Dr. Bowes was trying to make him feel like a naïve child. And in some ways it was working, but he also knew that trying to shoo him away with ridicule was one battle the old man would lose.
“I have one more question,” Hunter said, following Bowes as he walked away. “What happened to Brenda’s kids?”
This time Bowes didn’t even turn around. “Leave it alone, Dr. Hunter, and if I were you I’d start focusing on my real responsibilities.”
Hunter watched Bowes march down the long corridor until he faded into the shadows. The good doctor didn’t like being questioned, that much was clear. He had a cozy operation here and he didn’t want anything to threaten that delicate little balance he had established. Only problem was that Bowes didn’t know who he was dealing with. Bureaucratic stonewalling wasn’t going to deter Elias Hunter.
Still, Hunter couldn’t escape the raw and undeniable truth that he had let things slip a little lately. He was still new here and he would have to show some level of caution. Of course, he wouldn’t stop reading up on Brenda Barrett. That much had been decided the moment he found her words written on the inside of that children’s book. This latest glitch only meant he would have to shift that side of his life to after hours.
By nine o’clock that evening, Hunter had decided to stop off briefly at a local greasy spoon for a bite to eat. With some time and space between him and his altercation with Bowes this afternoon, he could understand the old man’s position a little more. Delving into the life of a patient with a violent past was akin to voyeurism. And wasn’t Bowes also right when he said that patients never went on to lead normal lives? In a sense they fell through the cracks of society. He’d heard the expression more than once before and hearing it again in his own mind made him realize how untrue it was. People like Brenda didn’t just fall through the cracks of society. They were the cracks.
But by all means a crack that needed to be studied and understood. Not for her sake. Clearly Brenda was too far gone to be helped. But what about the countless others in the early stages? Surely there was some way to help them.
Either way, he knew that Sunnybrook was the key.
Hidden somewhere deep within the asylum’s bowels lay a treasure trove of information on this woman. Bowes had said himself the files on Brenda and the others on the eighth floor were kept separate from the other patients’ histories. He also knew that pushing Bowes anymore would be foolish, even career ending. The man clearly wasn’t Brenda’s biggest fan. At times he’d even seemed downright scared of her. Hunter took a bite of his burger, grease oozing between his fingers. He was running through that last conversation he’d had with Bowes outside his office.
How had the old man put it?
The files were locked away someplace safe.
Was he talking about some secret vault buried deep in the bowels of the asylum? Hunter doubted it. That was far too out of sight for a man like Bowes. He wanted those files all for himself, didn’t he?
They’re in his office.
The thought hit him with such vicious, blinding force that he wondered if it belonged to him at all.
He was on his feet almost at once, slapping a ten dollar bill on the counter and heading for the door.
• • •
“Back already, Dr. Hunter?” Terrance, the night security guard asked him. He had a mouthful of the whitest teeth Hunter had ever seen and a set of the sharpest eyes to match. “You ain’t one of those workaholics, I hope.”
Hunter smiled and felt the muscles in his face stiffen. “Not yet, but don’t think Dr. Bowes isn’t trying his hardest to turn me. I forgot something, is all. Mind if I go up?”
“I’m just teasing you, doc,” Terrance said jovially and Hunter swiped his card and passed through the heavy security doors. Terrance was watching him closely and Hunter was sure he saw a touch of doubt cross the night guard’s face. Hunter pressed the elevator button and waited. Terrance was still looking his way. The guard stood up just as the elevator doors opened.
Hunter rushed inside, mashed the number seven and didn’t let his breath out until the doors closed. He got out and made a left. Bowes’ office was just down the hall. He stood before the door and jiggled the handle. Unlocked. Of course it was. All the offices were supposed to be left open until the cleaning staff had finished their rounds. Hunter swung open the door to Bowes’ office and hesitated. It was one thing to pepper your boss with questions he clearly wasn’t fond of answering and another thing entirely to root through his things. That next step was a long one. Getting caught didn’t just mean losing his job, it meant going to jail.
Hunter took a deep breath and leaned forward until he felt the ball of his shoe connect with the floor inside Bowes’ office. He then pulled the door closed behind him and turned the bolt until he heard it click.
Bowes’ office was dim and smelled of English Leather. It also looked like someone had redecorated it with a bulldozer. Books were stacked so high his desk resembled a scale model of Manhattan. Hunter started with the filing cabinets. They too were overflowing with loose papers—what a stark contrast, he noted, to the bookshelf he had seen in Brenda’s room.
He searched through them for fifteen minutes without finding much more than a list of high functioning patients who had never set foot on the eighth floor. Against the far wall was a metal cabinet. Inside were a series of pamphlets on every disorder from autism to Zivert’s Syndrome. When he tried to nudge them gently to one side, the pile of pamphlets spilled onto the floor.
“Shit cakes,” Hunter swore. For a moment, part of him wondered whether Bowes would really notice a few extra things strewn about. He decided he probably would and bent down to pick them up. He had already scooped up the vast majority of them when he spotted something odd on the bottom shelf of the cabinet. It looked like a leather bound scrapbook and Hunter was struck by how out of place it seemed. He removed and laid it in his lap and peeled back the cover. Inside were old newspaper articles. Papers from all over New York State. Watertown Daily Times; Times Herald; Newsday. The scrapbook was filled with old court cases where the defendants had used an insanity plea. Most of them were household names too, John Hinkley, Ezra Pound. Hunter’s personal favorite, the Civil War hero, Daniel Sickles.
Hunter flipped through the pages and felt his breath catch in his throat.
School Board Fires Young Teacher After allegations of Abuse
By Joseph Banks
Collingwood Elementary school teacher Brenda Barrett was fired today by the Columbia County School Board after pressure from parents who said her use of discipline was often extreme and at times inappropriate. According to allegations, students were often made to wash their hands and faces repeatedly. When one student failed to comply, Mrs. Barrett is said to have held his hand against the radiator. The board wouldn’t comment on whether any legal action would be taken, but assured parents everything was being done to protect the children’s welfare.
Hunter turned the page and gasped.
Five Children Dead in Mysterious Fire at Collingwood Elementary.
By Joseph Banks
The sound of the door handle being turned nearly made Hunter jump with fright. Someone was outside and trying to get in. He scrambled to his feet and stashed the scrapbook back where he’d found it. Outside he could hear a man speaking into a walkie talkie.
“Terrance. It’s Al. I’m here on seven and Dr. Bowes’ office is locked.”
Hunter padded up to the door. Al Quinlan was the overnight janitor.
“Gotcha.” He heard Terrance say. “Be right there.”
Hunter’s pulse was racing. He scanned the room frantically, feeling like a rat caught in a trap. There was a phone on Dr. Bowes’ desk. He went over to it and picked up the handle and dialed the security desk.
The phone rang three times before it picked up.
“Terrance?”
Terrance sounded out of breath, as though he’d run back from the elevators.
“Yes.”
> “Listen, it’s Dr. Hunter on the sixth floor. I have a terrible leak in my office, can you send Al over ASAP? I’ve got water everywhere.”
“Will do.”
Hunter laid the phone down quietly and went back to the door. Al’s radio began to chirp. “Al, head to six first. The new guy says he’s got a leak in his office.”
Al sighed. The kinda sigh which spoke volumes about the way he felt about new guys.
“On my way.”
Hunter could hear Al mumbling to himself as he lumbered down the hallway.
“If I had a nickel for every time one of these hot shot doctors needed old Aly to bail their asses out,” he was saying, “I’d have a house in the Hamptons, I would.”
Hunter nudged open the door and peered out. Al was heading for the elevators with his cleaning cart. In the other direction were the stairs. Hunter exited Bowes’ office, closed the door behind him and raced in that direction. He took the stairs three and sometimes four at a time, certain he would make a critical miss and snap his ankle. He didn’t and he burst through the door and onto six dashing madly for his office. Down the hall he could hear the elevator ping and the doors pull open. Al was coming out still bitching to himself. Hunter found his office and threw himself inside just a second before Al came within visual range.
That was when he realized the full extent of his problem. The leak he’d called in about. His floor was bone dry. He could hear Al’s uneven steps drawing closer. Hunter scanned his office. Beside his desk was a water cooler. He lifted the heavy jug off its mount and tilted it at an angle. Water gurgled out and splashed against the floor. Hunter then struggled to replace it. Sure enough, he had his leak, but when he looked down, Hunter realized the front of his pants were all wet.
The knock came just as Hunter was sliding into the chair behind his desk.
“Come in.”
Some of the water had run into the hallway.
“Sweet Mary,” Al said, his black shoes making slapping noises as he entered. “This is one hell of a leak you have here, Dr. Hunter.” Mop in hand, he was scanning the ceiling, looking for the source.
“I’m not sure how this happened,” Hunter said. He was still out of breath from his hundred meter dash and was fighting the almost overpowering urge to swallow huge gulps of air. “Just came in and found a lake in my office.”
“Uh huh,” Al said. He had stopped looking at the ceiling. His gaze had fallen to the half empty water cooler beside Hunter’s desk, the liquid inside was swaying lazily back and forth. A water cooler, Hunter knew, Al had filled up just yesterday.
Chapter 10
“And how may I help you sir?”
“I need a suit,” Tyson said. He was holding a briefcase containing forty thousand dollars in cash.
The salesman had been eying Tyson suspiciously before he saw the briefcase and his expression changed all at once. He rubbed his hands together and let out a tiny giggle, as though Tyson had told him some dirty little joke. The money in the briefcase. The little bastard could smell it.
A pink scarf was wrapped around his thin little neck and each step he took was delicate and precise.
“Let me welcome you to Ralph Lauren’s flag store.”
Looking around, Tyson was beginning to wonder if he was really in New York City at all or instead at some quaint chateaux in France. The place was a sea of dark mahogany. A wooden hand carved staircase spiraled up to the second floor, flanked on either side by paintings of people dead now for a better part of one hundred years.
Overhead was a Baccarat chandelier and under his feet an antique Persian rug. The warm smell of wealth was making him light-headed.
“Quite a place you have here.”
“Indeed it is. Its turn of the century designers were inspired by the royal residences of the Loire. But when Gertrude Rhinelander Waldo’s husband died she abandoned construction and the place fell to pieces. Too many bad memories I suppose.”
Tyson smiled wryly. “Been there.”
“Haven’t we all. Now, did you have anything particular in mind?”
Tyson thought at once back to Castleman and his assertion that he and Skip were somehow unprofessional.
“I wanna walk into a room and hear people gasp.”
“Ah yes, then you’re looking for our purple label collection. Come right this way, sir.”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“Henrique. My name is Henrique.” Sounded French.
“Nice to meet you, Henrique.” When Tyson said the name it came out sounding more like Hen-rick instead of Hen-reek.
Tyson tightened his grip on the money. The trunk with the rest of it was sitting by the coffee table in his apartment on 153rd Street. He was supposed to meet Skip for lunch later and he couldn’t wait to see the look on his friend’s face when he brought him to see that trunk.
• • •
Tyson tried on four fantastic looking suits before he settled on the charcoal gray. Henrique, or whatever his real name was, assured him he’d made the right choice, but Tyson knew the little man was ready to tell him he looked like Brad Pitt if it meant making the sale.
When the price tag rang in at over ten thousand dollars, Tyson didn’t even bat an eye. He unlocked his briefcase, removed two five thousand dollar bundles and set them neatly on the counter. The light in Henrique’s eyes seemed to dim a little when he saw the stack was made up of twenties. Counting it was going to be a pain, Tyson knew, but money was money after all, and Tyson had spent all morning tying it into bundles and he still had the swollen finger tips to prove it. He took a deep breath when he realized the ease with which he’d just dropped a significant percentage of his former annual income. Things were beginning to move for Tyson Barrett. After a lifetime of falling short by inches, he could finally say that the bad times were behind him. And that was exactly where they would stay.
An hour later Skip came strolling into Le Bernardin dressed in jeans and a ball cap, looking like he’d just come back from a Mets game.
He pulled his chair out, but didn’t sit.
“That’s a three thousand dollar suit you’re wearing,” Skip said before even saying hello.
“Actually it was more like ten.”
Skip took a seat and pulled his chair in. He gave the room a quick appraisal and noticed they were sitting in a sea of white-haired old men. “Really, Tyson, Le Bernardin? Have you lost your mind? This is one of the most expensive restaurants in the city.” Skip removed his cap and slid it self-consciously into his back pocket.
“Isn’t it normal to choose a nice restaurant when you have something to celebrate?”
“What are we celebrating? The fact that Castleman just pulled the rug out from under us?”
“We don’t need Castleman, not anymore.”
“What are you saying?”
“What I’m saying, Skip. Captain my captain. Brother of brothers. Is that our money troubles are over. Finished. Finito.”
“Please tell me you’re not still going on about this trunk business.”
“That’s exactly what I’m going on about.” Under the table, Tyson nudged the briefcase over to Skip with the tip of his new Bertuli.
Skip scooped it up and placed it on his lap. He undid the safety lever and got the lid about a quarter of the way open before he snapped it shut with a loud bang.
“This is filled with money,” Skip whispered, glancing around nervously.
“Well, I wouldn’t say full. There’s a little under thirty thousand in there, give or take.”
The worried look on Skip’s face began to spread. “Tyson, old buddy. Please tell me you didn’t sell your 401k or hit up a loan shark so you could show me a briefcase full of money.”
“I’ve got a steamer trunk sitting at home beside my shitty imitation Magnavox twenty-inch television and it’s filled with the stuff. Almost a million bucks worth.”
Skip’s face blanched. “You robbed a bank, didn’t you? You know what the minimum sentence is fo
r robbery? Like ten years. You didn’t use a gun, did you? Then it’s armed robbery and you could get… I love you, Ty, we go way back, but I’m not getting involved with dirty money.”
“Skip, relax. Take a deep breath. Order yourself a glass of wine. The Chateau Lafite is excellent.” Tyson undid the button to his suit jacket and leaned in. “Now I can’t go into how I got the money right now, because I’m still working that part out myself, but I can promise you I didn’t steal a red cent of it. It just sort of fell into my lap.”
The waiter appeared just then with two plates of grilled Venison and the men stopped talking.
“I ordered for you. I hope you don’t mind.”
Skip looked down at the food before him and nudged it away with the palm of his hand. “Can’t say I’m all that hungry right now.”
Tyson was, however. He hadn’t eaten a thing since that bagel this morning and he tore into the Venison like a castaway.
“When we’re done we’ll go to my place and I’ll show you the money.” Tyson was talking with his mouth full. “Maybe then you’ll start changing your tune.”
“I can’t say that I will, Ty. Free money makes me nervous. Probably because there is no such thing as free money.”
Tyson looked up briefly between mouthfuls, but the comment didn’t register.
When the waiter came again, he removed one plate that looked like it had hardly been touched and another that might never had had food on it.
Tyson reached into the pant pocket of his new ten thousand dollar suit for his injector and the container with the vials and instead came out with a set of car keys. In the other was his cell phone. A swell of panic began rising within him.
The look of dread smeared across Tyson’s face wasn’t lost on Skip.
Dark Passage Page 6
