The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(50)

“How many patients are here full-time?”

“Thirty-nine.”

The doctor took his ID card out of its sleeve and swiped it through the side of the elevator’s call box.

“Without one of these you can’t go anywhere,” he said.

“How do visitors get in?”

“They’re brought in by a nurse or a nurse’s assistant.”

“Each one?” Kelly asked.

“Each one. Visitors have to call before coming, as the patient might not be well enough to see them that day.”

The elevator’s doors slid shut, and a slight lurch told them they were moving. Madison felt a tiny spike of adrenaline.

“What kind of security do you have here?” she asked.

“A couple of people monitoring the grounds, a couple near reception and the back exit. We don’t need guards. Our staff members are more than capable of dealing with any situation.”

Madison wasn’t thinking about somebody who wanted out; she was thinking about somebody who wanted in, and how easy it would be to get to the floor where Vincent lived.

“What kind of meds is he taking?” she asked. Would he be too out of it to defend himself if someone came at him? Not that being drug-free had helped Warren Lee or Ronald Gray.

“Sertraline. It helps with the post-traumatic stress disorder episodes. The problem is that there haven’t been many studies on PTSD in people with learning disabilities.”

Kelly stood stiffly with his back against the elevator’s rear wall. Madison believed in that moment he could not possibly care less about studies of post-traumatic stress disorder in people with learning disabilities: he just wanted to be elsewhere, out of that building, away from the faint scent of hospital disinfectant that seemed to wrap itself around you and squeeze. She was glad it was not chloroform.

They walked out into a windowless landing with another heavy-duty door and a swipe box. Madison took mental note of each security measure. A small camera on a high bracket followed them as they went through.

“This way,” Peterson said. “Vincent is in the day lounge.”

They walked down a long, bright corridor with patients’ rooms on both sides, most of the doors open, though Madison did not even glance inside; a few staffers who were going about their business nodded at Dr. Peterson.

They reached the end of the corridor; a nurse in blue scrubs stood by the door to the day room, keeping an eye on its sole occupant.

“Thank you, Thomas,” Dr. Peterson said. “I’ll take it from here.”

Vincent Foley didn’t stir as they approached. He stood framed by the tall window, looking out. Lines of rain streaked the thick glass, what was beyond it made invisible by the light inside.

“Vincent . . .” Dr, Peterson said gently.

Vincent Foley turned.

Madison didn’t gasp, and her face didn’t change; it took all she had not to react. The man before her, impossibly pale and as slight as a boy, didn’t look a day over twenty. Livid shadows under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights; his short hair, baby soft, stuck out in straw-colored clumps with some gray in it, the only sign that Vincent Foley was forty-eight years old. He couldn’t defend himself if a third-grader swatted him, Madison thought.

“Hello, Vincent,” she said.

Vincent’s eyes were piercing blue and wide; they focused on Madison for the first time, and she noted that while he seemed still, he was, in fact, vibrating with tiny tremors that coursed through his whole body. He blinked twice.

“Somebody’s coming,” he said.

A long, cold shiver unfurled down her back; his voice, reedy and frail, fit so well with the rest of him that she sensed Kelly recoil a little.

“Somebody’s coming; it’s getting dark,” Vincent murmured. “We should go; we shouldn’t stay here.” The shaking was getting worse.

“It’s okay, Vincent,” Dr. Peterson said, in the tone of a loving father with a scared child. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe here.”

“No, I’m not safe. Nobody’s safe.”

Madison overcame her first response and examined Foley objectively as the only living, breathing part of their investigation. How in the name of all that was holy were they going to have a conversation with him about anything?

“Why are we not safe?” she asked, aware that the doctor was ready to interrupt this little get-together any time he wanted.

Vincent looked at Eli Peterson for reassurance.

“Go on,” the doctor said.

Vincent shook his head. “It’s not safe after dark, and it’s not personal, it’s business.”

“What is not personal?” Madison asked him, her voice matching Dr. Peterson’s, glad that Kelly had held back, his bulk like a boulder behind her.