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
