“Do you think you’ll find something?” Kincaid asked.
“Possibly,” Abigail replied.
“Your colleagues didn’t seem to think it was worth the trip.”
“Ramarck has a history of superstition. Sometimes superstition is rooted in fact, sometimes not. For example, some people claim the Arjun people of the Marck practice witchcraft and cannibalism. Most of that is nonsense—any Arjun you’re likely to run into will be a normal and maybe even delightful person. Most Arjun food is delicious. But there could still be a witch or two hiding out in the swamp, and there are probably villages where you can’t trust the unidentifiable meat in the stew pot. Strange things do happen in this region.”
“So, that’s why you took the case?” Kincaid asked. “Unfounded records of witchcraft and cannibalism.”
Abigail turned away and looked back out the window. Though she couldn’t see the sun through the clouds, she knew it was setting. “Have you ever been alone at night, and you start to feel cold? The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and your scalp tightens?”
“Once or twice,” Kincaid said. She could see him nod out of the corner of her eye.
“That’s the feeling I got when I first read that letter. That’s the reason I’m here.”
It was nightfall by the time the carriage reached the town of Ramarck. A heavy rain had set upon them during the last leg of their journey, and it continued to batter the windows of the carriage as they arrived. Here and there, lanterns hung against the darkness, illuminating modest homes and businesses, the vast majority of them constructed on stilts, presumably to keep from sinking into the marsh. The few people they passed eyed the carriage warily and hurried on to their destinations, collars turned up against the wind.
Ramarck’s Royal Special Health Institution had been constructed on a hill at the edge of town. While much of the town had a ramshackle appearance, the towering wings of the institution would have been at home in any of Cygnar’s major cities. A soft glow burned behind three stories of reinforced glass windows set into concrete.
The institution had been built largely with funds provided by the Cygnaran government. The end of the Scharde Invasions had left the nation with numerous soldiers suffering severe mental stresses acquired during their campaign against the Nightmare Empire of Cryx, and it was for those unhinged soldiers the institution had been originally constructed. Unable to integrate back into society after witnessing horrors perpetrated by the undead, the soldiers were placed in the institution’s care but not always for the better. The facility had since expanded to caring for individuals from all walks of life beleaguered by mental maladies. Though Abigail had never heard any substantiated claims of abuse regarding the institution, the fact was it was an area of study and treatment where claims of expertise were dubious at best. No one could say they understood the human mind, and most patients held here would never improve. The most they could hope for was humane treatment and a place to keep them from harming themselves or others.
The carriage halted in front of the massive, steel double doors that served as the institution’s entrance. A pair of gas lanterns flanked the doors, and the silhouette of a man stood beneath the overhang, the light of the lanterns casting his face in shadow.
“Here we go,” Abigail said as she pushed her way out of the carriage and into the rain. Kincaid emerged a few moments later, lugging a bulky black case in one hand and an animal carrier in the other. His expression suggested he was still getting used to being a glorified porter.
The man in the doorway came forward, the light of the gas lamps revealing his bald head and double chin. He was dressed in neatly pressed hospital whites, and a ring of keys jangled at his waist as he crossed the distance to the carriage.
“You must be Professor Thorpe,” the man said, offering his hand. As they shook, Abigail noticed the pads of reinforced leather sown into the sleeves of the man’s shirt. “I’m Maxwell Collins, head orderly here at the institution.”
“Pleasure, Mr. Collins,” Abigail said. Kincaid gave her a puzzled look—she realized he’d never heard her referred to as a professor. His surprise pleased her.
“With the weather, we were beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Collins said. He offered a smile that struck Abigail as forced.
“I never miss an appointment if I can help it. This is my assistant, John Kincaid.”
“Pleasure,” Collins said. He and Kincaid shook, and the orderly squinted at the opening of Kincaid’s sleeve. “That wouldn’t be a firearm, would it?”
Concealed by his shirt, a compact pistol was affixed to the underside of Kincaid’s forearm along with a spring-loaded device that would put the weapon in the palm of the bouncer’s hand at a moment’s notice. Abigail had seen Kincaid employ the small caliber holdout weapon, but tucked away as it was, even she had forgotten he carried it.
“That a problem?” Kincaid asked.
“I’m afraid we don’t allow visitors to carry weapons on the premises. Standard procedure.”
“Sure,” Kincaid said, detaching the weapon from his forearm. He removed the ammunition and handed the pistol to Collins.
“Anything else?” Collins asked.
Abigail opened her mouth to tell him about her own pistol, stowed away from the rest of the equipment, but Kincaid spoke first.
“Just the one. We’re not really the soldiering type.”
“All right then.” Collins dropped Kincaid’s pistol into his coat pocket. “Have to ask. You understand.”
Kincaid gave Collins a curt nod and continued past the orderly toward the entrance.
“Shall we?” Abigail asked.
• • •
THE FIRST FLOOR OF THE INSTITUTION was immaculate and sterile. Its walls were a stark white matching Collins’ uniform, as were its polished floors. The faint scent of disinfectant hung in the air, and there was a degree of silence that, even at such a late hour, felt oppressive. As Collins led them onward, Abigail glanced into the doorways they passed—just empty offices or possibly file rooms. The patients, it seemed, were either kept on other floors or confined to other wings of the facility.
After a few moments, Collins stopped and rapped his knuckles against one of the doors. A voice bid the orderly to enter. Collins slipped inside and closed the door behind him, leaving Abigail and Kincaid alone in the hall. The brass plate mounted beside the door read Dr. Morgan Howlett—Administrative Director. Abigail edged closer to Kincaid.
“We should have told him about my gun,” she said.
“If we had, I wouldn’t be doing my job.”
“Let me do the talking. Remember, they haven’t asked us here, and while some people appreciate and understand our work, others do not, particularly government institutions with reputations to uphold. We don’t need them ending our investigation before it begins.”
“Fine by me,” Kincaid said. “I’m not much of a conversationalist, especially with the authorities. Is that why you said you’re a professor? So they’d take you seriously?”
“I am a professor,” Abigail said with a smile. “Or was. That was before Strangelight. My credentials should hold up. I studied history, theology, and alchemy. But I only taught history.”
“I’m impressed. Where’d you teach?”
“Ceryl University. Awful campus, stodgy and unforgiving professors. I don’t recommend it.”
“I’ll withdraw my application.”
She smirked but then returned to a more serious expression as the door opened, and Collins beckoned them inside. Unlike what they had seen of the rest of the institution, the office they entered was warm and welcoming. The walls were a deep burgundy rather than the clinical white. The smell of antiseptic was replaced with a trace of cigar smoke and the scent of aging parchment. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one side of the room, and a massive oak desk stood as the focal point of the space. An aged man with neat grey hair and a formal vest came around the side of the desk to shake each of their hands
in turn. He introduced himself as Dr. Howlett and bade them take a seat in a pair of high-backed chairs. Howlett returned to his own seat and folded his hands atop the desk. At some point during the introductions, Collins had seen himself out.
“I understand from your correspondence that you’ve taken an interest in a certain patient in our care,” Howlett said. “Now, if I recall, your organization is located in Ceryl, correct?”
“Our headquarters is located in Ceryl, yes,” Abigail replied, “though we do have chapter houses in a number of other cities.”
“That’s quite a distance to travel on behalf of someone you don’t even know.” Howlett retrieved a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid from a shelf behind him. “Drink?”
“No, thank you,” Abigail said. Howlett then looked to Kincaid, who considered the decanter for a moment before dismissing it with a wave of his hand. Howlett’s smile faltered for an instant, betraying annoyance beneath his welcoming demeanor, and he returned the decanter to the shelf.
“I suppose it would be bad form to drink alone,” Howlett said, smiling warmly again.
“With all due respect,” Abigail said, “I’d like to get to the crux of why we’re here. It’s late, and I’m sure you have other matters to attend to. I don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary.”
“Of course,” Howlett said. “You are interested in matters regarding the disappearance of one Nicholas Boden.”
“Yes. As you know, we are here at the request of the Boden family. If we can answer their questions, it will prevent inconveniences for everyone involved.”
“What can I tell you?” Howlett let out a deep sigh and joined the tips of his fingers together in a steeple. He then took a long pause, as though he were carefully considering his next words. “We do our best here at the institute to ensure our patients are treated with proper care. As you might expect, we like our day-to-day tasks to run smoothly. But try as we might, this is not always possible. Accidents happen. Sometimes, there is someone to take the blame. Other times, things just…happen. There is no root cause, no reason. That is the nature of accidents, after all.”
“Are you implying the disappearance of a patient can somehow be regarded as an accident?”
“Our patients are very unpredictable. This often leads to situations beyond our control.”
“A very obtuse answer.”
“It is a very obtuse matter.”
“I see,” Abigail said. It was her turn to pause for thought. She took out a notebook and a fountain pen and balanced the former on her knee. “Perhaps we could start with the details of Mr. Boden’s disappearance. Under what circumstances did he go missing?”
“There isn’t much to tell, really. One night he was in his cell, and the next morning he was gone.”
“Do you think Mr. Boden might have escaped his room on his own?”
Howlett gave a dry laugh. “No, I doubt that very much. That particular patient would just as soon be locked up than face the outside world. Having made considerable gains as a merchant in his younger years, he became a shut-in as he grew older. He preferred isolation. So, no, I don’t think so. Escaping would have been unthinkable to him.”
“So, you think an outside agency was involved. Do you suspect any of your people might have had a hand in his disappearance?”
“I can assure you no member of my staff would even consider such an act. They are very well trained and understand the illegality of removing a patient in this way.”
“Sometimes the simplest explanations are best. A member of the staff would have the means.”
“I have no kidnapper in my employ, and I don’t appreciate you suggesting otherwise.”
Abigail was not rattled. “Until we know more, we can’t make assumptions. Perhaps the one responsible thought he was doing Mr. Boden a service, not kidnapping him. Did you question your staff?”
“Obviously. As I’ve said, they were not involved.” There was a sharpness to his words that told Abigail Dr. Howlett’s patience was wearing thin. She didn’t want to push him to the point that he turned them out, but his reluctance to reveal any substantial information spurred her desire to pry deeper.
“In the letter I received from the Boden family, it mentioned a conversation they had with a former orderly who was under the impression that this was not the first disappearance from your facility. Would you care to elaborate on that?”
Howlett tapped his knuckles across the surface of his desk and glanced around the room until his gaze fell upon the portrait of a decorated navy officer.
“Do you see this painting?” Howlett said, pointing a finger. “This is a portrait of former Navarch Govan Trent. Born in 539 to parents of a minor noble family in Caspia, he enlisted in the Cygnaran Royal Navy at a young age and quickly climbed the ranks. He served as both admiral and then lord admiral of the Southern Fleet during the Scharde Invasions, and while he remained neutral during the Lion’s Coup, he was eventually promoted to the rank of navarch. But before that, immediately after the Scharde Invasions—”
“Lord Admiral Trent was distraught,” Abigail interrupted, “over the death of fellow officer and close friend Captain Theodore Tully. Tully had gone mad from the sights he had seen during the conflict and elected to put a pistol in his mouth. This tragedy focused Trent’s attention on the plight of madness that had enveloped many of those who had battled Cryx during the war. And this awareness led the navarch to found the Ramarck Royal Special Health Institution, in which we are now seated.”
“You are well informed,” Howlett said.
“I always do my research,” Abigail replied.
“Then I’m sure you are aware of all the good work we do at this facility. While there are more accessible institutions elsewhere, we remain the foremost authority on the care and treatment of mental illness, especially that caused by trauma. There are many who rely on our services. We provide not only a safe haven for our patients but also a place to turn for the families of those who can no longer cope with life in the outside world. With that in mind, I ask you to carefully consider the ramifications of your investigation. I am very protective of our reputation.”
Howlett’s voice had steadily become more intense; by the time he was finished, his face had taken on a tinge of red. It was clear to Abigail then that the institution meant a great deal more to Howlett than just a job. He felt a personal responsibility for the facility and its staff, and the presence of two strangers asking probing questions had been enough to put him on the defensive.
“Doctor,” Abigail said, closing her notebook and leaning forward, “as a scholar who has dedicated her life to understanding the truth and more recently to investigating the supernatural, I am familiar with the feeling of frustration when others get the wrong impression. Many people regard the work my colleagues and I do as somehow inferior to other scientific pursuits or, worse, at cross-purposes with the Church. We have been called frauds and troublemakers and more. But none of that has stopped us from being professionals. And our work regularly requires us to exercise discretion. Tarnishing the reputation of the institution is the last thing I want. Nor are we seeking redress with the authorities for matters beyond your control.”
Howlett seemed reassured or at least mollified. He looked from Abigail to the top of his desk then to the painting of Navarch Trent and finally back to Abigail, as if weighing her sincerity.
“Do I have your assurance this conversation will remain confidential?” Howlett asked.
“Absolutely. I may need to relay information to my colleagues should my findings require further investigation, but they, too, are professionals.”
After a time, Howlett finally sighed. “Very well. Yes. We’ve had people vanish. We don’t know how they get out. We don’t know where they go. One minute they’re there and the next…” He turned out his palms.
“They,” Abigail said. “So, to confirm, there have been multiple disappearances.”
“Unfortunately, the di
sappearances aren’t the half of it.” Howlett reached into a drawer and retrieved a thick file. He opened it and slid the file across the desk. The file itself and much of its contents had yellowed with age, though the sheets nearest the top were clearly new. The words Incident Report were written across the top of the first sheet, followed by dates, names, and other forms of information.
Abigail leafed through a portion of the file, scanning the reports and noting similarities. Most of the file’s contents detailed violent behaviors on the part of patients or accidents that had befallen both staff and those in their care. One report described an orderly who had been found at the bottom of a stairwell with his head twisted backward, evidently the result of a fall. Another contained the personal account of an orderly who had sustained a series of small puncture wounds about the abdomen and who claimed to have been bitten by some unseen force. Yet another examined the apparent strangulation of a patient and the subsequent questioning of all staff with access to the woman’s cell.
“What is the Yellow Ward?” Abigail asked, noting its inclusion on each document.
“We have four primary wards here at the institution. Green is for those patients who still retain most of their sanity and are relatively calm. For the most part, they are like you or me, but they are mentally fragile, withdrawn, easily unsettled. Harmless but requiring care. Yellow is for patients who are docile but more severely deranged. They do not intend to cause harm to others, but often have a tenuous grip on reality and require more intensive treatment. Some are dangerous but usually because their delusions cause them to misinterpret the world. The other two wards, Orange and Red, are reserved for severe cases, including those easily provoked to emotional excess. We also have what we refer to as the Great Vault, or Black Ward, which is reserved for extremely violent individuals—those who are beyond our aid.”
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