Cold Ghosts, Part Three

There wasn't much left of the tour by the time I rejoined the group. The last room was a small gymnasium. "In addition to exercise and recreation areas outside, patients recovering from their surgeries could exercise in here," Jerelle was explaining.

            The room brought back bad memories of high school gym class—hardwood floors, two basketball hoops at either end, soccer balls in nets strung in one corner, a set of weights on one wall—and kids throwing dodgeballs at me without mercy. At least it didn't smell like sweaty jockstraps.

            A tourist raised a hand. "Where did they go, ma'am? Once they were done?"

            Jerelle sighed. "Most of them never left."

            I had to do it. "So what happened to them?"

            She peered at me. "Well, their families claimed them once they died. Otherwise they went to the state."

            I wondered about the hill Rachel had looked at. But this didn't seem like the right time or place to ask about Martin Greer.

            We headed back to the first building. Jerelle thanked the tourists for their attention. I waited as they lined up to get into their bus.

            Then I walked up. "Hi. Tom Jurgen. We spoke on the phone?"

            She blinked. "Oh. Yes. You were here with two other people?"

            "They weren't feeling well."

            "Yeah." She leaned against the door. "It's unpleasant. I shouldn't—I would have given that family their money back. It's not really for kids. Maybe we should change the sign."

            "I got a little freaked out too." I hesitated. "Like I said, my client wants to know about Martin Greer."

            She nodded. "And like I said, I have to know I'm dealing with a family member."

            "Sure." Too bad Cari had to leave. But I couldn't blame her. Especially if Rachel felt scared. "One question?"

            She cocked her head. "Okay, I guess."

            I pointed. "What's up on that hill?"

            Jerelle turned. "A tree."

            People are buried there. "What kind of investigation did the state carry out? You didn't mention that in the tour?"

            "People went to jail. Lots of money was paid out. Is that what you're looking for, Mr. Jurgen?" She put a hand on the door handle. "Can I help you with anything else?"

            I shook my head. "Just the facts. Thanks. I enjoyed your tour. Sort of."

            She smiled. Sort of. "Thank you. Have a safe drive back."

I sat in my car and called Rachel. "You all right? And Cari?"

            "We're almost home. I invited her for dinner. I'm making ratatouille. Don't be late or it'll be cold."

            I glanced around the parking lot. Four cars, not including my Prius. The gate was still open. 

            Maybe they wouldn't notice an extra car here. At least for a while.

            "I'll be a bit. I can warm it up in the microwave." Although I was hungry. Maybe I'd stop at Burger King.

            "Oh, no." I could almost feel Rachel's fist punching my shoulder through the phone. "You're not going to do something stupid, are you? Of course you are. Jerk."

            "I'll be careful."

            She snorted. "Yeah, I've heard that before. Get home before I throw your underwear out the window."

            I chuckled. "I love when you talk dirty to me."

            "Getting off the highway now. Don't get killed."

            "That's my mission statement. Love you."

            "Jerk."

The sun was setting behind the gray clouds. I grabbed a small flashlight from the glove compartment, tested it, and closed my door softly. 

            Like I said, I'm not brave, but I had questions, and no one was answering them right now, so I figured I'd have to find the answers myself. I just hoped I'd be able to get home with them before the ratatouille got too cold. Or else my client would be unsatisfied. And Rachel would kill me.

            I bypassed the main building, and the infirmary. The ground was cold under my shoes as I made my way up to the third building. Under renovation, Jerelle had told us. But this looked more modern than the other two—aluminum siding, thick windows with bars across them, a heavy slanted roof. 

            The windows were wrapped in black plastic. 

            I stepped up the door. Should I knock? I put my hand on the doorknob and turned slowly. Unlocked.

            So I opened the door and stepped inside.

            Before I could call "Hello?" to pretend I wasn't trespassing, I heard the screams.

            Not fake, like the shrieks in the first building. These were real. 

            No! Stop! Help me, help me!

            The hallway here was filled with bright lights and white walls. The tile under my feet was speckled and clean. I saw rows of doors, with thick metal handles. 

            Not again! Let me go! Let me out!

            What the hell?

            I grabbed my phone for a quick video. Ten seconds, fifteen . . . maybe that would be enough. I turned to get out—

            Patty Jerelle stood in the doorway. "What are you doing here?"

            "Uh . . ." Think fast, Tom. "My car wouldn't start. I was just looking for—" I held up my phone. "My battery died."

            "Patty?" A voice over my shoulder. "What's going on? Who is this?"

            I turned. The man behind me was short, with his hair shaved almost bald on his scalp and a thin black beard on his chin. He wore a gray T-shirt and jeans, and a stethoscope over his shoulders.

            "Sorry, Dr. Talcott." Jerelle spread her hands. "He was asking questions. I thought he went home."

            "And I was just going." I backed away. "Maybe my car will start now."

            Jerelle grabbed my arm. "Not yet."

            I stiffened. "People know I'm here. What's going on? What are you guys doing here?"

            "Never mind." I felt a jab in the back of my neck. "You won't remember."