by Ellie Marney
“You have always been considerate of Mr. Gutmunsson. I wish you well.” The man’s bearing is upright, stately. He unlocks the door, then notices Bell’s gun belt. “Ah. That may not go through.”
“Excuse me?”
“The weapon. It is expressly forbidden in the facility.”
“SWAT has guns,” Bell points out.
“You are not SWAT personnel. I am sorry, but I cannot allow it.”
Bell holds himself carefully. Patience and low voices. “You want us to go into a situation like this with no weapons?”
“Sir.” Pradeep’s dark beard and mustache are the background against which his eyes glitter. “You are here only to observe, correct? And Mr. Gutmunsson cannot think there is an opportunity to gain access to a weapon. The result could be very bad. Very bad. You cannot go through the door with the weapon.”
Bell’s frustration gnashes at him. Surrendering the Colt seems about as good an idea as cutting off his hands. Then Emma gives him a look that seems to say, I need you more than I need the gun. Bell sighs.
He unbuckles the gun belt. “This was my father’s.”
“I will be careful with it,” Pradeep promises. He holds the gun belt correctly, a man familiar with weapons. This reassures Bell a little.
They file through the open gap—Bell goes last. There is a significant moment of transition: The room they enter is much colder than the one they’ve just left. The girls stick to the wall. Bell turns to thank Pradeep.
“Sat Sri Akaal,” the man says. “I wish you good fortune.”
The door closing behind them feels very final.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
It was a shame about Hannity.
Hoyt arranges the man’s head off to the side of the control desk, so the blood doesn’t foul the switches, and tries not to feel bad. He hasn’t ever killed someone he’s worked with before, and sometimes Hannity spoke about his grandchildren.
But then Hoyt reminds himself that he’s about to visit Simon Gutmunsson in his cell, and the concerns go away.
For a moment, his anticipation of the evening’s upcoming events blots out even the chirps and buzzes of the radio handset on the floor. Awareness returns and he collects the handset, switches it off. He turns off the cameras and monitors, too. Now the FBI has no vision inside the asylum.
He felt stymied, at first, when he heard about the FBI operation, but then he realized: Why not use this? He’s comfortable with all the nooks and crannies in the asylum, he knows the back-end processes of security, and he’s had plenty of opportunity to familiarize himself with the workings of the control desk during his last four months’ employment here. He’s perfectly placed to take advantage of the FBI-created change in routine.
Now he’s about to enact the final step in his arrangements. He stands over the desk, surveying the dials and switches, then leans forward and—with his finger covered by a tissue—presses a single red button. It’s marked CENTRAL EXTERNAL: ALL CLOSE.
He’s just locked all the external doors for the center building, including the doors from either wing.
His Kleenex-covered finger dances over other buttons, to a button that locks the door from the old asylum kitchen into the great hall. He presses that. Now those four SWAT officers are locked behind the massive kitchen door. Another switch opens the metal gate in the hall—he flicks that, too. He imagines the steel-barred rollers sliding open, smiles in delight.
Is there anything he’s missed? The old-fashioned doors to some of the small internal rooms off the great hall are still unlocked, as well as the foyer door under the stairs, but he will remedy this manually.
He looks around at the blinking lights and the dead monitors, the dead man on the padded swivel chair, the quiet radio handset. The FBI will be wondering what the hell is going on. Time to move.
He turns and leaves the control room.
CHAPTER FORTY
Pradeep has sent them into an old lobotomy and autopsy theater.
There is a stink of mildew in the small room. Emma sees a tile floor, stainless steel shelving, peeling paint on the walls. Wire-covered windows let in moonlight that glints off a steel surgery table bolted to the floor’s center.
Kristin has a hand pressed over her mouth.
“It’s okay,” Emma whispers. “We’ll be out of here soon. Bell?”
Bell steps carefully around old surgical lights, past the horrifying table to a set of skinny double doors on the right. He tries one of the doorknobs for give, nods.
Kristin points, whimpering. “There’s… there’s…”
At the opposite side of the room, the square hatches of the steel body lockers—six in a row—are set into the wall. Emma wishes fervently that Kristin hadn’t noticed that. She wishes she herself hadn’t noticed that.
Emma screws her nerve in place. “Come on, let’s move.”
But when they pick their way over to Bell, he’s frowning. “Hear that?”
“What?”
He cracks the door a scant half inch, closes it again. “The big jail gate in the great hall just slid open.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Kristin whispers. She’s tense as a plucked wire.
“Wait.” Emma turns back to Bell. “Maybe they’re setting up a direct access path for the Butcher?”
Bell’s frown deepens. “I thought they were gonna open the gate later.”
“Maybe they changed strategy.”
“Maybe.” Bell’s expression says he finds this doubtful.
“Let’s just worry about one thing at a time,” Emma says. “First, we get the Butcher’s identity from Simon.”
She lifts her chin and Bell opens the door properly, wide enough for them to slip through. The great hall is dark and echoing. She and Kristin huddle by one of the giant columns while Bell closes their point of exit. Emma can see the line of steel bars behind them; over Kristin’s shoulder, the chapel entrance. Even from here, it’s very obvious that the reinforced oak door has been left open by the FBI.
Simon’s room is always guarded and always locked. That it is no longer either of those things feels so fundamentally wrong that it kicks off a warning siren in Emma’s brain, starting low and getting more strident with each passing second.
Kristin sees the line of Emma’s eyes, turns. Her gaze fixes on the oak door, and her face is yearning. She tugs in that direction; Emma holds her fast.
“Wait for Bell.”
“I’m here.” His face is dim in the dark hall, only the whites of his eyes showing clear. “Let’s go.”
They step out of the shadow of the column, and when Emma turns her head to peek behind them she sees—
A man in a white uniform shirt and maroon trousers standing in the center of the hall.
Her gasp is like a gunshot, and she jumps back so fast she nearly knocks Kristin over.
“What the—” Bell jerks sideways, in front of Emma and Kristin. His hand goes straight to his hip, clenches on nothing.
The man’s hands are raised—one of them is palm out; the other clutches a small gray pouch marked with a red first aid cross. He is in his forties, tanned, lean, and utterly shocked to see them there. “Who the hell are you?”
“Who the hell are you?” Bell retorts.
The man looks scandalized, then laughs. “Holy shit, I’m—” He laughs again, presses his free palm to his chest, then collects himself. “Jesus. Okay, I’m Clive Ross, I’m the rostered paramedic on staff. Did you know this section of the facility is on lockdown? What the hell are you kids doing here?”
Emma is still getting her heartbeat under control. But she recalls Scott’s mention of essential staff. “We… we came in from the other wing. We—”
“I just want to see my brother,” Kristin says plaintively.
Ross looks flabbergasted. “I’m sorry, Miss…?”
“Gutmunsson. My name is Kristin Gutmunsson, I’m Simon’s sister.”
Emma would like to quietly strangle her.
Ross grimac
es. “Miss Gutmunsson, I’m really sorry. But visiting hours are over, and there’s some kind of police operation happening tonight, and I can’t… Look, you folks will have to leave. I could get into a lot of trouble with Dr. Scott if you’re here, and the police seem really serious.”
Kristin’s eyes are imploring. “Please. I’ve come such a long way, and I just want to see him for a moment.”
“This isn’t…” Ross scratches his head. “No. Again, I wish I could let you stay. But I’m gonna have to contact the law enforcement people about getting you escorted out.”
Oh shit. Emma’s panic of a moment before is now replaced by the greasy feeling of disappointment and frustration.
“Do you have to contact the LEOs?” Bell looks frustrated, too. “You can’t just walk us through to the east wing and—”
“I’m afraid not.” Ross shakes his head sadly. “I’m really sorry, but it’s my job. Where did you come in from? The old lobotomy room?”
“Yes.” Emma feels sick. They were so damn close to getting the information they needed out of Simon!
“Okay, look,” Ross says. “I have to go talk to the police—they might need to send someone in for you. How about you go back into the lobotomy room, and I’ll—”
“I’m not going back in there!” Kristin shudders. “I’m not staying in that room. If you put me in there, I’ll just go down to my brother’s room as soon as you leave.” There’s steel in her spine, and she looks uniquely determined, and for the first time Emma’s grateful Kristin came along.
Ross narrows his eyes. “Well, if you won’t stay put… Look, how about this. I can walk you down to Mr. Gutmunsson’s room. I’ll have to lock you in, because of security concerns, but if you wait there for me to get back, then at least you’ll have a few minutes with him, okay?”
“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Kristin says, her eyes brimming.
That will have to be long enough, Emma thinks. She and Bell exchange glances. She’s still shocked that Kristin has been the key to getting them all the way in to see her brother.
“No problem.” Ross steps closer, tucking his medical pouch under one arm. He pulls a lanyard with an attached set of keys over his head. “Uh, come on this way.”
There’s only another twenty feet before the oak door. Emma’s already considering how she’s going to wrangle the information they need out of Simon before they’re escorted out of the building—but at least they’ll be out before the Butcher’s anticipated arrival.
She can hardly believe they got caught and they’re still getting a chance to do this. It puts the idea of dealing with Raymond outside into perspective. She can just ignore Raymond, she decides. She can make herself do that. Getting the Butcher’s name is more important than her pride.
“Again, I’m real sorry about all this.” Ross’s sleeves are rolled to the elbow; he has the tight, hard muscle of a gym junkie. “It’s a bit crazy here tonight. Man, when I saw you, I really jumped. That took years off my life, no kidding. Okay, here we go.”
He stands at the open entry to Simon’s room, ushers them in. They mill near Pradeep’s desk. There are subtle differences in the room. The record player and speaker are both gone. The pincer tool is still suspended on the wall, but the desk, bare of objects, has its chair pushed in tidily. The lights inside have been darkened; before Emma can locate Simon in the dimness of his cage, Ross speaks again.
“Uh, would you mind just…” Ross lifts his chin toward the door.
Bell pushes the heavy oak until Ross can grab the handle.
“Thanks.” Ross fits the key in the outside lock, gives them a sheepish smile. “Thanks again for being so cooperative. I’m gonna lock this door now, but I’ll be back with the police in a few minutes. Remember to follow the rules in here—don’t go past the barrier. Okay. One sec.”
The door fits into its jamb and they lose Ross’s face. Emma hears him turn the key, tumblers clanking into place. As soon as they’re locked in, a noise starts up—a series of slow, mocking claps.
Emma turns around.
“Oh, well done. Nicely played.” Simon is reclining on his bed, barefoot in his usual way. A single dull spotlight on the far side of the cell casts shadows into the loose folds of his white T-shirt and white asylum pants. He looks as if he’s applauding a particularly terrible fault stroke in a game of croquet. “Emma, you never cease to amuse.”
Emma goes up to the barricade sawhorses. She still hasn’t forgiven him for psychoanalyzing her earlier. “Sure. Creeping around a mental asylum in the dark—I can’t imagine a more entertaining way to spend my Sunday night.”
“It’s keeping me entertained, at least. I see you’ve brought the bloodthirsty Mr. Bell along. And—” He sits himself up. “Emma. Why did you bring my sister with you?”
“Don’t blame Emma. I lobbied to come.” Kristin walks around Bell, who seems reluctant to get closer than Pradeep’s desk, and strolls up to the barricade, pushing back Emma’s scarf. “Goodness, Simon, look at you—you’re so skinny. Don’t they feed you properly?”
“If I told you about the food here, you’d cry.”
“Poor Simon.”
It’s still jarring to see Kristin slip under the barricade and go straight up to the bars of the cell. Even more jarring to see Simon meet her there, to see them hold hands and press foreheads.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Simon whispers. “Go out again right now.”
“I can’t. The man locked the door behind us. You’re stuck with me.”
“Tonight will get scary. You know how you hate scary.”
“They’re taking us out in a minute.” Kristin cups his jaw. “And I can be brave if I get to see you again.”
Emma glances away to Bell, whose hand slides automatically to his hip as he stares at Simon and Kristin, until he remembers again that the gun isn’t there.
Simon chucks his sister under the chin. “Kristin, be a dear and have a look in that big desk over there for my pack of cigarettes? I haven’t been allowed any for days and I’m gasping.”
“Sure.” She makes an indulgent smile and meanders off toward the desk.
Emma waits until Kristin has begun her search for the cigarettes before turning back to face Simon. “Okay, let’s make this easy for everybody. Tell us who the Butcher is and we’ll get Kristin out of here as soon as possible.”
Simon’s eyes are still following Kristin. “Do you have a favorite fairy tale, Emma? I’ve always loved the old German one ‘Brother and Sister.’ Two children run away from their evil stepmother and wander lost in the woods. But the stepmother bewitches all the streams, so when the brother drinks from one, he turns into a beast.…” He tears his eyes away from his sister. “Well. It doesn’t look as if you and I will be having that slumber party after all, Emma. Such a shame. You should have walked more quietly in the hall.”
Emma isn’t here for repartee. “Simon, you said you know who the Butcher is.”
“Indeed.” Simon stretches, elbows out, a picture of indolence. “But I can’t just give you the information. You don’t need to be spoon-fed, surely. Why don’t you take a guess?”
“Simon, I could stand here all night taking guesses, but we don’t have time, your sister doesn’t—”
He looks up at the ceiling, his attention becoming an absence.
Emma digs her nails into her palms against the need to hurry. “All right—I can tell you that this… arrangement with the Butcher, it’s a game you’re playing. You’ve been playing it awhile. Tonight is the finale. But now Kristin is caught up in it.”
Simon’s gaze returns. “Yes. It was foolish of you to bring her.”
“Then you have extra incentive to win.” Emma takes a step closer. “If you tell me the answer, I can help you.”
“I thought you’d have figured it out yourself by now. I mean, you’re reasonably intelligent.… Yes, I’m sure you can manage.”
A prickle of awareness on her skin. “You think I can work it out from
the information I already have?”
“Why not.” He smiles in anticipation.
“Simon, we’re running out of time. We’re not in a fairy tale now, this isn’t Rumpelstiltskin.…” She stops when she sees it’s no use. In Simon’s kingdom, he gets to make the rules.
Emma presses down hard on this strangling sense of urgency, tries to think. There’s something wrong here. Something is disturbing her, like hearing a familiar piece of music played slightly off-key. Simon’s presence obliterates her concentration, but she has to ignore that—she needs to narrow this down.
To find the right questions, she returns to basics.
“Simon, why is the Butcher focused on teenagers? You said the Butcher is trying to kindle a light inside himself, using young people’s blood.”
His head turns back. “I did, didn’t I.”
“So he doesn’t have that light already? Is he unwell, or impaired in some way?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Simon examines his nails.
“He’s trying to kindle youth, is he—” The natural trajectory of this makes her pause. “Simon, is he older?”
He cocks an eyebrow, and for a moment she can’t breathe. This whole time, they’ve been tracking a young man—eighteen to twenty-five. That’s what Cooper said; that’s what all the evidence pointed to.…
“Is the fog clearing, Emma?”
She realizes she’s been staring at Simon without seeing him. Now her eyes focus as she thinks of a new question. “Simon, how did the Butcher know to communicate with you through the Washington Post?”
“What an interesting question. Perhaps he assumed I read the papers.”
“But how would he know that?” She tracks the dark motes spinning in his eyes. “And how would he know which papers you receive? You and Kristin are from New Hampshire—you could’ve been reading your local paper for all anyone knew.”
“Perhaps it was mentioned in an article or something, around the time of my trial.”
She knows he’s lying. “I don’t think so.”
She squints, looks across to Bell. When she gestures for him to approach, he’s reluctant. She glares. He grimaces, starts walking over.
