’t have to make. And he probably was. He was probably doped to the gills with god knows how many drugs.
The girl had an unfocused look in her eyes, though she did not keep them on me for long. She returned to gazing at Robert with adoration. And, honestly, I could not blame her. Robert Jr. was a younger version of his father. I stared at him, acutely aware of his handsome face and flawless body, fractured on the inside in ways I could not fathom and yet so striking on the outside: strong jaw, wide mouth, aquiline nose, chiseled muscles, thick hair that fell across his forehead in an unintentionally dashing swoop. No wonder the young lady was enamored of him. He could have been a Roman god with a face and body like that.
It is odd to me how some people can be so perfect on the outside, yet so broken on the inside, beset by missing chemicals and synapses that fail to fire, their reasoning impaired in ways I could not begin to understand. Why is it so hard to believe that beautiful people suffered from mental illness just like the rest of us? Why do we expect so much from them simply because their exterior matches our idea of the ideal?
The thought made me think of Cody Sherrill and how I had instantly fallen for his seedy charm. Burly was right: I was an idiot. But at least I was smart enough to know when I was being played.
“What do you want?” the young woman demanded of me. I realized I had been standing there, staring, for a creepily long period of time. Perhaps I had fallen asleep on my feet. It felt like days since I'd been able to truly rest.
"You're supposed to be in your room," I told her sternly. "You know the rules."
She stood up slowly and intentionally bumped me as she passed by, her jealousy kicking in. She had noticed me staring at Robert Jr. and was declaring war.
Boy, was she lucky. If I had not been masquerading as a nurse’s aid, I would have clocked her one for that sullen maneuver.
"I get to stay up until midnight," Robert Jr. told me, not caring that the girl had left. "I followed every single rule for a week, so I get to stay up until midnight."
"That's cool," I said. I sat down in the chair the young girl had vacated. "Knock yourself out."
He stared at me suspiciously. "Knock myself out?" he asked.
"That's an expression. It means you get to stay up until midnight."
"Excellent!" He sat up straighter, grinning at me with a smile hauntingly familiar. It was just like his father's and it pierced my heart to know that such a smile had to be confined to such a tiny corner of the world as this room.
Without warning, his eyes narrowed and he stared at me with a coldness I could feel in my veins, waiting for me to speak. He showed no curiosity or suspicion, though. I guess a complete stranger barging into your bedroom was nothing unusual when you led an institutionalized life.
"Listen,” I told him. “I’ll be straight with you. I’m not really a nurse’s aid.”
“I know,” he said. “No one wears those stupid dancing elephant uniforms. And no wonder. You look terrible in them.”
I looked down at my borrowed scrubs and couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny or not. I let it go in favor of clarity. “I'm a friend of Candy and Roxy’s,” I explained. “I need to talk to you about them.”
He did not react. I wondered just how much medication he was on. Too much, I decided. I’d need to be very clear about what I wanted.
“Did you know that Candy was missing?" I asked him.
It took a moment for this information to sink in. But he got it, no question. I saw panic and concern in his face. Heavily medicated or not, he was also functional.
"Candy?" he asked. "Roxy told me that she had gone away for a little while. Like I used to go away whenever I felt like hurting someone. Is that what happened to her? Is she okay?"
Felt like hurting someone? Fear snaked its way into my brain. I had to think fast. If Roxy had decided he was not ready to hear that Candy had been kidnapped, I did not want to be the one to send him over the edge. Especially since that might set him off, which would likely attract the attention of a nurse. I’d have a hard time explaining who I was.
"I’m sure Candy is fine,” I said quickly. “She texted me to say she wanted to come home and needed me to pick her up. But her texts stopped before she told me where she was. I thought maybe you might know. Did she text you about it?"
As cover stories go, it was ridiculous. But Robert Jr.’s thinking was not as organized as mine. He accepted the story without question and wrinkled his brow, trying to figure out how he could help.
At that moment, I realized that we were sitting toe-to-toe, so close that we could have kissed. And I had a sudden feeling that this was exactly what Robert Jr. and his underage girlfriend had been doing a few minutes before. Until I had taken her place. It was a strange feeling, as if I had suddenly been ripped out of my life and transplanted into his world of relentless monotony and mandated order punctuated by the outbursts of strangers. Panic flared in me as I imagined being seized and admitted as a patient and not allowed to go home.
I took a deep breath, trying to get a grip.
"Who are you?" he asked. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“I know your sisters,” I repeated. "We’re friends. Like I said, Candy told me that she needed me to come pick her up. I forget the name of the place. But I remember she said that it was the camp where the two of you had gone when you were kids."
He just stared at me blankly.
I had an idea. "Give me your cell phone," I said.
He fumbled in his pocket and handed it over. It was a simple phone-and-text model with no browser installed and, from his messaging history, it had been programmed to confine his outside world contact to family members only.
I opened his text messages from Candy. "See?" I told him, scrolling down to the part where he could read what Candy had said about their attending a camp as children. "Do you know the camp she was talking about?"
He smelled like Axe, that aftershave teenage boys everywhere shower themselves in these days. Another disconcertingly normal thing about him that made me all the sadder his life was confined to Haven House.
"What does this part mean?" he asked, ignoring my question. He pointed to the gibberish. "I have been reading it over and over, looking for the code. I think maybe she found something valuable, like treasure. These are clues, see?" He pointed to some of the nonsensical phrases the dictation app had picked up. "I've been looking and looking at it, but I can't crack the code. I think it's an alphanumeric code. Did you know that most ciphers are based on…"
I interrupted him before he went off on a tangent. "I think maybe this stuff is just people talking in the background," I explained. "You know how you can press that little microphone and it writes down what you say into it? I think there were people standing near your sister and the phone picked up their conversation."
I could feel his disappointment. It was a very ordinary explanation for a situation that had seemed exciting and happily out of the ordinary for him. He looked doubtful. I had to try again. "Listen, Robbie, I don't want to make yo
u worry, but I think Candy might be in trouble. Can you tell me where she might be? Do you know? Can you even remember the name of the camp where you went as a child?"
Insulting him worked. "I guess she’s at Camp Tikkinaka. That's what she says right here. That they’re going there. But they aren’t going to let her stay. They make you leave after eighth grade. Someone should tell her."
My pulse quickened. "So Tikkinaka is the name of the camp you both went to when you were kids?"
He was quiet for a moment, and I had an uneasy feeling that I had, inadvertently, evoked some bad memories.
“Candy went there," he explained. "I only got to go for part of one summer. They said I could not come back because there was this boy who went there with me and his parents said that if they let me come back they would sue the camp. So the camp told me to stay home. But Candy got to go back. And that wasn't fair. I liked it there, too."
Oh, god. What had he done to the other boy? Tied him up with lanyards? Tortured him with popsicle sticks? Beat him with canoe paddles? Did I really want to know?
“What happened?” I said, despite myself. “What did you do to the other boy?” Please don’t let it be something like he attacked the boy for sitting by his bed and asking annoying questions.
“I pushed him off the dock,” Robert Jr. explained calmly. “Then I wouldn’t let him back on it because he was being mean to my sister. Everyone made a big deal out of it just because he couldn’t swim. Who goes to camp without knowing how to swim?”
