The Forgetting Place (15 page)

T
hings have been set into motion. Jason is certain they will come for him, and as much as I want to protect him, I don't know if I can. A week has passed since our conversation in the library. When I see him—when we speak—he seems resigned but restless, a soldier awaiting deployment to a battlefield from which he is unlikely to return. A quiet has descended upon the grounds and buildings of Menaker. It makes me nervous. I move through my days with mechanical stiffness, completing tasks and activities I've performed thousands of times before. Linder and Remy receive a call from me twice a day. It helps to hear their voices, to know they're still out there, ready to respond at a moment's notice if I need them. I've lost track of who I can trust, and I'm frightened—for myself, but mostly for Jason. Something is coming. I can feel it.

In all this, I am alone. And this, I think, is among the worst kinds of loneliness: being alone with your fear. It eats at my middle like a cancer. Someday it may consume me completely. If I try to ignore it, if I try to look away, its face mutates into something even more horrible than itself. And there is nothing to
do but watch as it slides across the floor, wraps twice around my body, and sets its teeth to work.

I lie now awake in my bed, looking up at the ceiling. An hour and a half ago, I glanced out the window to find the man in the overcoat staring up at me from across the street. I'd panicked, called Remy, but by the time he and Linder arrived the man was gone.

“We'll keep an eye on the place tonight,” Remy had assured me. “We'll be parked in the car just outside. I'll leave the engine running so you can hear us.”

“Don't waste the gas,” I told him, somehow knowing the man wouldn't return that evening.

“One of us can stay,” Linder offered. “I can sit here in the living room and just—”

“No,” I replied. “I'm okay.”

So they left, advising me to call them if I changed my mind. In the time it took for them to ride the elevator down and emerge from the building onto the sidewalk, I considered calling them back a half-dozen times.

In the apartment at the far end of the hall, I can hear the screamer start up again. Over the past few weeks, I've become accustomed to being jarred awake in the middle of the night by his outbursts. As a psychiatrist, I know there are many possible explanations for such behavior, but the one I imagine is that he is an autistic man still living with his parents.
What must it be like for them,
I wonder,
not only caring for him, but enduring that constant state of worry, being responsible for his actions?

I struggle with the urge to go to the window, to look down at the sidewalk below. To see if the overcoat man has returned.

But what good would it do me?
Would I call them back—Linder and Remy—or simply draw away, pace the room, spend the rest of the night stealing glances through the thin pane of glass?

No,
I decide. I do not want to know. There is a certain protection in not knowing—for the mind, if not the body.

Sometimes, it's all we've got left.

April 2, 2010

S
he sat back, closed her eyes, pressed her thumb and index finger to the bridge of her nose. Images from the photographs on the desk in front of her flipped through her mind, one after the other. They had been taken from different angles, some using a wide-angle lens to capture much of the sidewalk and surrounding shops, others focusing on the group itself, close-ups of three of the men sitting at the street-side bistro table off Connecticut Avenue in Dupont Circle. All of them appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent—not unusual given the ethnic diversity in that area of the city. She knew the names of all four men but had only spoken to two. One of them was the undercover agent who'd intentionally positioned himself with his back to the camera, allowing the photographer a facial view of the others. The second man she knew well—her brother's partner, Amir. Four and a half months ago, she rode in the back of an ambulance with him while he was delirious with the flu. And now she'd just listened to surveillance tapes of Amir's conversation with men from Al-Termir. If not for the mic embedded in the
undercover agent's necklace pendant, very little of the conversation would have been available for her to review. As Amir's role in the domestic terrorism scheme became clear to the CIA, she'd been cut out of the investigation—amputated with the cold precision she'd witnessed from the agency many times before. In a way, she wished the recording didn't exist, that there had been an equipment failure or interference with the signal. She wished that Amir's words—“I am ready to act. Tell me what to do.”—had been garbled or inaudible, leaving more open to conjecture. She did not want this proof of his intentions, longed for the small comfort of doubt once again.

“Will you tell him?” the man sitting next to her—a friend and low-level technician with the agency—asked. He was referring to Jason, not Amir. He had clearly done both the right and wrong thing in coming to her.

“I don't know,” she answered. But in her mind, the decision had already been made.

I
stood at the counter of Allison's Bakery, one hand wrapped around my morning coffee, the other cradling the obligatory cup of sweets that Amber insisted on making a part of our morning ritual.

“Thanks,” I said, offering her a smile but keeping our interaction brief. I was running late.

“No problem,” she replied. “Making people's mornings better is what I do.”

“And you do it well,” I responded over my shoulder as I headed for the door, slipping the cup of chocolate morsels into the trash as I walked past.

Ten minutes later, I entered Menaker's grounds through the front gate as I do at least five days a week, but today there was no security officer in the watchman's booth to greet me. It was possible, I thought, that an incident somewhere on campus had called him away from his station. But that wasn't protocol. There was always supposed to be someone manning the front gate. If a patient became so out of control that the clinical staff and the six security officers who roamed the premises were unable to safely
subdue him, then the next course of action would be to call in the police to assist us—not for the security officer at the front gate to abandon his post. And yet here was the watchman's booth, silent and empty. It wasn't just that, I realized as I scanned the grounds. There was no movement. The place was utterly still, as if the hospital had purged itself of its inhabitants and closed its doors permanently ten years before, the weeds growing high against the brick walls of the buildings and the sound of the voices that had once filled this place nothing more than the scarce whispers of ghosts on the tail end of a gusting breeze.

In my pocket was the phone Linder and Remy had given me.
I should call them,
I thought.
Something is not right here.
I pulled it out, found Remy's number, my thumb hesitating for a moment above the screen before I tapped it, sending the call. The image of a small green phone wobbled back and forth as I waited for him to pick up. “Connecting . . .” the screen advised me, and I waited. “Connecting . . .” it flashed again, the green icon of the phone doing its frantic little dance, my heart going
thunk, thunk, thunk
in my throat. And then . . . “Unable to connect.”

I stood there, dumbfounded, staring at the phone. The message “Unable to connect” regarded me coolly from its digital realm. Sweat broke out along the back of my neck. My heart continued to wallop in my throat, whispering,
I told you so
,
I told you so
,
I told-you-told-you-told-you so.
I hit Linder's number and held my breath. The icon did its gleeful jig and “Connecting . . .” remained on the screen long enough for me to feel hope peek its feeble head out of its shell. But four seconds later the message “Unable to connect” confirmed what I'd already anticipated.

“
Shit,
” I whispered, and began to slide the phone back into
my pocket—then paused, pulled it out again, and hit 911 on the keypad.

“Unable to connect,” it responded after a few seconds. I read the words aloud, not quite believing what was plainly displayed before my eyes. The signal was good, showing all four bars. Which meant . . .
what,
exactly?
Since when was 911 unavailable?

I told you so
,
I told you so,
my heart went on and on. I advised it to shut the hell up and let me think.

I considered turning around right there and running away; I'll admit that. But I had to believe that Jason was still in one of those buildings, that he'd seen them coming and was hiding in some janitor's closet or under a desk in an office somewhere as they went from room to room searching.
If I could find him before they did . . . If I could get him out of here . . .

The grounds remained empty, the buildings regarding me with the cold indifference of reptiles. All I could hear was my own shallow breathing and the frantic thrum of my heart. I forced myself to take a deep breath, to hold it for four seconds before letting it out, then repeated the process until I could feel my joints loosen, my body settling into a state of readiness.

Nothing moved in the yard as I made my way up the concrete path to the front of the main building. It was quiet, the atmosphere surreal. The thought occurred to me about halfway up the path that I might be dreaming. But there was too much detail in the building in front of me, in the walkway beneath my feet, in the warmth of the coffee cup in my left hand.
If this was a dream,
I told myself,
the coffee cup would be gone
. I had forgotten about it when I'd entered the front gate and found the security booth empty. I'd absently switched it from my right hand to my left so
I could use my dominant hand to work the phone, and because it was no longer relevant to what was happening I hadn't thought about it again since. Until now. And yet, here it was, still clutched in the curve of my fingers.

Too many details,
I thought.
This is real
. I dropped the cup into a trash can at the entrance to the building, then grasped the metal door handle, thumbed the lever, and swung it open. Its hinges protested the disturbance, emitting a shrill shriek that filled the entryway and scampered up the old wooden staircase to my right.

Like the grounds, the lobby was devoid of people. There were voices coming from the far end of the hall to my left, and I headed quickly in that direction, my footsteps a loud, hollow echo on the tile floor.

Along the right-hand wall ahead, two doors gave way to a large multiuse area. Many decades ago the room had been an auditorium, but a psychiatric hospital whose patients stay for years instead of days needs activities to fill that time. The space had been converted into a series of rooms separated by retractable partitions that could be opened or closed to suit various needs. Today the partitions were retracted, accordion style, so that the full space—roughly the size of a basketball court—was able to accommodate what appeared to be the entire patient population. Astonished, I looked through an interior window at the scene where patients milled about restlessly. Several nurses and orderlies moved through the crowd, attempting to maintain order. A few of the patients—the more stable ones—were keeping their calm for now, but many were becoming agitated, their vocalizations like the moans of the walking dead through the muffling effect of the glass.

At the far end of the hall, I spotted Nurse Haskins
instructing a young red-haired orderly. He looked hesitant, a bit skeptical, as if the instructions he received involved actions he was not comfortable carrying out. She gave him a soft swat on the shoulder as I approached. “
Go,
” she said, her voice strained and urgent, and he went, shooting me a brief look as he hustled down the hall.

“What's going on?” I asked. Nurse Haskins half turned to go. I reached out and caught her by the arm. She did not look happy to see me.

“Lise.” She opened her mouth to say more, then shut it without another word.

“Why are all the patients in there?” I inquired, gesturing toward the multiuse room. “Who authorized that?”

“Dr. Wagner.”

“Wagner,” I echoed, feeling my stomach lurch at the sound of his name. “Why? What's happening?”

She looked around. “Where have you been? You should . . . you should be with the others.”

“I've been at home,” I told her. “I was running late this morning.
Jesus, never mind that
. The front gate is unmanned. The grounds are empty. The entire patient population is stuffed into the multipurpose room.
What the hell is going on?
”

She glanced around again. It was just the two of us in the hall. For some reason she seemed nervous about that, and what she said next gave me a pretty good idea as to why.

“There's been an attack,” she advised, her voice low and guarded. She gestured toward the room. “They're in there for their own protection. You should probably join them. We haven't caught the assailant yet. Security is searching the premises for him now. An ambulance and police are on the way.”

As she said this, I could hear the sirens approaching, and once more my stomach did a slow uneasy roll in the shallow pit it had dug for itself.

“Someone was injured?” I asked.

“Paul Drevel,” she said, and the shudder that slipped through her body made me wonder if Paul was still alive.

I put one hand on her shoulder. “Where is he?”

She shook her head. “You should go into the room until we know it's safe. Dr. Wagner said that everyone should be—”

“Where
is
he?” I repeated, stooping a bit to make eye contact. I could hear the emergency vehicles pulling up outside.

“He was attacked on the grounds in front of Morgan Hall. Dr. Wagner is tending to him until the ambulance arrives. I . . .” She looked around, then reached out and took my hand. “Don't go out there, okay? Not until we're sure security and the police have apprehended him. He's dangerous, Lise—much more than the others here. I've felt that for some time now.”

“Who are you talking about? Who attacked Paul?”

She looked at me almost apologetically. “Jason Edwards.”

“You saw this happen?”

“No,” she said. “Dr. Wagner found Paul lying on the grass. Before he lost consciousness, Paul was able to tell him what happened. That's when we were advised to round up the patients and get them to a secure area. Security has been looking for Edwards for the past fifteen minutes.”

I took a step backward, pulling my hand free from her grasp. “I'm sorry, Lise,” she continued, but I wasn't listening anymore. There was something wrong with the information she'd provided. If all this happened the way she'd said, why wasn't there anyone on the grounds in front of Morgan Hall when I arrived?
Why had they left the front gate unmanned? More important, why would Jason attack Paul? It didn't add up.

I turned and headed for the nearest door, one that would return me to Menaker's front grounds. “Where are you going? You're supposed to stay here,” Haskins called after me, but I didn't respond. The door's push bar yielded as I hit it with the outstretched palms of my hands, exiting onto an exterior walkway adjoining the building I'd just departed with several other structures, one of them the administrative complex of Morgan Hall. As I stepped into the sunlight, I heard the
chunk
of a door slamming shut. Turning in that direction, I watched as one of two ambulances flipped on its lights and tore out of the parking lot, its tires screeching on the asphalt.

So I'd missed him already—had missed seeing Paul as he was loaded into the rig. I looked toward Morgan Hall, could see the steps flanked by broad white support columns on either side as they ascended toward the building's front entrance. The door was partially ajar, and as I watched, an arm appeared through the lowest section of the opening, followed by a head and torso as a figure pulled itself onto the front landing, rolled onto its side, and then lay still.

Jason,
I thought, and ran along the concrete walkway toward the building. Behind me, I could hear the sound of men's voices as they climbed from their vehicles. Someone was barking orders, and I could hear Wagner's voice as well, telling them, “This way. He's over here.”

I took the steps two at a time. When I reached the top, I stopped. Lying on the platform—his face battered, the bright red blood flowing freely from a long gash in his scalp—was Paul.

I dropped to my knees beside him, uttered his name. His eyes
rolled up at me, and at first there was no look of recognition on his face. The skin under his right eye was purple and swollen, his lips cracked, caked with specks of blood. His throat made a clicking sound as he swallowed. He coughed twice, wincing and bringing a hand to the left side of his rib cage as he did so.

“Paul, it's Lise,” I told him. My eyes kept returning to the gash in his scalp, which continued to bleed profusely. I removed my jacket, pressed it against the wound, applying pressure.

“Who did this to you?” I asked.

He closed his eyes, and for a second I thought he was losing consciousness, but when he opened them a moment later, he appeared clearer, more present.

“Lise,” he said. “They got Jason. I'm sorry. I tried to stop them.”

“Who?” I looked around frantically. Four men were making their way toward us across the grass. Wagner was in the lead. “Where?” I asked, but Paul's eyes were slipping shut once again, and I gave him a gentle shake. “
Where, Paul? Where did they take him?
”

“Don't know.” He coughed, and a few fresh specks of blood appeared on his lips. “They put him in the ambulance, I think.”

My mind turned back to the sound of the ambulance door closing, the vehicle's driver flipping on the emergency lights as he pulled out of the parking lot.
Dammit
. The first ambulance had been for Jason, not Paul. And the men who'd loaded him into that rig had no intention of taking him to a hospital, although where they
would
take him I had no idea.

“Hang on,” I told Paul. “The other ambulance is here.” I felt something clamp itself around my wrist, and when I looked down it was Paul's hand, the knuckles white with effort.

“No, Lise,” he said. His voice sounded distant and distorted,
as if he were speaking to me from behind a thick pane of glass. I saw his chest hitch—his lungs needing to cough up more blood, I imagined—but he fought against the urge and this time won. “That ambulance is not for me.”

I could hear Wagner calling out to me now—“Lise . . . Dr. Shields. Wait right there for us, please.”—as he and the men covered the last hundred yards to the building.

“None of these people are who you think they are,” Paul whispered. “That second ambulance . . .” A round of coughs tore through him, and once again he winced from the havoc it was playing with his broken ribs. “That second ambulance,” he managed, “is for you.”