The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1)

by Davis, Sophie

  A stone veranda that had seen much better days lay before us, with steps leading down to what was once a garden. The overgrown weeds and dry, dead plants served as a vista that was fitting for its cheerless location. Rickety rocking chairs were scattered across the fractured stones of the patio, the wood black in spots from exposure to the elements. All in all, it didn’t seem like a suitable place to let mental patients have free rein.

  “Not to worry, only patients we consider to be placid are permitted outside,” Clara explained, as if she’d read my mind. “The violent ones, and those who might attempt escape, are not.” She pointed to a tall fence topped by barbed wire that stood around the perimeter of the lawn area. “Even so, we do take proper precautions for the safety of all our patients.”

  Tearing my eyes from the fence—a visible reminder that I was locked in with mentally unstable people—I focused on the task at hand and surveyed the patients outside. A few men were enjoying the morning air, along with a couple of women who must’ve come from an adjoining ward. Though most sat in the rocking chairs, clustered in small groups, one man sat in a wheelchair apart from the rest with his back to us. Oily black hair hung in lank clumps past his ears, almost long enough to brush the moth-eaten cardigan resting over his rounded shoulders.

  Cyrus and I exchanged pointed glances.

  “Is that the young man the other nurse was referring to?” my boss asked Clara.

  “It must be,” she agreed. “I recognize all of the other patients out here.”

  Together, Cyrus and I walked slowly around to the front of the wheelchair. My first look at the man’s face caused me to inhale sharply. Dark irises ringed in red stared dead ahead at some unknown fixed point. His lips were dry and cracked, tinged an unnatural shade of indigo. A chipped front tooth compulsively tugged at his bottom lip as the man muttered inaudibly. Ashen skin hung on a too-thin face, as though all of the air had been let out of the balloon that was Lachlan. Only the faintest trace of resemblance to the handsome man in his syndicate profile picture still lingered.

  Cyrus squatted in front of the wheelchair, bringing him to eye-level with Lachlan. The man’s hands were resting on top of the starch white blanket draped over his lap. Cyrus carefully took them in his own and squeezed gently, rubbing his thumbs over the rogue runner’s wrists. To Clara and Renault, the gesture probably seemed nurturing and reassuring. But I knew better.

  Just seeing the man was not enough. Cyrus was feeling for the ridges and valleys of a runner tattoo. A quick flit of my boss’s eyes in my direction told me that he’d found it. He turned one wrist over, then gently set it back in Lachlan’s lap. When Cyrus stood up again, the tightening around his mouth said he was upset. Possibly really upset.

  A moment later, I understood why.

  “Is this your Lachlan?” Clara asked, clueless to the shift in my boss. The nurse was smiling so widely that looking at her made my cheeks hurt.

  “What happened to his arm?” Cyrus demanded.

  “Pardon?” Clara asked, smile dimming from manic merriment to cheerful concern.

  “His arm,” Cyrus growled. He yanked back the right sleeve of Lachlan’s shirt.

  I gasped, covering my mouth to hide my revulsion.

  Wrapped around his wrist was a worn, dirty cloth, like a makeshift bandage. The skin peeking out from beneath it was a mess of seeping, swollen scabs. Thin streams of dried blood ran up his forearm to the elbow, with smears that appeared fresher down closer to his palm. Lachlan’s fingertips on the opposite hand were also tinged crimson, and his torn and chewed fingernails had more dried blood caked beneath them.

  “As a government facility—” Clara began.

  “You can’t manage basic first aid?” Cyrus snapped.

  “I will go fetch fresh bandages,” Renault said quietly, then hurried away.

  Smart man, I thought. Cyrus was about to blow a gasket.

  With a gentleness that belied his rage, Cyrus rested Lachlan’s arm across his lap. But his compassion instantly disappeared as he rounded on the nurse, pinning her in place with emerald daggers. I did not envy her in the least.

  “How long did you say my son has been here?” Cyrus asked evenly.

  Clara relaxed visibly when she heard his calm tone.

  Big mistake. Yelling and screaming were one thing. This eerily calm version of Cyrus was far more dangerous.

  “Just over a week, Mr. Shepard,” the nurse replied automatically.

  “And how long have his wounds gone untreated?”

  “Sir, the patients are monitored very—”

  “There is dried blood and scabbing. Not to mention that his hair has not been washed in quite some time,” Cyrus said, disapproval and derision creeping into his scary calm tone. “This tells me that no, you do not monitor your patients. At all.”

  Renault returned with a small first aid kit. He knelt in front of Lachlan’s wheelchair and began cleaning the wounds. I joined him, wanting to stay inconspicuous while Cyrus verbally assaulted the nurse.

  “Can I help?” I quietly asked the orderly.

  Renault smiled. “Thank you.”

  He handed me a warm, damp cloth, and I took the runner’s right arm while Renault took the left. Thankfully, mine was the side without the grotesque wound. I began gently removing the blood from Lachlan’s hand. As Renault carefully rubbed another wet cloth over Lachlan’s arm, the runner became agitated. His lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing even more cracked and broken teeth. Saliva, tinged red with blood, flew from his mouth as he hissed angrily.

  “Is this how he came in?” I asked incredulously. “With all of these broken teeth? It appears as though he was in a fight.”

  “Sadly, yes. I was on-duty when he arrived, and he was in bad shape. I didn’t even connect this man with the photo you showed us of your cousin—he was unrecognizable. The wounds appeared to be pretty recent at the time. As for his teeth,” Renault tapped his own front teeth, “these ones are loose and will likely fall out.” The orderly then gestured to Lachlan’s jaw, which was swollen on the right side. “Farther in the back, several more are loose, as well.”

  Instead of answering Renault, I thought about his words as I continued cleaning the blood off the runner’s arm, glancing every so often at Lachlan’s face to assess the damage there. Who would he have been fighting? Who in this era could possibly hate him enough to inflict such brutal injuries?

  I was still lost in my thoughts several minutes later, when I realized that I was running the cloth over skin that was already clean.

  Sitting back on my heels, I watched Renault finish wiping up Lachlan’s other arm. With the dirty bandage gone and the blood wiped away, bruises in varying stages of the healing process were visible. The ones closer to his elbow appeared to be the oldest, where only faint yellow and sickly green discoloration marred the runner’s olive skin. Around his wrist, the skin was tender and red beneath stacked bracelets of purple and blue contusions, as if he’d been struggling against a tight grip.

  But, more so than any of the bruises or other injuries, the underside of his right wrist was the most alarming. It was as though something had rubbed or chafed the skin to the point it was missing in some places. Scabs in various sizes and stages of healing ran in a horizontal line nearly half-an-inch thick. In between those were pockets of fresh, open wounds, almost like he’d been compulsively digging for something within the mess.

  Renault finished applying ointment all the way around Lachlan’s wrist, then traded me the tube of medicine for fresh dressings.

  “Merci,” he said with a small smile, flushing when our hands brushed.

  “You’re welcome,” I replied, mirroring his expression.

  As he carefully wrapped Lachlan’s wounded arm in the gauze, the runner began to rock back and forth in his chair. The muttering grew steadily louder. I was just about to lean closer to him, to see if I could make out the words, when Lachlan’s voice rose another decibel.

  “Not my name. Not my blame,�
�� he said clearly. “Not my name. Not my blame.”

  Lachlan shook his head from side to side in emphatic jerks, causing his greasy strands of black hair to stick to his slick skin. An emotion I couldn’t immediately decipher flashed in his dark eyes, then they began flicking back and forth between my face and the wounds Renault was bandaging.

  “Not my name. Not my name.” His tone was more insistent this time.

  “Hang on,” I said to Renault. “Can I have a look at his wrist again?”

  “If you like.” The orderly unwound the dressing.

  Off to the side, Cyrus and Clara were still arguing about acceptable care standards for institutions. His full attention was on the nurse, so my attempts to inconspicuously catch his eye failed.

  I reached for Lachlan’s injured arm. Like trying to avoid startling a horse that had been spooked, I kept my movements slow and deliberate. The other runner flinched when my fingers touched the skin near his wrist, but he didn’t pull away. Fighting the urge to look away, I gently pulled his arm closer to examine the scabs on his wrist.

  Though it was difficult to see much of the original wound through all of the bruising and infection, not to mention where Lachlan had clearly scratched and picked at the scabs as they healed, the edges looked like they’d initially been precise. Two straight, horizontal lines were still visible among the ravaged flesh.

  “Self-inflicted,” Renault said softly when he saw me looking. “Your cousin likely tried to take his life.”

  “Not my name. Not my name. Not my name. Not my name,” Lachlan hissed angrily at the orderly.

  Is he trying to tell us that he wasn’t attempting suicide? I wondered.

  Leaning in even farther, I examined the wound more closely. The incisions were shallow. Almost as if—oh shant. No, no, no, no. This was so not good.

  The incisions were shallow because Lachlan’s skin had not merely been cut; it had been excised.

  “Not my name. Not my name. Not my name. Not my name.”

  According to his personnel file, Lachlan was right handed. The skin removal was too exact, the lines too straight to have been made by a non-dominant hand. There was no way that Lachlan could have possibly held the knife in his right hand to make the incisions staring up at me.

  Someone else had removed Lachlan’s name tattoo.

  “Not my name. Not my name. Not my name. Not my name.”

  “Um, Cyrus…?”

  LACHLAN’S AGITATION PROMPTED Clara to order a sedative, and he was returned to his room.

  Clara then herded Cyrus and me to a cramped administrative office. She disappeared for a short time, returning with a thin medical file in her hand. Soon after, we were joined by Dr. Pierre Marie, the Chair of Diseases of the Nervous System. Introductions were barely finished before Cyrus launched his attack.

  “I do hope you understand, but I wish to take my son with me today when I leave,” he said resolutely. “Lachlan needs to be with his family during this time.”

  Dr. Marie raised one eyebrow, but didn’t respond. Clara looked hesitantly between the men as a full minute passed without a word from either.

  “Mr. Shepard, we do understand your situation, but I am afraid it won’t be quite that simple,” she finally said. The nurse consulted the file she’d brought in—presumably Lachlan’s. “Your son was arrested after being found wandering in the park shirtless, shoeless, and witless. The police brought him to us, and we take that responsibility very seriously. I am sure you can see why it would be impossible for Lachlan to leave today. Additionally, Dr. Marie has not yet made his final pronouncement on your son’s neurological health.”

  “I have hardly begun my assessment,” Marie interjected.

  “While I do appreciate your efforts, my son is already being treated privately for his ailments,” Cyrus firmly replied. “I believe it would be best for him if he continued that course, as he was showing great improvement. As for the police matters, I would be happy to pay the fines today that were imposed against Lachlan for his behavior.” My boss withdrew a check torn from the syndicate’s 1920s ledger book from his left inside jacket pocket, then a fountain pen from the opposite one. “I would like to make a sizable donation to your institution, as well. To whom shall I make out the check?”

  Marie’s expression turned amused, while Clara became flustered.

  “M-Mr. Shepard, I…,” she trailed off, her eyes darting to the doctor for help. He remained quiet, studying Cyrus with a curiosity that would’ve made me uncomfortable. “I am afraid that is simply not able to happen. I-I mean, not the money, well the donation…it is—”

  “You cannot pay court imposed fines here,” Marie finally broke in. “We are a hospital, not the préfecture, and certainly not a courthouse.”

  The beginnings of a scowl traced over Cyrus’s features.

  “Dr. Marie, I’d hoped to keep this civilized, but I cannot with good conscience allow Lachlan to remain in this facility. My son has grave physical injuries that no one seems to know the origin of, or even when they were inflicted. At best, he had them when he arrived, but your staff neglected to properly care for them. At worst?” Cyrus glared pointedly before continuing in a low voice that verged on menacing. “At worst, your staff has been abusing its patients. A fact I’m sure the authorities would appreciate me sharing with them.”

  Clara sucked in a deep breath, her hand flying to her heart.

  “Mr. Shepard!” she cried. “We treat each patient with the utmost care and respect, we would never do such a thing. It is preposterous to even think that our nurses and aides are abusing these poor souls.”

  My eyes flew to Dr. Marie. I expected him to be equally outraged, but he was still intently studying Cyrus like a germ in a petri dish. Though my boss was definitively difficult to read, Marie was a world-renowned expert on matters of the brain. I wouldn’t have wanted to be Cyrus in that moment; Marie’s stare was making me feel awkward. Nonetheless, my fearless leader was returning the doctor’s gaze, completely unfazed.

  “I understand your concerns,” Marie finally said, ending the awkward silence that had descended upon our group during their little stare-off. “However, I can assure you that no one working in this hospital injured your son.”

  “Though I can agree that it seems unlikely for such atrocities to happen under your tutelage,” Cyrus replied, his eyes brimming over with faux worry. “I do hope you can appreciate my concerns over the state of his injuries. Lachlan has not been properly cared for while here.”

  “On behalf of Nurse Clara and her staff, I do apologize for the fact your son’s injuries might have been overlooked. That mistake will not be repeated,” the doctor assured us.

  “Perhaps I may offer a solution?” Cyrus asked. “If it is amenable to both you and Nurse Clara, I would appreciate your allowing Lachlan’s personal nurse to work here during his stay. It’s a fellow named James, and I believe having a familiar face will be of comfort to my son.”

  “That is not necessary,” Clara declared. “My employees are quite capable of providing excellent care. And besides, I do not have the funds in my budget to pay for another staff member.”

  “You misunderstand,” Cyrus soothed. “I am just offering a bit of help for your staff, and I will of course pay for his time myself. I’d also like to make that donation we spoke of earlier. Perhaps it might alleviate any budgetary strains you are experiencing?”

  Before Clara could voice the indignant words that were sure to come, the doctor interjected.

  “That is exceedingly generous of you,” Marie said. He gave the nurse a pointed look. “Nurse Clara would be delighted to have James on board. And, on behalf of our entire institution, we are deeply grateful for your contribution. Clara, won’t it be a relief to have additional funding? We will be able to make some of those hires you presented.”

  “Yes,” the nurse said quietly. She turned her gaze to my boss, the gift horse. “It is very kind of you to help, Mr. Shepard.”

  “Marvelous
,” Cyrus declared, taking up the fountain pen once more. “To whom shall I address the check?”

  As the two men sorted out the donation, I glanced over at Clara. Though her disappointment in being undermined was obvious, her eyes lit up as she watched Cyrus writing zeroes on the check. Clara was smart enough to know how much the money would help, even if it meant putting up with an unwanted nurse for a few days.

  Truthfully, I had no idea what the hell Cyrus was up to. Lachlan was a serial killer. Serial killers did not deserve private nursing care. Though I did feel bad for the rogue runner when we saw him, he’d left a wake of people in much worse conditions while essentially forcing people to watch. What he deserved was a lifetime of negligent care in a facility much worse than this one.

  “Do you perhaps have another copy of that?” I asked Clara, pointing to Lachlan’s patient file. “I don’t mean to be any trouble.”

  “I’m sure I can rustle one up,” the nurse replied, perking up. “Just give me a few minutes.”

  With that, she excused herself from the room. As I’d guessed, Clara was driven by being needed. She liked to feel helpful. True to her word, the nurse returned quickly. She held an identical folder in one hand, and a plastic bag in the other.

  “Here you are,” Clara said, handing me both items. “I also brought your cousin’s possession inventory—it is everything he had when he was brought to us.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said, holding up the bag and peering at the contents, which appeared to be only dirty blue fabric.

  “Those are the trousers Lachlan was wearing when he arrived,” Clara explained, wrinkling her nose. “That was all we had in the inventory for him. Perhaps you will bring him suitable attire when you come back?”

  “Of course,” I replied, placing my hand lightly on her forearm. I dropped my voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Also, Clara, I want to apologize for my uncle. He’s been overly forceful today, and I am very sorry for that. Uncle Cyrus has just been so worried for Lachlan. We both appreciate your time and graciousness a great deal. Thank you for helping us to find my cousin.”