The Forgetting Place (16 page)

I looked back at Wagner and the men. They'd reached the foot of the steps, were starting the thirty tiered strides it would take them to reach us. If what Paul was saying was true, I was trapped. There was no going back down the way I'd come up.

“Don't let them take you,” Paul whispered. “Here—use these,” and he placed a large key ring—his personal collection—in my hand.

“Paul, I . . .”

He shook his head, pushed me away with his hand. “No time, Lise. They've been looking for you, searching the grounds. I overheard the orders.” He shot a look toward the top of the stairs, then back at me. “There's a small padlocked gate at the rear of the hospital property. You know the one?” he asked, and I nodded. “You can get out there. It's the one on the far right. Find Jason later if you can. But right now, you've got to go.
Now, run!
”

I stood up, the keys in my hand, just as the men reached the edge of the platform. I gave Paul one last look, then stepped over him and disappeared through the front entrance. The sound
of a commotion erupted behind me, the clatter of men's feet as they broke into a run across the landing. As I pulled the door shut, a hand stuck itself through the remaining space, grasped the edge of the door, and began to pry it open once again. An additional two inches of daylight poured through the widening crack. I yanked back hard, putting one foot against the wall for added force and throwing my head and shoulders backward. The sudden move took the man on the other side by surprise, the door smashing his fingers against the frame. He let out a howl and a flurry of curses, the fingers disappeared, and the door swung shut. I flipped the lock on its handle and set the deadbolt. Wagner was yelling for them to get out of the way, that he had a key, but I didn't stop to listen as I moved through the lobby. Along the far left wall was a door to a stairwell. I flung it open, raced down the steps to the ground floor.

Most of this level was used for storage: rooms lined with metal file cabinets, the faint smell of mildew, the overhead lights meager at best. I'd never been down here, but on my walks around the property I'd noticed that the building had a rear door at ground level. I went searching for it now. The hall I was in passed several rooms on either side, then intersected with a short corridor that led to the rear of the building. Footsteps pounded on the floor above me as the men gained access.

Reaching the rear door, I glanced through one of its glass panes to ensure the coast was clear, then put a hand on the doorknob and turned the lock. Something moved in my peripheral vision. My hand froze. I glanced out at the yard once again. There was no one I could see. But a lanky shadow fell across the grass on the other side of the door—a human shadow, I realized. Someone was pressed against the back of the building, waiting for the door
to open, waiting for me to run out, his arms poised to grab me the moment my body appeared.

“
Shit,
” I whispered, standing there, not knowing what to do next. The door to the stairwell banged open on the floor above. It would be five seconds—maybe less—before they stumbled into the hallway perpendicular to the one I was in. If I was still standing here when that happened, there would be nowhere to go.

My next move was instinctual. I bolted down the corridor, turned left at the main hall, sprinted to the end of it, and smashed through the door to the men's restroom on the right. My fingers spun the deadbolt, and I stood there breathing hard. A moment later I could hear them moving from room to room, searching for me, calling out my name.

There wasn't much to the bathroom: one stall with a toilet, a sink and a small mirror above it, a single urinal against the far wall. A slant of natural light filtered through the translucent glass of a modest rectangular window situated high on the wall above the urinal. Planting a foot on the porcelain lip of the urinal, using it as a high step, I was able to reach the window, sliding it open as far as it would go. There was a moment of despair when it slid only a quarter of the way—not wide enough for me to squirm through. The thing hadn't been fully opened in a long time, and several layers of paint bonded the wooden frame to its track.
Screw this,
I thought, and slammed the side of my fist against the wood, giving it another sideways yank. It slid open another quarter of the way.

“This one's locked!” I heard someone call out to the others, and the door to the bathroom shook on its hinges. It was unlikely Wagner had a key to
this
room, but I winced anyway. They'd soon discern my intentions and go searching for the room's
exterior window. The man at the building's rear door wouldn't see me coming out a front window, but if they alerted him before I was through, I'd be boxed in and out of options.

I stepped onto the upper shelf of the urinal, palms on the windowsill. There was no screen, but I'd have to go headfirst through the opening, the hole too small and my balance too unstable to maneuver otherwise. The window was high—about two feet below the ceiling—and I could see that the ground outside was another few feet below the floor level of this room. The fall I'd take would be roughly eight feet, headfirst. I'd have to get my hands out in front of me.
But still
,
I could break my neck.
If there was another way, I couldn't think of it, and when someone banged loudly on the door behind me I decided that the time to do this—if I was going to do it at all—was now.

I poked my head out through the window and could see there was no one standing on the ground below, no one at all on this side of the building. The thought occurred to me that someone might be waiting in ambush around the corner, but there was nothing I could do about that. My arms were extended straight out in front of me, like I'd done as a child diving into the neighborhood pool. I was worried my shoulders might not make it through, but they did, and now I was hanging halfway out of the opening, my waist and upper thighs resting against the metal track at the bottom. With my palms on the exterior wall, I inched myself forward and downward, attempting to control my descent, my hips snug against the wood of the window frame.
What if I get stuck here
,
my body half out of the building? They could stand right next to me and beat me senseless as I hung here, unable to defend myself, waiting to lose consciousness.

I turned my pelvis diagonally and was able to get the widest
part of my body through. Then, bending my knees to about ninety degrees, I braced myself with my feet against the bathroom wall.
If I could hang by my feet from the lip of the opening, that would put me close enough to the ground to
—

That was as far as
that
plan got. As soon as my knees cleared the opening, I fell. My hands were splayed out in front of me, the wall of the building inches from my face. I hit the ground, rolled to the right. Something broke as I landed—I could hear the crisp snap—and because there was no immediate pain my first thought was that it had been my neck.

Everything will go numb,
I thought, but a moment later the pain in my right wrist rose to the surface, the intensity washing over me, suffocating. I knew better than to cry out—only lay in the grass, allowing the scream to fill my head instead of the air. My eyes dropped to my right arm where I'd developed an extra angle about six inches above my wrist. The area was already beginning to swell, and when I touched the site with the index finger of my left hand, I could feel a jut of broken bone just beneath the skin.

Never mind that,
an inner voice instructed.
Get up and get going. Or a broken arm will be the
least
of your problems
.

I rolled to one side, pushed myself to my knees with my good arm. The world went white and distant as I stood, the grass tilting away.
I'm about to pass out,
I realized—something I could not afford to do—so I leaned over at the waist, grabbed my broken forearm, and squeezed.

Words cannot describe the severity of pain associated with
that
action—the scream once again filling my head—but it brought me back to where I needed to be, the color slowly returning to the world around me. I gritted my teeth, took a tentative
step forward. My left leg supported my weight. That was good.
But could I run if I needed to?

Get going, get going, get going!
the voice hammered inside my head. I did as I was told, lurched across the grass as fast as my legs would take me. It was only a matter of time until the men noticed the open window, either by gaining entrance to the bathroom or returning outside. When they did, they would come for me full tilt across the open yard. They would either spot me heading toward the front gate or assume I had done so. From that moment on, it would be a footrace—one I did not think I could win with my arm in its current condition, the pain crashing against my skull with the impact of each step.

There's a small padlocked gate at the rear of the hospital property,
Paul had told me.
You know the one?
Yes, I knew the one. Since it was always locked, I'd never considered it functional, assumed the key was long since lost, the padlock rusted shut. A door to a room that is never opened is no better than a wall, or in this case a fence. But here I was with a key and instructions to use it, Paul's advice clanging in my head. Beyond the rear fence was a dense thatch of woods that descended into a ravine. It would provide cover, a place to hide. Right now, that was all that mattered.

I ran toward the Hinsdale Building, expecting with every step to hear someone yell for me to stop right where I was, the sound of hurried footsteps on the grass behind me. My mind turned to the image of Jason being chased through the woods when he was younger, of Billy Myers waiting in ambush, a switchblade coiled like a serpent in one pocket—and I thought,
Where is the stealthy one, the only one with murder in his eyes?

I rounded the corner of the Hinsdale Building, breathing a sigh of relief, knowing the brick structure would help shield me
from sight. A dash along the southeast wall took me to the rear of the building. Across the open grass, I could see the locked gate some fifty yards ahead.

Warm brick pressed against my back as I closed my eyes, readied myself for the next part.
Hurry, but don't rush,
I told myself.
You will move faster if you stay calm.
Opening my eyes, I listened for the sound of approaching feet. There were voices in the parking lot now. One of them sounded like Wagner arguing with another man. I pushed them from my mind, instead focusing on the small gate in front of me.
Ready?
I asked myself.
Ready enough,
my mind answered. I stepped away from the building and crossed the grass to the rear gate.

There was a nasty moment when I reached into my pocket with my left hand and came up with nothing. No key ring, no way to get through. It had fallen out of my pocket while I was hanging upside down from the bathroom window.
Why hadn't I noticed?
The answer, I realized, was my broken arm. I'd been in too much pain to notice anything else.

“
Now
what?” I hissed.

I took a breath, told myself to slow down, to not panic.
Easier said than done,
but at the same time my mind argued that I was right-handed, that I'd probably been holding the keys in my right hand before shoving them into my pocket.

My right arm and hand were essentially useless at this point, so I reached across my body with my left to fish around for Paul's keys in the opposite pocket. The angle of entry was unnatural, and for a few seconds I couldn't find them there either. The panic started to rise up again, but I plunged my hand deeper, and suddenly my fingers brushed against metal. “
Thank God,
” I whispered, closing my hand around the ring and pulling it out.

At least thirty keys stared back at me.

I glanced over my shoulder.
Still alone, but for how long?
And how the hell was I going to find the right key with limited time, a rusted lock, and only one good hand to sort it all out? The keys were color coded, but I didn't understand the color scheme. The lock, I could see, was a Master Lock, but none of the keys were similarly marked. A few had numbers or letters inscribed into the metal, but none of these made any sense to me either.

Climbing over the fence with its ten-foot spear pickets curving inward at the top was not an option, even if my arm wasn't broken.
Should've gone for the front gate,
I told myself, shoving one key after the other into the lock, hoping one of them would turn. It was slow going with one hand, and as I pulled the fourth failed key from the cylinder the entire ring slipped from my hand and fell to the ground, landing on the soft, slick grass at the foot of the fence where the land sloped downward toward the ravine.

I watched in horror as the keys slid away from me between the pickets.

They came to rest on the opposite side of the fence against a rock jutting up from the earth some four feet away. I kneeled and reached through the fence with my left arm, my shoulder butting up against the pickets. Even when I stretched my arm as far as I could, the ring was still a good twelve inches from the tips of my fingers.
Gone,
I thought, and panic scurried over me like a sewer rat. There was no way out now, nothing to do but hide until they eventually found me. They would drag me into the ambulance—alive or dead—and wherever they took me, there would be no coming back.

Find a stick
, the inner voice—the voice of self-preservation—
instructed.
Snag the key ring, pull it back under the fence. And don't . . . drop it . . . again.

“Right,” I agreed, looking up and down the length of fence for something I could use. The stick closest to me appeared long enough, but also flimsy. I couldn't chance nudging the keys off the rock only to watch them break free and slide the rest of the way down the hill. I kept searching.