Asylum (28 page)

We crossed at the Place Royal and turned, again at Robert Carrigan’s indication, back up the hill on Saint Francis Xavier. “Lansbury Pharmaceuticals was assured in writing that any use of these substances in experimentation was done with the full consent of the subjects involved,” he said carefully.

“Oh, really?” I’d forgotten to be afraid. “And where did the orphans at Cité de Saint-Jean-de-Dieu sign their names, Mr. Carrigan? The children, I’m talking
children
, do you have
their
consent forms on file?”

He was staring at me. “What do you know about the children?” His voice was hoarse.

“I know they were put in asylums without being crazy,” I said. “I know there was a connection between the Allan and some of the asylums. I know there were people in town this spring and summer looking into what had happened, maybe pulling up evidence.”

“You don’t know,” he said, and his voice had changed. “You don’t know anything about the children.”

I frowned. What was this about? “They were tortured,” I said. It seemed as good an answer as any.

“It was not as bad as people think,” he said. “Not for everybody.”

He was really losing me now. “I don’t think you can forgo all responsibility because some poor souls actually survived!” I exclaimed.

He shook his head, slowly at first then more vigorously, as if he was more than disagreeing, as if he were shaking off memories. We started walking again. “Lansbury Pharmaceuticals had no knowledge that our products were used in conjunction with anyone other than a consenting adult,” he said, and his voice was back the way it had been before, the way it was supposed to be: brisk, clipped, professional. As if that other conversation hadn’t happened at all.

“Well,” I said, going out on a very thin limb, “what if I told you there’s been proof uncovered that indicates otherwise?”

We were back on Rue Notre-Dame, coming up again on the basilica from the other side. The area in front of it was now completely deserted except for the pigeons, busily scrabbling about for the infinitesimal bits of ice cream cone or bread or cookies left by tourists.

“I would respond,” said Robert Carrigan carefully, “by asking you precisely what proof you’re referring to. Claims are easy to make, Mrs. LeDuc. In my experience, they’re harder to substantiate.”

That’s what they had
, I thought. It came to me then, suddenly, all in one piece, the way some artists claim that visions come to them, the way some musicians see the whole of a symphony before composing a note. The whole picture, clean and clear and as crisp as the autumn air around me.

That’s what they had. One of the dead women, maybe more than one of them, hadn’t just put the pieces together the way that Julian and I had. They had found proof, the proof that would nail Lansbury Pharmaceuticals to the wall and cost the company millions of dollars in reparations. They could substantiate the claims. They could prove that Lansbury knew the subjects weren’t consenting and still they supplied the drugs. The chlorpromazine. The thioridazine. The LSD. What this horrible man was referring to as the “product.”

They could prove it, and so they died.

I’d stopped again, without realizing it, and when Robert Carrigan turned to see why, he saw my face. I’d said I wouldn’t be very good at this subterfuge thing, and I was right.

And just as I understood, so did he.

He reached out to grab me and I took off like the favorite in the hundred meters at the Olympics. Across the expanse of gray weathered stone. And into the basilica.

I’d thought that Marie-Rose would be safe. I really had. But that was before she got sick.

She kept coughing in the night and one morning couldn’t get out of bed. I pleaded with her to try, but she didn’t seem to see me or hear me and the inevitable result was that Sister Marie-Laure, who was infirmarian, caught us. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Sister. Marie-Rose isn’t feeling well.”

“Step away,” she ordered me, and bent over the bed, her hand on Marie-Rose’s forehead. When she straightened up, her face looked like it was carved out of stone. “Are you taking her to the infirmary, Sister?” The infirmary, I knew, was an antechamber only; the real destination would be the basement.

“It’s none of your concern,” she snapped. “You have things to do, don’t you? What’s your name?”

“Gabrielle Roy,” I said hesitantly. It wasn’t necessarily a good thing, to be brought to the sisters’ attention. “But Marie-Rose—”

“Then go, Gabrielle, and tell Dr. Desmarchais that there’s a child taken ill.” She saw me hesitate, and slapped my cheek. “Listen to me! Go tell Dr. Desmarchais, and then do whatever he tells you to do.”

“Yes, Sister.”

I gave one last agonizing look at Marie-Rose, and ran. Down to the doctors’ office on the ground floor, where the rooms were brightly lit and everything seemed clean and new. In contrast, of course, to what they were there for. You could almost believe that they wanted to heal people here, that they were really doing something good.

A girl about my own age, someone I didn’t know, was sitting in a chair outside a closed door. “What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and shrugged. “Sister Béatrice told me to wait, so I’m waiting.”

“Is Dr. Desmarchais in there?” I pointed at the closed door. I was wondering if I could claim that I hadn’t found him. It wouldn’t work, of course; but buying Marie-Rose any time at all seemed the least I could do.

The girl nodded. “Sister said not to disturb him,” she said.

I sat down next to her. “My name’s Gabrielle. What’s yours?”

The eyes flickered at me and back again into the middle distance. She was being cautious, which meant she was smart. “Annie.”

We waited an interminable time. I was worried about Marie-Rose, worried about what Sister Marie-Laure was doing to her upstairs, worried what it meant for her to see the doctor; at the asylum, doctors weren’t there to protect you.
Au contraire.

I stole a glance from time to time at Annie, sitting so still next to me that she might have been one of the statues in the orphanage’s chapel.

Finally the door opened and a nun came out carrying a little boy in her arms. He seemed to be asleep. I didn’t know either of them, and she left without a word.

Dr. Desmarchais stuck his head out and saw the girl next to me first. “Annie! It’s good to see you. Thank you for stopping by. I have something to talk with you about.”

He seemed only then to notice me. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Sister Marie-Laure sent me,” I said, sliding to my feet so as to look respectful. “It’s Marie-Rose. She’s sick.”

“I see.” He patted Annie on the head. “Just wait here, there’s a good girl.” He turned to me. “Where are you supposed to be, now?”

“In the file room,
monsieur le docteur
.”

“Very good. Run along there now. I’ll take care of your friend.”

And he must have done, because I never saw her again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

He was behind me.

I knew as soon as I darted into the church that he’d follow me, but I wasn’t thinking, not really; like any frightened animal when the hawk circled, I was in a blind panic. Thinking that the shadows would protect me, the scattering of side altars and ranks of flickering candles. No;
not
thinking was more like it. Going on instinct. The hunted will bolt even when it’s exactly the wrong thing to do.

And where were the security guards, anyway? They were supposed to lock up, or to keep the odd tourist from wandering in after hours without paying admission. What had happened to
them
?

It didn’t matter, not really: they weren’t here, and I was.

I wasn’t harboring any more illusions about Robert Carrigan. He knew all of Lansbury’s secrets, and had been keeping them for years. Who knew when he’d first gotten involved with them, when he’d first decided that the company, above all else, needed to thrive?

There had been something that had come and gone in those eyes when I’d brought up the children at the asylum. I couldn’t tell what it was, but it was after that his manner had changed. It was after that he’d decided to do what he had to do to keep me quiet.

Had Robert Carrigan hired a contract killer to take out Lansbury’s garbage? Or had Robert Carrigan saved them the trouble and taken care of it himself? Was
he
the killer?

And I had liked him. When we’d first met, I’d
liked
him.

Whoever he was, he was chasing me now. Someone willing to rape and murder, if not by his own hand, then once removed. Someone who was coming after me, ready to add another name to the list of victims.
There might be another woman somewhere
, Ivan had said.

Neither of us had any idea that woman might end up being me.

I’d instinctively swerved to the left when I went in; when I went to the basilica for mass on Sundays it was where I sat, and my feet were moving without any input from my brain. The church was darkened but weirdly alive, the flames from thousands of candles in the numerous side chapels flickering, giving off an odd yellow light that cast more shadows than it relieved and making the very stone seem to come alive. The lights were still on behind the reredos, the blue of the heavenly sky, dotted with gold stars and glowing, I fancied, with the holiness and sanctification of the liturgies that had been enacted there.

There’s something about a church, especially a big mysterious one, that makes you want to whisper. Robert Carrigan obviously felt otherwise. “Martine!” His voice echoed around me and off the pillars that spanned my side aisle. “Don’t be ridiculous. All I want to do is talk.”

Yeah. Like you talked to Danielle and Annie and Isabelle and Caroline. I saved my breath and, like a church mouse in this greatest of all churches, looked desperately for a hiding place.

I’d made my way as far as the confessionals, now, and darted inside the first one. On the penitent’s side, of course; even the threat of imminent death didn’t seem to relax the shibboleths of my upbringing. As I stood in the narrow space, scarcely breathing, I realized what an infinitely stupid move I’d made. I was trapped inside a box no larger than an upright coffin, just waiting to be discovered.

No: I wouldn’t wait here, trembling, for him to hunt me down and find me. You’re strong, Martine. You don’t have to be a victim.

I wondered how strong they had been, the others. Probably stronger than I was. But I had something they didn’t have: I knew who my enemy was, and what he was capable of doing.

I opened the door and slipped out again before I lost my nerve. I was beginning to understand how the rabbit felt, staying stock-still for as long as possible—and then bolting at the very worst possible time, nerves broken, death in sight.

I had no idea where Robert was.

The thought sent me spinning into panic. Beside me, a life-sized wooden statue—of Marguerite Bourgeoys, Montréal’s own saint—seemed to move in the flickering candlelight, the lips alive in prayer, the eyes watchful. I crouched beside her, her painted cloak against my skin. Help me, Saint Marguerite, protect me. She had nothing to say, and I leaned closer to her, feeling invisible, knowing I was not. Think, Martine, think. You have the advantage here. You know this place; he doesn’t. Use what you know.

What I knew was that I’d never been so scared in all my life.

“Martine!” I jumped; the voice was close, too close. I stayed down and scuttled behind a rack of votive candles, probably not too brilliant a move—their light would blind me to seeing anything else—but the instinct to hide was too overwhelming. “Martine, where
are
you?” Almost a chant, familiar from childhood games. Childish, that’s what he sounded.

He’d changed when I talked about children at the asylum. His eyes, his voice, he’d become younger though no less terrifying. What was it about Robert Carrigan and these children?

Never mind. Right now what I had to do was survive to tell the tale.

I felt an atavistic shudder run down my spine and my brain, finally, clicked into gear. I slipped my hand into my pocket, my fingers closing around the dreaded smartphone. I pulled it out and, risking its illumination, navigated to the contacts list, pressed a button. Ringing. More ringing as I tempered my breath to avoid making too much noise. “You’ve reached the voice mail of Julian Fletcher…” That was no good. I whispered into the phone. “It’s Martine, I’m at the basilica, help me, Julian. He’s here. Carrigan. It’s him. He’s going to kill me.” I tried Ivan, got his voice mail too. I should probably leave Ivan a message, part of my mind was thinking, in case I wasn’t around later to tell him anything.

I couldn’t think like that. I had to know where Robert was. I put my head even farther down and focused on the smartphone, clicking on the utilities, then set the alarm for three minutes. I slipped the phone down onto the floor and, cautiously, eased myself out from behind the candles and darted into the shadows of the next chapel over. I couldn’t even see who this saint was, somebody male and big and reassuring; he should have been a comfort to me. The small altar was marble, cold under my fingers, and I glanced up into his face, the statue impassive in the flickering candlelight. No help there.

No movement anywhere. What I had to do, I thought, was get up in the organ loft, where only an hour ago the French master musician had been playing. From there, I could see where Robert was.

No, the saner part of me said. You don’t have to get into the
loft
, you idiot; you have to get out of here. An adage came floating up out of my subconscious: never climb, eventually you run out of stairs. I had to get out in the open, out where there are people, out where there’s safety and no madman chasing me through a medieval maze …