Grace grabbed a handful of hair and yanked hard, holding Claire hard and fast. “Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” The heat of her breath filled Claire’s ear. “I hear you beggin’ for the Lord to save you. You better pray hard because He won’t help you now, and Greta isn’t here today.” She jerked the fistful of hair harder while Claire cried out. “You wanna run away, do you?” With a few quick maneuvers, Grace unlocked the door and pushed Claire into the stairwell, quickly pinning her against the wall. The attendant’s eyes burned with fury, as her lips pursed themselves into a cold, grim line, an expression displaying an intent to kill.
Within seconds, Grace worked her hands securely around Claire’s neck, locking her into a deathly chokehold. “I could just drag your sorry no account ass to the basement and lock you up where you’ll never be found again.” Grace shook Claire’s head so hard, she feared her eyes might pop out of her head. “Or I could let you feel the warmth of a man again, and maybe that’ll knock some sense in you. That old shed out back would do the trick, don’t you think?”
Claire thought she might faint, but she’d remained conscious enough to hear Grace’s words, especially the last ones. Fear kicked in an adrenalin rush. Aware of her hands again, Claire used the burst of power, pounding on Grace’s shoulders, wriggling and struggling against the force that held her. Grace maintained her grip, stepping backwards down the stairs, pulling Claire with her. In a flash, Claire remembered one of the fight scenes in an action movie she and Adrian had seen at the Lutesse. Desperate, she rammed her knee between Grace’s legs. The grip around her neck loosened. Claire struck out and wrenched free from the chokehold squeezing the life out of her.
Grimacing in pain, Grace wavered. Claire watched in horror as the attendant tried steadying herself, only to overstep the edge of the stairs. The woman who’d been standing in front, choking her to death, now tumbled down a flight of concrete steps, rolling and rolling until she landed at the bottom with a sickening thud. Claire remained rooted to the step for several seconds, not sure if what she’d just witnessed was a dream or a grim reality.
She turned her eyes toward the door, which had swung back nearly to a closed position. Not a sound echoed from the hallway. The motionless body at the foot of the stairs verified her fear. Claire knew one thing. Any association with a dead body held consequences, none of them good. Relief was now bittersweet. No would believe her story if she told it.
Claire swallowed hard and tried to think. Raspy breaths pushed against her constricted throat. Going back upstairs and screaming for help would be her undoing. Grace hadn’t moved since the fall. Claire shuddered. The cool air against her naked skin reminded her that she didn’t have any clothes, or even one of the towels from the hydrotherapy room.
From the silence in the stairwell, no one was coming around anytime soon. Claire took one last breath, warding off the dizziness setting in. She gripped the iron railing and crept to the bottom of the stairs. When she looked down at Grace, she detected the ring of keys resting beside her.
She studied Grace’s eyes, their glassy surface reminding her of the pig she’d seen in the slaughter house. The face already held an ashen gray color. As Claire turned for a closer look, she saw blood in the strands of Grace’s hair. The attendant’s chest didn’t move. A chill coursed down her spine, leaving her a little lightheaded. The seriousness of the situation hit her full force: a dead woman lay at her feet.
Leaning against the wall, Claire arranged in some semblance of order the typhoon of thoughts deluging her mind. If ever an opportunity presented itself, this one did. She took a mental inventory of what she knew, like her current position in the building, and how this position lined up with the layout of the rest of the building.
From her work in the kitchens and following Liza to different places, the tunnels had lost their mystery. Finding her way through Hatchie River and out a door wouldn’t be a problem, especially if she looked like one of the staff and not like a patient. Her eyes panned back to Grace and the ring of keys.
The keys to freedom and salvation lay within her reach. With those keys, she’d could leave the asylum, through any wing, room, corridor, and door leading to the outside world. Claire viewed the woman lying in a rumpled heap. The clothing size came close to hers, and if she wore them, she’d be incognito. With keys in her possession, Claire had only to make her way to the tunnels, out a door, and head for the woods. She lifted her eyes and mouthed a quick, silent prayer of gratitude.
For the next several minutes, time sped by, leaving nothing but a blur in her mind. Fear and disgust at touching something so foul as Grace’s dead body left her long enough to do what was needed. She stooped down and grasped at buttons. Every second counted, and she moved quickly. She strained, rolling the body first one way, then another, pulling off articles of clothing. Claire soon left Grace as naked as herself, except for the panties.
Armed with sure-handed speed, Claire put on a blouse, bra, skirt, stockings, and shoes. She even pulled the ribbon from Grace’s hair, first checking for drops of blood, and secured it around her own head. After fastening the last button, she reached down, scooped up the keys, and glanced at the door above. Still no one had come. This opportunity would never come again, and in the wake of this nightmare, she tapped into her own bravery. She turned away from Grace and continued down hallways and stairs, never looking back until she reached the tunnels.
Inside the tunnels, Claire followed hallways, noting turns she and Liza had made until she reached the door to the outside world. Her hands shook as she breathed out a sigh of relief and lifted up the keys. Thankfully, only one person passed by, a youthful lady who seemed in a hurry and averted her eyes. But now another problem arose. Which key fit the door? Her heart pounded. Sweat dripped down her back. Had she ever seen the key Liza used when they visited the slaughter house and dairy barn? One option remained: try each key until she found the right one. Luck kicked in when she tried the fourth key. The lock turned with a click.
Sunshine filled the dim hall and the rush of a lukewarm breeze drifted through the open door. It was now or never. From a quick view of the sun, there was still a few hours before dusk.
A glint from one of the keys caught her attention. On impulse, she tossed them back inside, listening to the sound of metal gliding across the floor. Somewhere deep inside, she hoped more than anything that leaving them behind might somehow lessen her association with a certain attendant who’d not be needing keys anymore.
On the left, stood a grove of trees. She headed off, knowing this area would initially hide her from view. Once in the heart of the woods, she’d find a hiding place until dusk ensured a safe passage to town. Simple, really. So simple she almost laughed out loud. But where would she go? Right now, it didn’t matter. She’d think of something. Satisfied no one else was around, she scurried over the grass, making a beeline for the trees.
From her quick estimation, the door from which she exited placed her facing the side property aligning the asylum, with the neighboring field perpendicular. The main road was several yards to the left. If her orientation didn’t falter, she’d surely make it to safety. With each step, she carefully picked her way, stepping over large twigs and around knotty tree trunks, leaving Hatchie River farther behind. The smell of old leaves, acorns, and dirt filled her nostrils. Never had anything smelled as pure and fresh as freedom did right now. With the wind and the sound of nature in her ears, she walked what she thought was about a mile and a half before stopping to rest. Under one large tree, a bed of green moss filled the ground. Claire headed over and sat down, winded from running.
In the distance, she heard the rustling of leaves. Panic-stricken, the breath caught in her throat. Had someone followed her from the asylum, discovered what had happened? When she looked closer, the sound turned out to be nothing more than a squirrel scavenging for food. Claire breathed a long sigh of relief. Right now, she was still as good as invisible to the rest of the world. But what about Gra
ce? Only a matter of time before someone would discover her absence . . . and then her own. She needed a plan of action.
It could be hours, or maybe a couple of days, before someone happened upon Grace. Just enough time to flee . . . to Mitchell’s house!
Where else could she go? He wouldn’t be home until the end of a work day. If he’d taken a trip out of town for business, she’d find herself in bigger trouble.
Claire pulled herself up from the mossy bed and walked until she detected a white wooden house in the distance. This house marked the beginning of the residential section, and on ahead, the streets led to the heart of town. The hum of traffic grew louder as drivers crowded into the streets.
She decided this was close enough. As an added precaution, she retraced her steps several feet back to avoid detection. Claire seated herself against an oak tree trunk and waited. She’d make it to Mitchell’s before dark.
New-found freedom. What did it feel like right now? In her opinion, she’d not be able to internalize this freedom until miles stretched between her and the asylum. Miles and time. Folding her arms, she rested her head against her hands, falling in and out of a light sleep. Her ears remained in a heightened state of acuity.
Time passed, with golden shades of late afternoon sliding into the purples and grays of evening. Still, no one had found her. With a hopeful heart, Claire got up and walked until the white house came into view. Glancing around, she didn’t see anyone right now, but the trek into town would be a different matter. She started off, head down, eyes averted, and walked quickly.
Inhaling a deep breath, she moved toward the house, taking a left to the beginning of the sidewalk along the main road. She continued until the town came clearer into sight. How inviting the lawns and homes had looked, a veritable picture of quiet family life in a small town. In the distance, she caught sight of taller buildings peeking up behind the homes, those beloved department stores and other merchants she knew so well.
Cars had driven by, but she didn’t glance in their direction. Claire ran a hand through her hair, fluffing out the locks. With short hair and wearing Grace’s clothes, no one recognized her. She reached Watkins Avenue, crossed the street, and hurried to Mitchell’s house, praying he’d be home.
Her heart quickened as his driveway came into view, next to which sat the neat bungalow with its whitewashed boards and inviting porch. Claire followed the driveway to the back where he kept his car parked in a separate outbuilding. No sign of a car anywhere. Had he parked it inside the garage for the night? She slowed down and glanced around again before scurrying to the building. The sky had darkened to a dull gray, but she still detected the car tucked safely away. He was home, after all!
Chapter Eight
Claire stepped lightly up the steps of the back porch to the door. Pausing a moment, she rehearsed some words she’d say to Mitchell.
What would she do if he slammed the door in her face and left her on with no safe place to go? Trembling, she wrapped at the door. A minute passed, increasing Claire’s fear even more. People knocking at the back door wasn’t the norm. She peeped through the opening in the curtains. From what she gathered, her brother-in-law was in another part of the house. She landed another round of knocks, and to her relief, glimpsed a shadow of a person through the glass. In seconds, she heard the muffled sound of footsteps.
The door opened, and there stood Mitchell, with a dazed expression on his face. Claire stepped back, hoping she hadn’t unsettled him too much. He poked his head out the door, checking all directions before turning his eyes back on her and staring several seconds longer.
“Mitchell, it’s me, Claire.” She forced a light smile on her face, nervously running a hand across her. “I know you may not recognize me like this. They cut my hair and . . .”
Mitchell opened the door without a word and stepped aside. Relieved, Claire stepped into the kitchen. Mitchell shut the door, turned the locks, and pulled the curtains until they hid the window completely. He checked the larger picture window by the breakfast table, adjusting the blinds until they, too, shut out any possibility of prying eyes. He turned and faced Claire.
“What are you doing here? How did you get out?” His eyes focused on her for the first time, and his lips pressed together in worry.
“I know this all seems crazy—“
“You could say that. Crazy, yes.” His eyes widened in agreement.
“After we talked, and I didn’t hear from you again, I got scared.”
Mitchell shifted from one foot to the other. “So you just took it upon yourself to high-tail it out of there, huh?”
A cold chill radiated down Claire’s spine. Numbness crept over her. Maybe he wasn’t as accepting as she’d hoped. “I had an opportunity, so I just took it. I can explain, really I can.” She glanced down at her hands, which throbbed with pain because she’d been wringing them hard in fear and desperation.
His face softened somewhat. In his eyes, a light of compassion flickered. “Here, sit down. I was making some tea. I’ll make some for both of us, and then we can talk this whole thing out.” The kettle whistled just as he reached the stove. For the next few minutes, Mitchell busied himself preparing the tea, while Claire seated herself in a vacant chair at the table.
How peaceful everything seemed here in this house, almost too quiet. In her mind, she continually reminded herself that there were no hateful staff members milling around ready to strike. No noise and wails from hallways and other rooms. No sickly stench of unwashed bodies and excrement from patients who couldn’t contain themselves. She watched the man at the stove, pouring water into delicate china cups. He dipped a teabag into each one before placing them on a matching saucer. He’d removed his work clothes, changing into a rich embroidered dressing gown, no doubt a purchase from an English supplier. For a moment, she marveled at how handsome he looked, with a solid frame, smooth skin, dark brown eyes, and cocoa-brown hair neatly cut and shaped about his face. Aristocratic he seemed, moving easily and with a purpose.
“I’m all ears. So, tell me how on earth you got out of that crazy place down the road and ended up here.” Mitchell eased himself into a chair across from Claire. From the cut glass sugar bowl, he removed two cubes and dropped them into his cup.
Claire added some sugar and stirred until they dissolved. After taking a sip, she sat back and related to her brother-in-law all the events leading up to her admission to Hatchie River, and launched into a more detailed monologue about the staff, events, and patients warehoused there. She told him about what happened with Ruth, and about Millie, and all about the treatments that were hailed as state of the art in treating crazy people.
She ended with more stories about abuse, hard work, and other horrors she witnessed. In silence Mitchell sat, wide eyed, occasionally lifting his cup to his lips before focusing his eyes hard onto hers. Much of the time he squinted at her, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Simply unbelievable. They treated you like that?” He sat up straighter and frowned. “I never would have believed that anybody could go through such an ordeal.” The gentleman stared into his cup, thinking for a moment. “But you still haven’t told me how you got out, and how you got here unseen.”
Should she tell him what really happened? Would he believe her, or accuse her of murder and turn her into the police? Claire struggled in silence, detecting Mitchell’s eyes filling with intensity and worry.
“Well,” Claire began, choosing her words with care, “I managed to slip away when staff were too busy with everyone else, I found an abandoned stairwell and made my way out a door that had been left open.” She studied Mitchell’s face. His expression showed no signs of disbelief. “Staff sometimes got careless, you know, and would forget to lock the doors. On my way out, I found some old clothes in a room, so I thought it would be a good idea to change so I’d look more like a regular person. I just took advantage of whatever I could to get out.”
“I can understand that.” The brother-in-law no
dded, lifting his cup to drink the last of the tea.
“Once I got outside, I ran for the woods and hid until it got darker. And here I am.” Claire’s eyes wandered from her cup to Mitchell’s face and back again. Did he sense something else, a hesitation in her voice?
“And nobody saw you on your way out? No one at all?” His voice rose a little as he shifted in his chair.
“I only saw one girl, and we didn’t pay much attention to each other. She was in a hurry like everyone else there.” Claire let out a light, nervous laugh.
“I’ve heard some stories of people making it out of that place. Even heard they’ve found a dead body or two at times.” Mitchell shook his head. “Poor souls didn’t’ quite make it after all, I guess.” His expression sobered. “Did you ever hear stories of patients getting out of control and killing staff members? I have. You don’t hear it often, but it happens.”
Claire stared back in silence. Desperate to change the subject, she asked, “Mitchell, did Adrian ever tell you why he put me there? I called and tried to talk about that with him, and he more or less blamed it all on me.”
Mitchell tapped his fingers lightly against his up as he thought. “I’m sure you’ve seen a change in him over the past two or three years. Subtle, but definitely there.”
“Yeah, seems that way, now that I start to think about it.”
“He’s become a little odd, if you ask me.” Mitchell paused, getting up and retrieving the kettle from the stove. After he’d refreshed the cups with water and the tea bags had been re-steeped, he continued. “Like I said, he’s been acting strange. At times, he goes at hat-making with a crazed gusto, while other days he’ll slow down, spending a week obsessing over one design. He’s forgetting little things he used to know off the top of his head, certain formulas, or how he created a design in the past. Sometimes he has to stop and think about what he’s just completed, like adding a floral decoration or finishing a fold right. And his temper has gotten out of hand. I hate asking him things because I don’t know if he’ll simply answer the question or bite my head off.” Mitchell leaned forward in his seat. “And here’s the really strange thing. There are days he’s clearer in thought, not as cloudy or muddled. He seems to still remember things if he’s been at them a while.”
Escape From Purgatory Page 8
