Chapter 9 - Behind the Frosted Glass
The Blackwood Psychiatric Facility rose from the foggy pine barrens like a gray concrete fortress.
Surrounded by two tiers of twelve-foot chain-link fencing topped with razor wire, the compound looked entirely abandoned from the road.
Only a few yellow security lamps cast sickly cones of light across the weed-choked asphalt parking lot.
The rain fell in diagonal sheets, muffling the sound of the tires as Nico guided the black SUV into a drainage ditch behind the decommissioned boiler plant.
Claire sat in the passenger seat, her hands clenched in her lap, watching the steam rise from the exhaust vents of the facility.
"Robert is waiting at the laundry dock," Nico said, checking the dashboard clock.
"It's two-fifty-five."
"We have twelve minutes before the automated perimeter scan runs its loop."
They slipped out of the vehicle and moved through the shadows of the overgrown tree line.
The mud sucked at the soles of Claire's boots, but she kept pace with Nico's long, silent strides.
They reached the concrete service ramp behind the western annex.
A heavy steel door marked BIOHAZARD DISPOSAL ONLY was cracked open by half an inch, held by a wooden wedge.
Nico drew his weapon, motioned for Claire to stay behind him, and kicked the wedge free with his toe.
They slipped inside into a dimly lit, tiled service corridor that smelled overpowering of industrial bleach and stagnant water.
Waiting inside the vestibule was a man in his late forties, wearing wrinkled green surgical scrubs and a white lab coat.
His face was pale, his eyes darting frantically toward the security cameras mounted in the corners of the ceiling.
"Nicholas," Dr. Robert Stone whispered, his voice trembling.
"You're late."
"The cameras in this corridor are looped on a nine-minute playback tape," the doctor said, wiping cold sweat from his forehead.
"If the central control room notices the time-stamp freeze, the whole facility goes into automated lockdown."
"Where is Thomas Keller?" Nico demanded, not lowering his weapon.
"Ward Four."
"Cell one-zero-eight."
"The end of the southern corridor."
"What condition is he in?" Claire asked, stepping into the dim light.
The doctor glanced at Claire, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized the uncanny resemblance to the old personnel files.
"He's heavily medicated, miss," Dr. Stone said softly.
"Thorazine and haloperidol."
"He's been on that regimen for over a decade."
"He doesn't speak."
"He barely walks without assistance."
"If you try to move him too quickly, his blood pressure will crater."
"Give me the keycard," Nico said.
The doctor handed over a magnetic keycard on a blue lanyard, along with a small plastic bottle of amber liquid and a syringe.
"What is this?" Nico asked.
"Atropine and an amphetamine stimulant," Dr. Stone whispered.
"Inject him in the deltoid."
"It will counteract the sedative stupor for about thirty minutes."
"It will give him enough motor control to walk to your car."
"After that, you're on your own."
"I'm leaving through the front gate now to establish my alibi."
"May God help you both if Vale's people catch you in that wing."
The doctor turned and hurried down the northern corridor, his rubber clogs squeaking against the wet linoleum until he vanished around the corner.
Nico swiped the card against the magnetic reader of the heavy steel double doors marked WARD FOUR — SECURE RESIDENTIAL.
The electromagnetic lock released with a loud, mechanical thud.
They stepped into the ward.
The corridor was lined with heavy steel doors fitted with narrow rectangular windows of reinforced frosted glass.
The silence was unnerving, broken only by the distant, rhythmic dripping of a leaky pipe and the occasional low, guttural moan of an inmate sleeping behind reinforced walls.
They moved swiftly down the hall, their eyes scanning the stenciled numbers on each door.
One-hundred-two.
One-hundred-four.
One-hundred-six.
They reached the end of the hall.
Cell one-zero-eight.
There was no nameplate on the door, only a handwritten medical warning tag: PATIENT: KELLER, T. — HIGH FALL RISK / MAXIMUM SUPERVISION.
Claire stepped up to the narrow glass window.
Her breath fogged the cold glass, obscuring her view.
She wiped it away with the sleeve of her wool sweater and peered inside.
The room was barely eight feet wide, illuminated only by a dim, recessed nightlight embedded in the concrete ceiling.
Sitting on the edge of a narrow metal cot bolted to the floor was a man.
He was wearing a faded gray institutional jumpsuit.
His hair was long, thin, and silver-white, falling over rounded, bony shoulders.
His frame was gaunt, his collarbones protruding sharply beneath the coarse cotton fabric.
His hands were resting limply on his knees, his fingers trembling with an involuntary, rhythmic twitch.
He was staring blankly at the opposite wall, his face hollowed by years of chemical confinement.
Claire's heart shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
The man in the photograph on Louise's desk had been broad-shouldered, laughing, with clear hazel eyes and dark, thick hair.
The man sitting on that metal cot looked like a ghost that had forgotten how to haunt the living.
"Dad..." Claire whispered against the glass, her tears finally overflowing and tracing hot paths down her freezing cheeks.
Nico slid the keycard through the door lock.
The heavy bolt clicked back with a sharp, metallic ring.
Nico pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the small room, his eyes scanning the corners for any hidden alarms.
The man on the cot did not jump.
He did not even turn his head.
He simply blinked, his clouded eyes slowly shifting toward the sound of the opening door with agonizing slowness.
"Thomas," Nico spoke in a low, firm voice.
"We're getting you out of here."
The man did not react.
He merely parted his dry, cracked lips, letting out a dry, raspy wheeze that sounded like wind passing through dead grass.
Claire stepped past Nico into the tiny concrete cell.
She fell to her knees directly in front of the cot, placing her warm, trembling hands over his cold, shaking fingers.
"Dad," she whispered, her voice breaking into a sob.
"Dad, look at me."
The man's brow furrowed slightly.
A tiny, confused flicker of light sparked in the cloudy depths of his faded hazel eyes.
He slowly lowered his chin, his gaze dropping to the young woman kneeling before him.
"Claire...?" he rasped, his voice barely louder than a ghost's sigh.
"No... Claire is... fourteen."
"Claire is... in school."
"I'm here, Dad," Claire cried, pressing his rough, calloused hands against her tear-soaked cheeks.
"I'm right here."
"You didn't abandon us."
"I know everything."
"I know about Pier Forty-Two."
"I know about Anna Mercer."
At the mention of those names, a violent shudder ripped through the man's frail body.
His trembling fingers suddenly gripped Claire's wrists with surprising, desperate strength.
His breathing hitched, his eyes widening with sheer, unadulterated terror.
"Anna..." he gasped, his chest heaving beneath the gray jumpsuit.
"Anna is dead... they killed her... they ran her into the river..."
"We know, Dad," Claire said, tears streaming down her face.
"We're going to get you out."
Nico stepped forward, holding the pre-filled syringe.
"Daniel," Nico said urgently.
"Hold still."
"This will clear your head."
Nico pressed the needle into Daniel Morgan's shoulder and depressed the plunger.
For three seconds, nothing happened.
Then, Daniel's back arched with a sudden gasp of air.
Color rushed back into his hollow, sallow cheeks.
His pupils contracted, his gaze snapping into razor-sharp focus as the chemical stimulant burned away the fog of twelve years of Thorazine.
He looked at Claire's face, his fingers reaching up to touch her jawline, her cheekbones, her hair.
"Claire," he wept, a real, conscious sob tearing from his throat.
"My little girl... my sweet girl..."
"I'm here, Dad," she sobbed, burying her head against his knees.
Nico reached down and pulled Daniel to his feet.
"We have to move," Nico said, checking the corridor.
"We have three minutes."
Daniel swayed on his feet, but his legs held.
He leaned heavily against Nico's shoulder, his breathing ragged and fierce.
As they moved toward the open doorway, Daniel suddenly froze, his fingers digging into Nico's leather jacket.
"Nicholas...?" Daniel rasped, staring into Nico's face.
"You have Michael's eyes."
"Yes," Nico said quietly.
"I'm Michael's nephew."
"Michael..." Daniel's voice hitched, a sudden, terrible memory twisting his features into agony.
"Michael didn't talk."
"They tortured him for six hours in the cold-storage locker... and he never gave them the books."
Nico stopped in the doorway, his eyes burning into the old detective's face.
"Who pulled the trigger, Daniel?" Nico asked, his voice shaking with twelve years of contained rage.
"Tell me who killed my uncle."
Daniel swallowed hard, his voice dropping into a hoarse, terrified whisper.
"It wasn't Vale."
"Vale was just the bagman."
"The man who shot Michael... the man who crushed my ribs and threw me into the canal..."
Daniel raised his right hand, mimicking the shape of a gun, his fingers trembling violently.
"He had the scar."
"The crushed hand from the breeching charge in eighty-nine."
"He wore the department gold signet ring on his index finger."
"Who is he?" Nico demanded, his voice thick with fury.
"Garrett Vance," Daniel whispered.
May you like
"Deputy Police Commissioner Garrett Vance."
"The man running for Governor."
