The Forgetting Place (26 page)

T
he day after Uncle Jim was taken away, I came down with a fever. I'd been sick before—chicken pox, strep throat, an assortment of viral illnesses over the years—but I don't remember ever being quite so ill as I was during the three days following his departure. I ran high fevers, had shaking chills, and was intermittently delirious. Eight hours into it my parents took me to the doctor's office, and from there I was sent straight to the emergency room. Bacterial meningitis was what the doctors thought at first. They'd given me Tylenol, IV fluids, and antibiotics, stripped me down and covered me with cool wet towels in an attempt to break the fever. They'd even done a spinal tap that I'd slept right through without flinching. That worried them most of all, and I was admitted to the hospital for observation.

I have no clear memory of those three days, only a vague recollection of voices and images that marched through my head, accosted me with accusations to which I couldn't respond. I tossed and turned, poured out liters of sweat from my body, and there was no way of separating delirium from reality.

For an unknown duration of time, this was also the type of existence I endured while in captivity, following my fight with
the guards and the first of what would be an entire series of injections. The men came and went, but I had no real way of keeping track of what was happening. I had long, angry conversations with them—only to open my eyes and find myself in an empty room. If I drank or ate, it was because they forced me. I tried to sleep, but there was no relief in it. The brief semilucid moments felt like waking up after a night of heavy drinking with no idea where I was or what I was doing there. At one point, I became convinced that everyone in the complex—even my captors—were dead, and that I was completely alone. The horror of those moments was unbearable, and when the guards had finally come through the door—hours later—with another injection, I had broken down in tears of relief, welcoming them.

There were snippets of interaction I could recall—someone yelling,
Where's Jason?! What have you done with him?!,
although I think that person might have been me. I remember apologizing profusely for something I'd done long ago, although I couldn't remember what it was.

It didn't matter. I was past the point of hope, strategy, or resistance. I wanted it to end, wanted to be clear of this so that I could move past death to whatever came next. And if that turned out to be nothing, well . . . it was far better than this.

And then one day it ended. It happened as quickly as it began. Just as I'd been transported to this place an immeasurable time ago, I found myself suddenly being transported away from it, taken somewhere else, and the only emotional response I could conjure was resignation. There was the thrum of the tires beneath us, the sway of the ambulance, and in my mind I could once again picture the shallow grave awaiting me.

Eventually, we pulled to a stop. The driver and passenger
doors opened and shut.
Chunk-chunk
. I waited for them to come around and get me, listened for the sound of shovels.

Nothing.

I opened my eyes and looked around. I was alone in the back of the unit. The restraints around my wrists and ankles had been removed. They'd dressed me in my regular clothes before bringing me here. I sat up on the stretcher, listening.

Still, nothing.

Getting to my feet, I had to bend at the waist to accommodate the low ceiling. I shuffled to the double doors at the rear of the vehicle and tried the handle.
It will be locked
.
In a few seconds, I will feel the rig rolling forward, then a brief and disorienting plunge to the water below. The ambulance will strike the surface nose first, and I'll be thrown like a wet towel into the cabinets behind me. If I'm lucky, I'll hit my head and lose consciousness. Better that than clawing at the locked doors and windows as the truck sinks below the surface, the water pouring in around the hinges. Better that than being trapped in utter darkness with my mouth and nose pressed to the ceiling as the last few inches of breathable air are slowly extinguished
.

Yes, it will be locked,
but when I pulled on the latch the door swung open, and there was sunlight—so much of it that I had to shield my eyes. Above me, the sky was blue and cloudless. I don't think I've ever seen something so beautiful in all my life. I lowered one foot onto the rear step of the ambulance, paused a moment, then lowered the other until it was touching grass. I got down on my hands and knees, ran my open fingers through the green blades as they prickled my skin. Morning dew still clung to them, dampening my pants at the knees. I lowered my face to the ground, breathing in the soft, clean smell of abundant life.

Chunk-chunk.
Doors closing.

I froze.

A diesel engine sprung to life behind me, the sound loud and intrusive in the morning stillness. The sound of the transmission dropping into gear, tires rolling forward on the asphalt.

I didn't look back. If they intended to run me over, I didn't want to see it coming. I wanted to focus on the grass, wanted the last thing I saw to be something good.

The engine revved behind me. But instead of growing louder as it bore down on me, the sound receded. Even then I didn't look back, merely remained where I was, listening as the drone of the engine dissipated into nothing, until the whisper of the breeze became the dominant sound once again.

I got to my feet, took in my surroundings. I was standing on grass adjacent to a parking lot. About a hundred yards away, two women were engaged in a discussion as they traversed a concrete walkway that adjoined two brick buildings. I recognized the buildings immediately. In the distant backdrop behind them was the fence, its towering black pickets arching inward at the top. I turned to the left and there was the watchman's booth beside the large front gates. The last time I'd seen it, it had been empty. Now it was manned, Tony Perkins back at his usual station, his body hunched over a clipboard as he jotted something onto a sheet of paper. I started toward him, then stopped, wondering if Tony had been among the men who'd kidnapped Jason, who had assaulted Paul when he'd tried to intervene.

I continued cautiously toward the booth until I was close enough to catch his eye. If he'd been blameless, outraged by what they'd done to us, it would be apparent in the first moment he saw me.

Tony finished writing and looked up from his paper. His eyes
narrowed when he realized it was me, his expression caged and measured. If he was surprised to see me—if he was relieved that I'd shown up here alive—he didn't show it. It broke my heart, that guarded expression. I'd always liked Tony, had always felt that he was one of the good guys. But I saw now that they'd gotten to him as well. And if they'd gotten to Tony, then they'd gotten to everyone. There was nothing left for me here.

“Nice to have you back, Doc,” he said, but his eyes had returned to the clipboard, and when I turned my back on him to walk away, I don't think he even bothered to look up.

M
enaker.

After all that has happened, I know that I shouldn't have stayed. It sounds ridiculous, even in my own ears, to allege that the place meant to do me harm from the beginning. How could it? The events that took place here were caused by the actions of people, not the institution itself. A series of brick buildings and open grounds do not have the capacity to plan, to conspire, to hate. Accusing Menaker of such things is merely an act of displacement. It is easier for me to blame the place than the people whom I once trusted.

And yet . . .

Places have a memory. A house in which people were murdered is never the same again. Evil and violence have a way of settling into the walls like toxic chemicals. Over time, those chemicals will seep from the pores of the drywall. They will poison the people residing there if given the chance.

I suspect the same thing has happened here. I cannot pass the front steps of the administration building without picturing Paul's beaten face staring up at me, without hearing the wet sound of his breathing as a weak cough racks his body and
speckles his lips with a fine mist of blood. Walking by the fence at the west end of the property conjures images of Jason—the way he used to look at me with a mixture of tortured hope and resignation, as if he were forever trapped in his own private purgatory.

The buildings and grounds are a constant reminder of such things, but the hatred that I feel pulsing from the brick and iron skin of Menaker doesn't come from those memories, but from the place itself.
Is it possible for a place to be evil, for it to have enough ill will to elicit violence instead of just witnessing it?
Yes, I think that it is. I think there are some places—just as there are some people—that cannot respond in any other way.

Menaker is alive, and like all living things it must feed. It fed on the eye of the groundskeeper, Kendrick Jones, four years ago when a wayward branch punched through the globe and left him blind on that side. It fed on Paul and Jason, and has been feeding on its chief administrator, Dr. Wagner, for decades now. It has fed on me, too—will continue to feed for as long as I remain here.

Two months have passed since Jason's disappearance, since my abduction and subsequent release. The fractured bones of my right forearm have healed and the splint has been removed. The arm aches sometimes—the area where I broke it. Maybe it always will.

I never did call the police, never reported Jason's kidnapping or my own abduction, never notified the FBI that two imposters had been posing as special agents. What good would it have done? No one would've believed me. It was Wagner's word against mine, and the staff here have clearly been intimidated into backing
his
story, not mine. “You've caused enough trouble here,” Wagner told me during our first encounter after my return. “What evidence can you cite for any of this? Any remaining credibility you have will be ruined.”

Why, then, did he not fire me? After all that has happened, he must know that I can't be trusted, that I remain a liability. But he allows me to continue here, I think, for the same reason that compels me to stay. We are keeping track of each other, circling, gauging each other's weaknesses.

I continue to take care of my patients. If my experience with Jason has taught me anything, it's that I'm responsible for what happens to the people hospitalized here. I'm not the only one who knows how nasty this place can be, but I feel that I'm the only one left with the courage and dignity to fight it. Menaker will feed on the people here for as long as it remains standing, the weakest among them—the patients—most of all. I can't leave them, cannot walk away and allow it to happen in my absence. I have failed my patients in many other ways, but I owe them that much, at least.

Menaker doesn't like it, this interference. It does not want to be watched while it eats. It hates me and I hate it right back, and someday it will figure out a way to get rid of me. A tree will fall, perhaps, crushing my head in one swift motion. A patient will attack, killing me before anyone can intervene. It will be called an accident or a horrible tragedy. But the people who work and live here will know differently.

Until that time comes—and maybe even after—I have assumed the role of the resident ghost. I show up each day, do my job, and return home to my small apartment in the evenings. The hospital staff ignores me as much as possible. I have fallen into the habit of interacting only with my patients. Still, I keep a close eye on what is happening. I have considered burning the place to the ground, to wipe it off the face of the earth. There is even a remote possibility that I might succeed, although
Menaker would take with it a good number of the patients—maybe all of them. The doors would not open. People wouldn't be able to get out. Many of them would asphyxiate in the smoke. Some of them would burn alive. I couldn't live with that. So I wait for my chance, consider the options and weigh the risks. My guard is always up.

I am waiting to act.

I
t was either Monday or Thursday. I wasn't certain because I no longer kept track of the days. When every day is the same, it doesn't really matter. For the past month, I've been showing up to work seven days a week. I liked weekends the best because Wagner wasn't here and the staffing was minimal. But today was either Monday or Thursday because Kendrick Jones was raking leaves, and he always reserved that activity for those days during the fall. We were into October now, my favorite month, when Maryland is at its most beautiful. The piles of leaves were so thick and plentiful they reminded me of the clover field from
Horton Hears a Who,
the elephant having spent all afternoon inspecting them one by one during his desperate search for his microscopic friends. I raised my hand to Kendrick, who—like the pachyderm—was working diligently among the piles. He smiled and waved back, the milky white opacity of his blind right eye glistening in the early-afternoon sunlight.

Unlike the others, Kendrick remained cordial. Maybe it was because we'd both lost something irreplaceable to Menaker. I didn't know if he hated the place as much as I did, but I suspected the resentment was there. I sensed it in the way he worked so
hard at maintaining the property, combating the deterioration and hopelessness it exudes. Perhaps he saw it as a test of wills, his blind eye flashing like a war wound—a testament to his refusal to surrender to the forces at work here.

“Afternoon, Lise,” he said, scooping up a pile of leaves and stuffing them into a large black yard bag.

“Hey, Kendrick,” I replied, glancing around at the scattered mounds of burgundy and gold. “Looks like you've got your work cut out for you today.”

“Ev'ry day,” he said, and offered me a crooked smile, lowered his voice, assumed a conspiratorial tone. “Menaker, she got somethin' waitin' for me ev'ry day.”

I looked at him, nodded. “It's got something waiting for me, too, I think.”

The upper lid of his left eye—the good one—closed and opened. I couldn't tell if he was winking at me or if it was just a slow blink. The lid of the blind eye hadn't moved.

He stooped at the waist and gathered another armful of leaves, his knees making a soft popping sound.

“Gettin' stiff,” he admitted. The armful of leaves disappeared into the yawning mouth of a yard bag, and he stood up, stretched his back, one hand on each hip. “Feel myself slowin' down sometimes,” he told me, almost apologetically. “Can't help it. Gettin' old. Turned eighty-four today, ya know.”

“You did?” I asked, embarrassed that I hadn't known, but also surprised at the man's age. Kendrick's body had a gnarled and broken look about it. But still, eighty-four was much older than I'd pegged him for. “Why are you
working
today? You should be taking the day off.”

“Oh, yah? Ta do what?”

“I don't know.” I thought it over for a second, was suddenly struck with an idea. “How 'bout I take you out for dinner after work today.”

“Dinner,” he responded, as if it were some extravagant luxury enjoyed only by the superrich.

“Yeah, dinner,” I said, warming up to the notion. “Nothing fancy, just . . .” I considered the options, then landed on a good one, something I thought he might enjoy. “I'll take you to Marj's Kitchen.”

“Where?”

“Marj's Kitchen,” I repeated, surprised he hadn't heard of it.

He sighed, shook his head.

“What?”

“No, Lise.” He studied me for a moment. That cool, one-eye gaze made me want to fidget, but I stood still, resisting the urge. “We're not goin' out ta dinner after work. That's never goin' ta happen. You understan' that, don't ya?”

Quite frankly, I didn't. “I'm sorry,” I said, not apologizing for the offer exactly but simply sorry I'd gone out on a limb in an attempt to be friendly.
What
was it
about this place that made people want to hurt each other?

I moved on, continued past him in the direction of the north end of the property. When he called out to me, I almost didn't hear.

“What?” I asked, turning around. The October sun was already sliding down from its pinnacle in the sky. I had to shield my eyes with one hand to look at him.

“He's back, ya know. They won't let ya see him on account of everythin' that happened, but—”

“Who? Who are you talking about?”

He paused for a moment, maybe unsure if he was doing the right thing in telling me. “Jason,” he said. “Jason is back.”

My stomach rose and fell like a ship on the open water. It was a sickening, disorienting sensation.

“Where?”

Kendrick held up a hand. “Now, listen,” he warned me. “He's not supposed ta even be here. Dr. Wagner was very clear about—”

“Screw Wagner. Where is he?”

The old man was looking trapped now, but I wasn't about to let him go.

“You can't just go barreling in there and—”

“
Where?
” The front of his shirt was bunched in my hands. “
Where, goddammit!
”

“
Stop, Lise. You're hurting me
.”

I released him, stood there looking down at my hands, breathing hard.

“You tell me right now.”

“I . . . I can't,” he said, his voice cracking a bit. “I shouldn't have said nothin'. I'm just a stupid ol' man who doesn't know enough ta keep his
damn mouth shut
.”

“
Where?
” I persisted, but I was only half listening now. My eyes had moved up to the ratty brown belt Kendrick used to cinch his pants. There was a leather holster clipped to the right side of that belt, and from it protruded the dual handles of a pair of garden shears.

Dr. Wagner was very clear about—
Kendrick had said.
You can't just go barreling in there—

I realized then: the one place off-limits to the patient population and most of the staff here, a place where Wagner would have
easy, unfettered access to him. I'd been inside the building only once myself, and that excursion had been . . . a little rushed.

My actions over the next sixty seconds required no thought, no deliberation. I reached out with my left hand and snatched the shears from their holster. The tips were tapered to a fine point, the blades held together in a closed position by a small metal clasp near the grips. If Kendrick protested or made a move to stop me, I wasn't aware of it because I was running across the yard toward the front steps of the administration building, taking them two at a time. When I reached the upper landing there was a brief flash of Paul's body lying there, the gash in his scalp pumping a steady stream of bright red blood that saturated my jacket as I pressed it against the wound. I tried the front door, found it locked, then turned and headed back down the steps, around the building to the door at the back of the complex. It, too, was locked—
yes, of course it was
—but the rear door had a window that shattered easily with one blow of a palm-size stone I ripped from the ground. I reached through, flipped the deadbolt, swung the door open, and stepped inside.

The lower level of the building was unchanged from the last time I'd been in here. Dust lay thick on the windowsills. There was a damp, mildewed smell to the place, as if the files kept here were already in an advanced state of decay—the records of the past being methodically erased so that the suffering and injustices could be repeated all over again.

I moved quickly down the hall. At the intersection, I glanced left toward the end of the hallway and the bathroom from which I'd narrowly escaped capture, wondered whether my blood—dry and flaking—still lingered on the wooden frame
of the window. Something told me that it did, that Menaker wanted it that way.

I turned right, walked to the other end of the hall, swung the door open, and stepped into the stairwell. The door closed quickly behind me—too quickly—would've slammed if I hadn't reached out and stopped it with my hand. I eased it shut. The hinges—previously soundless—let out a tortured shriek that filled the stairwell, making me wince. Menaker was trying to stop me, or to at least alert the others to my presence. Ascending the stairs, I kept toward the side where I could hold on to the handrail, expecting to slip or feel one of the steps give way beneath me. I reached the top, my heart beating loudly in my chest, but when I pushed on the door's bar it refused to budge.

Locked.

There was no reason (
trying to stop you
) for the door to the stairwell to be locked. It didn't make sense. I engaged the push bar again, readied myself, then threw the weight of my body forward, hitting the door with my right shoulder. It moved slightly, still trying to resist me. I took a step back, lunged forward, and hit it again. This time it gave, swung wide, smashing into the wall behind it, the splintering thud echoing through the open lobby.

By now they must know that I'm coming for him. Anyone in this building would've heard that.

I paused long enough to check the other side of the door. There was no locking mechanism. A skid of paint marked the door's edge, matching the paint on the doorway's inner frame. The door itself had not been recently painted, only the frame. Although why anyone would—

To stop you. It wants to stop you.

I stood there in the lobby, listening. At first, all I could hear
was the sound of my own breathing, loud in my ears. I held my breath, remained perfectly still.

Nothing. The place was empty except for my—

No. No, wait.
There were voices now, their volumes low and subtle—behind at least one closed door, coming from this level. Crossing the lobby, I proceeded down a hall to my right. The discussion grew louder—and yes, one of them sounded like Wagner, his tone stern, lecturing.

The administrative building was of modest size, and it didn't take me long to home in on their location. I made a right, then another right—found myself standing in front of a closed door. There were no placards or markings to announce the room's purpose, just the sound of Wagner's scolding words coming from the other side. And then, in response, the softer pitch of a voice I hadn't heard in a long time.

In my left hand were the shears. For a moment they looked like a knife, and I wondered what exactly I intended to do with them. In a quick motion, I transferred the instrument to my right hand.

My senses were heightened. I could hear the distant sound of traffic from the streets beyond Menaker's iron-guarded perimeter. There was a slight chill, a breeze on my back, as if I were standing in the open night air instead of in the closed quarters of this vacant hallway. My muscles twitched and jumped beneath the thin veil of my skin, my breathing slow and even now, my jaw set as I reached forward and turned the knob.

The door opened soundlessly and I entered a short inner hallway. There was a conference room at the far end, its door already opened. The first thing I saw was Jason's once-familiar figure silhouetted against the window. His black hair hung limply over his
forehead, covering the small scar that marked his left temple. He looked haggard, defeated, maybe even drugged. His eyes registered nothing. The shoulders of his thin frame slumped forward, reminding me of the man I saw through the small window of my cell that first day of captivity. There was a quiet desperation in the way he struggled to hold himself erect.

Another man entered my line of sight. His back was to me, but I could tell right away that it was Wagner. He was spouting a rebuke, admonishing Jason, and whether this was part of an interrogation I didn't know and didn't care. I took a step forward. The floorboard creaked loudly beneath my left foot as Menaker dutifully alerted them.

Wagner stopped talking, turned around. Over his shoulder, I could see Jason's face studying me as well. I took another step forward.

“
No,
” Wagner said. “This is a private meeting and you are not permitted to be here.”

“You go straight to hell,” I told him.

“Lise.” He was at the far end of the hallway now, taking tentative steps in my direction. “It is dangerous for you to be here. It is dangerous for all of us. How did you even—”

“I'm not leaving here without him.”

Another step forward. He held up both hands to show me there was nothing in them. “You don't understand what is happening here.”

“I understand enough,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “And one way or the other, I'm taking him with me.”

“But where would you take him?” he asked. “Have you even thought of—”

“Doesn't matter. Away from here. And if you raise an alarm or
try to stop me”—I locked eyes with him, so he would know that I meant every word—“I will kill you.”

His eyes dropped to my hands for the first time, and he saw the shears. “Oh,” he said, appearing not so much frightened as fascinated by the sharp metal blades nestled there. “This plays into it, doesn't it?”

I didn't take the bait, didn't bother to ask him what he was talking about. Wagner's gaze slid along the walls of the narrow hallway, touched upon the open door behind me. Again, I could hear the distant sounds of traffic, could feel the chill of the night air coming through the open doorway.

Wagner's head cocked to one side, the look of a praying mantis as he studied me. “Do you know where you are right now?” he asked, and I felt a thin sliver of fear at the question.

“Shut up, and get out of my way,” I responded, raising the shears in front of me.

“You are at Menaker, you know. I am Dr. Charles Wagner.”

“I know who you are.”

“This is not a town house in Silver Spring, Maryland. It is daytime, not night.”

“Stop it.”

“You are here because you are concerned about Jason's safety. You suspect that I am cooperating with a group of Islamic extremists. You have come to confront me in his presence, haven't you?”