Crazy Dangerous (23 page)
“But she knew about Harry Mac!” I insisted.
This time my father only looked at me without saying anything. He didn’t have to say anything. I could read what he was thinking right there on his face. He didn’t believe for a second that Jennifer was having visions of real things that would really happen. He thought it was just madness. Schizophrenia.
“Don’t worry, all right?” he said. “The police are on it, and they’ll take care of it in the morning.”
But I did worry. I worried a lot. In fact, for the next couple of hours, that’s pretty much all I did: worry. I went back up to my room. I paced around. I lay down on my bed. I stared up at the ceiling. I got up and paced around some more. The whole time, all I could think about was Jennifer—Jennifer whispering. I could hear her, almost as if she were standing right there next to me.
“So many dead. Tomorrow. So many dead.”
My dad hadn’t heard that. He hadn’t heard the fear in her voice. I had. And I couldn’t stop hearing it. Jennifer’s words brought all these pictures into my head. Pictures of dead people lying all over the place. Bodies. Blood. And okay, some of these pictures, I guess, were from horror movies I’d seen on TV, but all the same, they were pretty realistic looking. And the more I thought about them—the more I paced back and forth—the more I remembered Jennifer whispering over the phone—well, the more realistic these pictures started to seem.
It was after ten o’clock now. I heard my parents come slowly upstairs. I head their voices on the landing.
“What a week,” my father said heavily.
“Joy comes in the morning,” said my mother, which was something she always said when someone was having a hard time.
“I sure hope so,” said my father. “Because, really—what a terrible week.”
Then I heard their bedroom door close and their voices became muffled and were finally silent. The house was quiet around me. I felt alone. Really alone. Like maybe I was the last person left in the world.
And I was scared too. More scared, I think, than I had ever been in my life. Because somehow I had managed to convince myself completely that Jennifer was telling the truth. I felt absolutely sure that the bodies and the death she had seen were real, real things that were really going to happen in the future. Tomorrow. I felt sure that Jennifer was having visions like the prophets in the Bible did.
The dead—so many dead—tomorrow
.
Somehow this disaster already seemed real to me. There was not a doubt in my mind that it was going to happen. You have to understand that. You have to—because that’s the only way you’ll be able to understand what I did next.
Do right. Fear nothing
.
I waited till everyone else was asleep, then I crept out of the house. I took two things with me: a flashlight and the Buster—the lockpicking tool Jeff Winger had given me. I wore my autumn coat with the two big pockets. I put the flashlight in one pocket and the Buster in the other.
It was cold outside. Cold and dark. There was only a sliver of a moon, and mostly it was buried under a steadily moving blanket of clouds. My bike had a light on it, but I kept it off at first. There were streetlights to see by, and I thought if the police spotted me—a kid out on his own at that hour—they would stop me and ask me questions. That was one thing my mom was right about: I didn’t want to deal with the police any more than I already had.
I pedaled fast, taking the back lanes. The town was asleep. The lights in the houses were out. There were very few cars on the road. There were no pedestrians.
St. Agnes Hospital was a long way away. I had looked up the address online. It was a good hour’s ride at least on Route 33. When I reached the two-lane, I switched my lights on and set myself to pedaling as fast as I could.
I tried not to think, but I did think—and everything I thought of made me more and more afraid. I thought of the dead people Jennifer had seen. I thought of what the police would say if they caught me on the highway. I thought of what my father would say if the police picked me up and brought me home. I thought of what my mother would say. Then I thought of the dead again and what would happen if I didn’t get to Jennifer in time.
They weren’t happy thoughts.
I rode on. The forest closed around me, edging up to the highway on both sides. I sensed the depths of its darkness and began to imagine lurking presences among the trees, watching me pass. At one point, out of the empty horizon, a pair of lights shone suddenly. A big truck passed me, heading back toward town. I saw the driver in the lighted cab. I saw him look at me as he went by, his eyes narrowing. I thought about him getting on his radio and calling the police:
There’s a kid out here on the road .
. .
Then the truck passed, its backwash of wind making my bike waver back and forth unsteadily.
I kept pedaling. It was a good thing I’d been running so much, practicing for track tryouts. My legs were strong, but even so, they ached like crazy. My wind was good, but even so, I was panting pretty hard. I needed to rest, but I kept thinking,
No, go a little farther, just a little farther .
. .
Then, all at once, there it was.
As I came around one bend in the highway, the trees parted on my left. There was an entranceway. Just a small space. A gate. No lights. The opening was nearly hidden by the forest shadows and I almost went right by it. Then I caught sight of the sign: St. Agnes Mental Health Facility. That was the place.
I stopped my bike, my feet on the ground. I looked through the gates. There was nothing visible but a long driveway leading over a hill and out of sight. In the darkness it didn’t look like an inviting journey. Not at all.
I thought to myself:
There’s still time to turn back. If you’re quiet about it, no one will even know you left
.
Then I thought to myself:
Do right. Fear nothing
.
Man, right then I was sorry I’d ever seen that little statue of the archangel Michael on my father’s shelf. I was sorry I’d ever seen those Latin words.
But it didn’t matter whether I was sorry or not. I knew I couldn’t turn back. I had to try to get to Jennifer. I had to try to stop whatever was coming.
I got off my bike and walked it into the trees. I laid it down in the woods, out of sight of any traffic that might pass. Then I kept walking, hoping to find a way around the gate.
I had imagined there would be all kinds of obstacles: high walls, electric fences, even guards and dogs patrolling the place to keep the mental patients from escaping. In fact, it was nothing like that. When I came out of the trees, I was on a little lawn. A driveway ran beside it. I stayed on the grass but followed the drive. When I came over a small hill, I saw the hospital. It was that easy.
As I approached the building, though, my stomach did that thing again, like I was going down in an elevator too fast. The hospital was a broad structure of brick. It was only two stories tall, but there was a castle-like roof on the front of it, giving it an extra two stories. Then the walls went out on either side a long way. There were lots of large windows in the walls and lights on in some of the windows, but a lot of them were dark. The building loomed black against the silver sky. The darkened windows stared down at me emptily like a skeleton’s eyes. The big central door was closed tight and made the place look forbidding. Now and then, I saw a shadow passing through a lighted window upstairs, and I knew that there were people inside and that they were awake, moving—and would be watching for intruders.
I moved carefully through the night. I moved close to the building and then followed its wall around to the side. I was looking for a way in—some way aside from barging right through the front door.
I passed a series of big windows. I pressed my face to them and peered inside. They were mostly offices, dark and empty. Then when I got to the rear corner of the wall, there was a row of smaller windows, closer to the ground. All of these windows were dark too. Looking to my right and left to make sure there was no one to see me, I drew close to the smaller windows. I knelt down and pressed my face against one of them. I couldn’t see anything, so I took out my flashlight and shone it through the window glass. As I expected, I was looking into the hospital’s cellar. I saw a kind of tiled room with a large bath in the center of it. I moved on to the next window. This time I saw a trash can with brooms sticking out of it. There was a tall shelf with towels and sheets on it. There was a pair of green overalls hanging on the wall.
That was the window I wanted.
I took the Buster out of my pocket. Jeff Winger had taught me his trade well. In under fifteen seconds I had the window lock picked and opened. I guess I would have been a good thief, if I’d stuck with it.
But just as I was pushing the window up, I thought:
What if there’s an alarm?
It was too late. The window rattled upward. I held my breath, waiting for the siren.
No siren. No alarm. Silence.
I grabbed hold of the sill and scrambled up and in through the window.
I dropped to the floor. My sneakers muffled the sound of my landing. I crouched there, listening. For a long moment I couldn’t hear anything except the beating of my own heart and my quick, nervous breathing. Then, as I calmed down a little, I started to hear the noises of the building: air moving through vents; footsteps in hallways above me; distant, muffled voices fading in and out.
I shone my flashlight around. As I expected, I was in a large supply closet: a small room with shelves of towels and linens, garbage cans on wheels, brooms, a couple of trolley-carts, and so on. There were also overalls—not just the ones hanging on the door, but a few others on hangers, dangling from a rod.
I moved quickly to the overalls and started looking through them for a pair in my size. The best ones I found looked big, but it was as close as I could get. I was just beginning to peel them off the hanger when I heard a noise. Someone was close and quickly getting closer.
I froze. It sounded like a trolley-cart on wheels. It was coming down the hall toward the supply room door.
Quickly I doused my flashlight and ducked behind the overalls. It was the only place to hide, and they didn’t hide me much. I knew my sneakers were sticking out from underneath the overalls. Anyone who came in would probably see me.
The cart noise came closer and closer—and sure enough, it stopped outside the door. I held my breath. If I was caught now—here—they would take me back to the police, and I didn’t think my father would be able to talk me out of jail this time. It finally—finally!—occurred to me just how stupid I had been to do this, to come here. I realized—finally!—just how big a risk I was taking. Suddenly,
Do right; fear nothing
didn’t sound like such good advice after all.
I nearly groaned aloud in fear as the doorknob on the supply room door began to turn. The door began to open. Wider. Then a man’s voice spoke—just outside.
“Dave?”
The door clicked shut again. The next time the voice spoke, it was muffled. Another man’s voice answered, also muffled. Even though I strained to hear, I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
I stayed where I was. I tried to swallow but couldn’t. My throat was too dry. I waited for the door to open again—all the way this time.
But the next thing I knew, I heard the wheels of the cart start rolling once more over the hallway floor outside. This time, though, the noise got softer and softer. Yes! The man with the cart was going away! After a while the sound of it was gone altogether.
I breathed for what felt like the first time in minutes. Then I started to move again, quickly now.
I snaked out from behind the overalls. I was too afraid to turn the flashlight back on, so I just felt my way around. I found the overalls I’d had before. I started to pull them on over my clothes. They really were big, bigger than I’d thought. I had to roll the cuffs up over my sneaker heels so I’d be able to walk. Then I had to roll up the sleeves so my hands would be free. Even so, when I was finished, the overalls hung like a tent canvas around me.
I went to the cart—the one with the big trash can and brooms on it. I took hold of its handle and rolled it to the door.
With one hand on the cart handle, I used my free hand to draw the door open. I stuck my head out and peeked around. There was a hallway. Empty. I took a deep breath.
Here we go
, I thought.
Then I pushed the door open all the way and pulled my trolley-cart out into the hall.
