Читать книгу High-Caliber Cowboy - B.J. Daniels - Страница 8

Saturday night

Emma Ingles loved the night shift. Tonight, she’d fallen asleep watching an old Western on the little TV in the office, her feet up on the desk, her mouth open.

She was a bulky woman, with bad feet and little ambition, who looked much tougher than she was. But she’d found the perfect job for a woman in her late fifties. Well, almost the perfect job.

She woke in midsnore. Startled, she sat up, her feet hitting the floor with a slap as she looked around. She muted the movie and glanced at the clock. Just a little after 3:00 a.m.

Listening, she was relieved to hear nothing, which was exactly what she should have heard since she was completely alone in the huge old building. At least, she was supposed to be.

Warily, she glanced through the glass-and-mesh window that looked out on the worn linoleum-tile hallway. In the dim light, her gaze wandered down to the chained, locked double doors to the wing that had housed the violent patients, the criminally insane.

Please, not tonight. There were times she swore she heard cries coming from that wing. That’s why she kept the TV cranked up loud enough to drown out any noises, real or imagined. The wing had been empty for twenty years now—and locked up tight. If that’s where the sound had come from no way was she going down there to investigate—even if she’d had a key.

The backdoor buzzer went off, making her jump. That must be what had awakened her. But who would be ringing the buzzer at this hour? Her boss, Realtor Frank Yarrow, was in charge of selling the building and would have called or maybe come to the front door if there were an emergency of some kind.

But she couldn’t even see him driving up here at three in the morning. The former Brookside Mental Institution was at the end of a winding dirt road, the monstrous three-story brick building perched like a vulture on the mountainside, ten miles from town. Isolated, hidden, forgotten. For sale.

Given the history of this place, the only people who came up here, especially at night, were kids. They’d get a six-pack and drive up from Antelope Flats, Montana, or from Sheridan, Wyoming, which was about fifteen miles farther south.

After a few beers, they’d dare each other to prove how brave they were by chucking a few rocks through the windows or painting some stupid graffiti on the worn bricks. They never rang the buzzer. Probably because few people even knew it existed.

Emma realized she hadn’t heard a car, not that she could have over the shoot-’em-up western on TV with the volume turned up.

The buzzer sounded again. Had to be kids. Some punk kids trying to give her a hard time.

Well, she’d set them straight. She hauled herself up from the chair, picked up the heavy-duty flashlight and opened the door to the dark hallway. Scaring kids was another of the perks that came with the job.

There was only one small light on at the end of each corridor to give the place the appearance of not being completely abandoned. She closed her office door, pitching the hallway where she stood into blackness and waited for her eyes to adjust.

Behind her, there was the faint glow of light coming from her office window that looked out into the foyer. But in front of her was nothing but darkness.

She padded down the gloomy hall to where the building made a ninety-degree turn to the left into another corridor that eventually led to the back door. It was an odd-shaped building, with a wing off each side of the entry that jutted straight back, making a U of sorts behind the place where there had once been an old orchard.

The trees were now all dead, the bare limbs a web of twisted dark wood.

Emma made a point of never going around back. The place was scary enough. That’s why she was surprised kids would go around there to ring the buzzer.

Well, they were in for a surprise. She’d give them a good scare. Then she’d go back to sleep.

As she turned the corner and looked down the corridor, she saw that the light at the end had burned out again. But a car with the headlights on was parked outside and she could make out the silhouette of a person through the steel mesh covering the back-door window.

The shape was large. Not a kid. A big man, from the size of him. She felt the first niggling of real fear. What could he want at this hour?

The buzzer sounded again, this time more insistent.

Emma had never been very intuitive, but something told her not to answer the door.

Go back to the office, call the sheriff in Antelope Flats.

She told herself that if the man at the back door had a good reason to be here, he’d have called first. He wouldn’t have just shown up at this hour of the night. And he would have used the front door.

She started to turn back toward her office to make that call when she heard what sounded like the front door opening. She froze, telling herself she must have imagined it. She’d checked to make sure the front door was locked before she went to sleep.

Cool night air rushed around her thick ankles. Someone had come in the front door!

How was that possible? As far as she knew, there were only three keys: one for herself, one for the Realtor and one for the other night watchman, Karl, the man she was filling in for tonight. The Realtor hated to come out here even in daylight. No way would he be here at this hour!

Until that moment, she’d never considered that anyone who used to work here might still have a key since the locks wouldn’t have been changed in the vacant building.

She heard the front door close in a soft whoosh and then footfalls headed down the hall in her direction.

Her fear spiked. She couldn’t get back to the office without running into whoever had just come in.

From the quick pace of the footsteps, the person headed her way would soon turn the corner and see her. Panicked, she ducked into one of the empty rooms and immediately realized her mistake. The room was small, rectangular and windowless, with no place to hide.

She started to close the door. It made a creaking sound. She froze, even more shaken at the thought of what she’d almost done. The doors locked automatically with no way to open them from the inside. So even if she hadn’t left her keys on her desk in the office, she wouldn’t have been able to get out.

She could hear footsteps, close now, and didn’t dare move even if there had been enough room to hide behind the partially closed door.

Flattening herself as best as she could against the wall in the pitch-black room, Emma held her breath and watched the dim corridor, praying whoever it was wouldn’t look this way.

The footfalls hurried past as the buzzer sounded again. She got only a fleeting look at the man. Tall, dressed in a long black coat, a dark fedora covering all of his hair except for a little gray at the side. She had never seen him before.

The buzzer started to sound again but was cut off in midbuzz. She heard a key being inserted in the lock. The back door banged open.

“I thought I told you not to ring the bell,” snapped a voice Emma had heard before. The man had called a few days ago. She remembered because no one ever called while she was on the night shift.

He’d demanded information without even bothering to tell her who was calling. She hadn’t liked his attitude—that sharp edge of authority she’d always resented.

“I’m sorry, who is this?” she’d demanded, and waited until he’d finally snapped “Dr. French.”

He’d asked if anyone was there besides her. She’d told him that was none of his business. Well, did she know what had happened to the patient records? Were they in storage? Or had someone taken them? Could he come up and look for them?

She told him she didn’t know anything about any files and no one was allowed in the building at night, that he should talk to the Realtor.

He’d become angry and hung up, but she hadn’t forgotten his voice. Or the way he’d made her feel. Small.

“You were supposed to wait,” Dr. French snapped at the man at the back door.

“She was starting to wake up and you said not to give her any more of the drug,” the other man answered in a deep gravelly voice Emma didn’t recognize.

“Get her in here,” Dr. French ordered. “Where is the man you said would be here?”

“Karl? Don’t know. Haven’t seen him yet.”

There was a metal clank and then Dr. French said, “You made sure there will be no trace of her?”

“I did just as you said. Got rid of everything. Including her rental car.”

Emma didn’t move, didn’t breathe, but her heart was pounding so hard she feared they would hear it and discover her. They thought Karl was working tonight. Because Karl was supposed to be working tonight. If she hadn’t needed the money when he’d asked her to fill in at the last minute—

“There’s a car parked out front,” Dr. French said. “It must belong to your friend.”

“Guess so, though I thought he drove a truck.”

The back door closed in a whoosh, automatically locking. Emma heard another clank and then footsteps coming down the corridor toward the room where she was hiding. Something squeaked as they moved.

Out of the corner of her eye Emma saw the doctor and a large burly-looking man roll a wheelchair past, one of the tires squeaking on the linoleum. The burly man had a bad case of bed-hair, his mousy brown hair sticking out at all angles.

Emma only glimpsed the woman slumped in the wheelchair with her head lolling to one side. She wore a long coat, slacks and penny loafers. Her chin-length dyed auburn hair hid most of her face. She clearly wasn’t from around this area.

The wheelchair squeaked down the hall to the echo of the men’s footsteps. Emma waited until she heard them turn the corner and start down the hall toward her office before she moved.

Her first instinct was to run down the corridor, out the back door. Except all the doors in the building locked automatically and had to be opened from the inside with a key, a precaution from when patients roamed these halls.

And she’d left her keys on her desk, not needing them to scare away a few kids through the window at the back door.

She would have to hide in the building.

Unless she could get to her keys.

She stole down the corridor, trying not to make a sound. At the corner, she sneaked a look down the hallway toward her office.

The two men had stopped with the wheelchair at the locked section that had once been reserved for the criminally insane.

The chain and lock on the doors rattled. She watched as Dr. French inserted a key. The chain fell away with a clatter that reverberated through the building. Afraid to move, she watched the doctor hold the door open for the wheelchair.

He had a key? Even she didn’t have a key to that area and had been told it was only a long corridor of padded, soundproof rooms best left locked up.

Emma waited until the men disappeared through the doors, the burly one wheeling the woman into the second door on the right. The number on the door read 9B. What was it she’d heard about 9B, something terrible. Oh God. She had to get out of here.

If she moved fast, she could get to her office, get the keys to the front door—and her car. The doctor had seen it parked out front. He knew she was here. She had no choice. But if she could reach her car and get away…

She hadn’t gotten but a few yards when she heard the squeak of the wheelchair; a slightly different sound echoed. They were already coming back!

Panic immobilized her. Down the dim hallway, she saw the burly man back out of the room with the empty wheelchair. She had to move fast. They would be looking for her, wondering where she was, what she’d witnessed. After all, she wasn’t supposed to be working tonight.

But where could she go? Not the patient rooms. If they caught her hiding in the dark in one of them, they’d know she’d heard their conversation.

Where?

She caught sight of the ladies’ room just a few doors up the hall in the same direction as the men. Run! Except she couldn’t run. She couldn’t even walk fast because of her feet and years of inactivity. But she managed a lunging shuffle, her heart thundering in her chest—a clumsy, terrifying run for her life.

As the doctor came out of the room and closed 9B’s door, Emma shoved open the ladies’ room door and stumbled into the windowless blackness. Frantically, she felt her way to one of the four stalls.

Stumbling into the cold metal stall, she closed the door, locked it and, quaking with fear, sat down on the toilet.

All she could hear was the pounding of her pulse in her ears and the echo of panting. She had to quit gasping for breath. They would hear her. The place was old and empty. Every sound echoed through it. If she could hear them, they could hear her. She had to get control, had to think.

She held her breath for a moment and listened. The snick of a lock followed the rattle of the chain on the doors to the closed wing. She let out the breath she’d been holding. It came out as a sob. She clutched her hand over her mouth, breathing fast through her nose.

From where she sat, she could see through the crack along the edge of the stall to the lighter gap under the bathroom door.

The empty wheelchair squeaked down the hall along with the sound of the men’s footfalls. She held her breath as a shadow darkened the gap under the ladies’ room door. They were directly outside. Had they seen her? Did they know she was in here?

“Looks like Karl’s here somewhere,” said the burly one. “We interrupted his dinner.”

Her sandwich! She’d left it half-eaten on her desk when she’d fallen asleep. She’d also left the light on in her office, the TV on, the volume turned low.

“Karl carries a purse?” Dr. French asked in a tone heavy with sarcasm.

Her heart stopped. She’d left her purse on the desk. Her purse!

“Dammit, Davidson, I thought you said Karl was definitely working tonight,” Dr. French snapped.

“He said he was.”

The older man made a disgusted sound.

Emma couldn’t hold her breath much longer. Tears burned her eyes. They knew she was in the building. They would look for her. She had to think of something. Some way out of here.

Closing her eyes tightly, she waited. Over the pounding of her pulse, she heard the squeak of the wheelchair growing fainter and fainter as it moved down the corridor away from her.

She waited until she heard the back door close before she moved. Opening her eyes, she forced herself to leave the stall. A dim light filled the gap under the door. No shadows. She pushed open the door.

They were gone.

She leaned back against the wall, weak with relief.

The hallway was empty.

She heard the sound of the back door opening and closing. A car engine revved, the sound growing dimmer.

Her legs were like water and she feared she might be sick as she shuffled back to her office, trying not to hurry in case anyone was watching her. She didn’t look behind her down the hall. Nor did she glance toward the locked wing where the men had taken the woman.

At her partially closed office door, she braced herself and pushed. The door swung noiselessly open. Her heart lodged in her throat as she looked to her chair.

Dr. French wasn’t sitting in it, as she’d expected he would be.

The office was empty.

The movie was over on the small TV. Her half-eaten sandwich was still on the edge of the desk along with her Big Gulp-size diet cola and her purse.

She began to cry from relief as she hurriedly closed and locked the door behind her. Stumbling to her chair, she dropped into it, her muscles no longer able to hold her up.

She was safe.

They were gone.

She could pretend she’d never seen them.

But could she pretend she didn’t know there was a woman locked in one of the padded, soundproof rooms down the hall? And wouldn’t the men return for her?

Emma reached for the remote and shut off the TV. She should call someone. The sheriff. But then she would have to stay here alone until he arrived.

Not if she called from home. She didn’t live far from here. Just a few miles down the river toward Wyoming.

She picked up her purse and reached for her kitten key chain with the keys to the doors out of here.

The keys were gone.

Panic sent her blood pressure into orbit. She couldn’t get out until she found the keys. She bent, thinking she must have knocked them to the floor.

But as she bent over, the hairs rose on the back of her neck.

In slow motion she lifted her head, then turned by degrees to look behind her through the office window to the hallway.

Dr. French smiled and held up her keys.