Seizure(67)

“Guardhouse,” he warned. “Dead ahead.”


Three officers sat inside a roadside booth, each wearing a firearm, their attention focused on a small TV. We stopped at the gate and waited.

Finally, a guard peeled his eyes from the screen, emerged, and walked to the driver’s-side window. Bald, paunchy, and well past forty, the guy’s name tag announced him as Officer Mike Brodhag.

“Name?” Bored, and slightly annoyed.

“Tory Brennan,” I answered from the passenger seat.

“ID?”

I handed over my Bolton Prep library card.

Brodhag’s gaze shifted to Hi and Shelton in the backseat before returning to me. Everyone was wearing a Bolton Prep uniform.

“State your business.”

“We represent the Bolton Academy student council,” I said cheerily. “We’re here to present Chance Claybourne with this year’s Human Spirit Award.”

Brodhag appeared unimpressed. “Do you have an appointment with someone on the medical staff?”

“I spoke to a—” quick glance at my notes, “—Dr. Javier Guzman. He’s expecting us.”

Brodhag retreated to the guardhouse and picked up a telephone.

“Human Spirit Award?” Hi whispered. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. And why would we give it to a lunatic?”

“Shhh.” My eyes stayed on Brodhag. “I thought something official-sounding would be more likely to get us inside.”

Brodhag cradled the receiver and returned with a yellow guest pass.

“Proceed directly to the building and park in a visitor’s spot.” Monotone. “Do not stop along the way. Display this tag in your vehicle at all times.”

We rolled forward through dense swampland. Massive ferns and droopy willow trees crowded the driveway, creating a natural tunnel. The air was thick with the smell of stagnant water and the buzz of flying insects.

Twenty yards down the blacktop the shoulders dropped away and the road became a bridge across a shallow tidal lake. Reeds and bulrushes rose from the water. Tricolored herons searched for food on long, spindly legs.

“Prime gator country,” Ben said. “Look at those sandbars.”

Dry land reappeared a few hundred yards ahead. Stretched across it, on the crest of a small rise, was a massive building that looked like a medieval nightmare.

“The grounds are an island within an island,” Shelton said. “Creepy.”

“You couldn’t design better security,” said Hi. “This road must be the only way in or out.”

Another quarter mile brought us to the hospital itself. Three stories tall and built completely of stone, the brooding monstrosity was a moat and drawbridge short of being a full-blown castle.

Ben parked in a gravel lot beside the main entrance. A smiling dark-haired man stood before the front doors. I guessed his age at maybe thirty-five.

“Let me do the talking,” I whispered.

“No problem,” Hi said. “I couldn’t sell this Human Spirit garbage if I tried.”

Dr. Javier Guzman was a compact man with bronze skin and a neatly trimmed black goatee. Old-fashioned spectacles sat high on a thin nose. Behind them was a pair of intelligent brown eyes.

“Miss Brennan?” Spoken with a slight Spanish accent.

“A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Guzman.”

Guzman’s smile revealed dazzling white teeth. “The pleasure is mine. Welcome to Marsh Point Psychiatric Hospital. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“You’re welcome.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but didn’t let that stop me. “The council is excited to bestow its award upon such a worthy recipient.”

Guzman nodded seriously. “For a while I worried that Bolton Prep would sweep Mr. Claybourne under the carpet, so to speak. I’m pleased to learn I was wrong.”

Totally lost. But I bounced Guzman’s smile right back at him.

“We are thinking of allowing him regular visitors soon,” Guzman said. “I think a school delegation such as yours is an excellent starting point. Please come inside.”

“Chance hasn’t had any visitors?” I asked as we passed through the main lobby.

“None. His father is in prison, and, frankly, a major cause of Mr. Claybourne’s psychological rift to begin with. He has no other family to speak of.”

Despite all he’d done, I could empathize with Chance. I know what it’s like to feel completely alone.

“There’s a long road ahead,” Guzman continued. “Of course, professional ethics prohibit me from discussing the particulars of Mr. Claybourne’s condition, but I’ve grown convinced that he’s neither suicidal nor a danger to others. His main issues appear to be ones of trust.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said.

“Mr. Claybourne has been largely isolated since his breakdown.” Guzman led us up a flight of marble steps. “The catatonia subsided some time ago, but he only recently resumed speaking. I’m hoping some friendly faces will spur him to seek more human interaction.”


Friendly faces? I had no clue how Chance would react to our visit. He’d been humiliated and locked away as a direct result of my actions. He might flip the frick out.