

The Devil's Music

Stephen R Drage

Published by Stephen R Drage at Smashwords

Coppyright 2018 Stephen R Drage

Ather titles by Stephen R Drage

Mud Lane

Hot Heads

Mountain Misery

* * * *

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

* * * *

The Devil's Music

Chapter 1

John Mars sat on the newly painted wooden bench and watched the late summer breeze tease the top branches of a distant pine. The blistering Georgia heat had burned itself out and was now surrendering to the promise of the cooler, shorter days of autumn. Nature would begin a gradual slide into dormancy, as it prepared for winter.

As with nature's transition, John Mars was also feeling a calm stillness – his major writing project had concluded. One hundred and six thousand words of mystery, blood and heroism. The last chapter of the final book in the "Danny Blade detective series Trilogy" had been e-mailed to John's agent. In this concluding volume the intrepid detective had once again confronted the most notorious elements of society, only to prevail and dodge death in the final chapter, as the criminal inevitably faced the abrupt justice of Danny Blade's well used pistol.

John had enjoyed the writing process of his books. Not so much hammering out the clichéd pulp of Danny Blade's universe, but the research. Danny Blade used multiple high-tech gadgets and advanced technology to ensnare and capture the bad guys, and John had enjoyed learning about these cutting edge toys. Then there was the focus. Hour after of hour as his keyboard clicked and the words and pages formed, there was, in this mundane ritual, some sense of achievement and release. And that was the part he now missed. His life now had no structure or habit. He yearned for another project, not one where Danny Blade performed the impossible to save the world, but something new. Something different.

John cut his writing teeth in Florida where he worked free-lance as an investigative journalist for the Miami Herald. Back then Miami was a smorgasbord of vice, corruption and drugs. You could always find a story barely hidden under the the trash that littered Flagler Street or Little Havana. Three years ago, after deciding to try his hand at novel writing, John moved to Georgia and managed to write one book a year. His latest book had been written almost entirely in the office of his two story colonial styled house, nestled in a North Atlanta community, overlooking a steep bank populated with towering trees of oak, beech, and hickory. The house offered the perfect setting to write, and when he needed to get out, he'd head to one of the walking trails in Creekside Park.

The Park was a recent addition to the community. About a hundred and twenty acres where brush-filled meadows were crowded with old-growth forest. A previously unkempt area where the city had recently decided to create a community park. Its overgrown and wild scrub land had been trimmed, manicured and paved, resulting in a pristine parkland where affluent residents walked their pampered pets or jogged in fashionable sports attire. This sort of community re-engineering seemed to be happening all over Atlanta now, as the entire country crawled out of a decade of downsizing and austerity. The congested working class communities like Cabbage-Town and the old-Fourth-Ward were being strung together by the new belt-line trail as it snaked its way through the revitalized east-side neighborhoods. Sleek new electric trams shuffled tourists between Olympic Park and the Martin Luther King historic district. New construction, both residential and commercial was emerging out of a tired landscape.

A distant dog barked John out of his daydream. About twenty yards in front of him a black and white collie sprang into the warm morning air to catch a red Frisbee. The young woman who had thrown it clapped and shouted enthusiastically, as if her child had just taken its first steps.

"It wasn't always like this, you know."

John was startled by a gritty sounding voice.

A man was standing behind him.

"What's that?" John asked, surprised and feeling as if he had been thrown into a conversation without a beginning.

"This place," came the reply. The man appeared to be in his late seventies. The hazy blue eyes were unfocused and seemed to belong to a different time. The face was worn and weathered.

The man was tall, thin – almost bony – with skin like pale tanned leather, stretched over high cheek bones and clinging to the deep hollows of his eyes. His hair was thin and fine, more white than gray, and his clothes, looked rather shabby.

"What do you mean?" asked John.

"This place." repeated the old man. "It wasn't always a park." Again John noticed the blue eyes that seemed to look right through him.

"Yes," replied John. "I was just thinking that. This is a nice place just to come and sit." John was very aware that he was simply making polite conversation.

"Not always a nice place." said the gritty voice.

The old man was staring out into the meadow toward the woman and the Frisbee catching collie dog, but his gaze went somewhere beyond them, as if seeing something that resided only in his past. John could see now that the man was not as old as he had first thought, an estimate that had missed the mark by perhaps a decade.

"It wasn't?" John asked. He couldn't tell if the man wanted to talk or not, but after an uncomfortable silence the stranger finally broke his gaze and answered.

"Used to be a hospital. All through these woods." He waved his hand in a sweeping motion.

"Really?" John said, surprised at the lack of any evidence of such a building.

"Yep," insisted the man nodding his head vigorously.

"When was that?" John asked.

"Oh, twenty or thirty years ago," said the man earnestly. And then, without warning, he suddenly leaned his head so close that John could feel the heat of the man's breath. Stale and old. "It was a hospital for the cra-zy people," he whispered loudly, tapping on the side of his white hair with his crooked index finger so hard that John could hear the impact on his skull.

John thought this was becoming quite an odd conversation – and it was beginning to get in the way of a reasonable exchange with this peculiar old man whose odd recollections seemed, at the same time, both sincere and unlikely. He thought that what he probably needed to do was make a polite excuse, bid the man farewell, and leave.

John instinctively looked at his left wrist, despite having no watch.

"Well, I should...er..."

"Yep." continued the man. "Horrible place." he began the frantic head-nodding once more, and then came the loud gritty whisper. "A lot of people died here. Bad place. Bad place." His nodding was replaced with a similarly violent head shake.

John looked away again. The woman and her dog were walking toward the raised boardwalk that meandered through a stand of pines. The strange man was also walking away, back in the direction of the parking lot.

John sat on the bench in silence for a few moments, then decided to return home. Realizing that the path to the exit was in the same direction that the old man had walked, and wishing to avoid any further encounter with him, he decided to walk in the other direction, where the woman and her dog had gone.

The boardwalk's pine-sheltered promenade reduced the bright afternoon sun to dappled splashes of light. John's measured tread sounded heavy and dull in the still forest. Soon, the decking gave way to a mulch path, and despite the uneven surface of the shredded bark, a subtle feeling underfoot alerted John to his untied shoelace. John crouched to re-lace it, as he caught a brief glimpse of a squirrel foraging in the dead leaves and broken branches off to his left. But wait, there was something else there. Squinting, he strained his eyes for a better view and could just make out a pattern of horizontal lines in the dense tangle of branches and shrubs.

Climbing the wooden guard rail of the boardwalk he jumped down into the soft earth. He slowly picked his way forward, ducking under the greenery and avoiding rotting tree-stumps. He could make it out more clearly now. It was a low section of crumbling brickwork.

Most of the concrete slab that had once been the building's foundation was broken and cracked, clear evidence of an attempt to demolish it. About five feet of brickwork varying between two and three feet high were all that remained of the building, now covered with dark tendrils of English ivy and bright green moss.

Could this be the remnants of the mental hospital that the old man had talked about? Suddenly the forest seemed very quiet and for the first time John sensed a solitude and loneliness that was quite unnerving. Probably just his imagination, he reasoned as he made his way back to the boardwalk.

* * * *

John entered his house, threw his keys on the kitchen counter and immediately bounded up the stairs to his office. The unusual encounter in the park made him wonder; What if there had, in fact, once been a mental hospital in the park, and what if there had been some unusual or mysterious deaths there. What could have been the cause? Who might have been responsible? John immediately opened his laptop and began a search on "Creekside Park." The first few pages returned only public records from the city council members as they debated and voted on walkways and tree plantings, but nothing to indicate what went on before. He could find no city plans or aerial photographs online, and nothing in the local newspaper archives. The online records for the Atlanta Journal Constitution only went back to 2005, but he knew there was microfilm available on the top floor of the downtown public library – where he might find relevant articles. He did leave messages on discussion boards for the local preservation society and historical groups indicating his desire to investigate Creekside, and he also posted questions on a Facebook page dealing with local history. He searched through budgetary requests and funding issues, and then in one lengthy but obscure city report there was a mention of a land transfer from The Georgia Department of Human Services.

He began a new search on "Georgia DHS", and after numerous false leads he found a reference to Farfield Hospital in North Fulton County, Georgia, but was this the place? Next he searched on "Farfield, Georgia" and hit the mother lode. He began following links and slowly the shape of a mid-century, multi-building complex for the treatment of incurable mental disorders, arose from the peaceful walkways and playing fields of Creekside Park. A "treatment center" with three-hundred beds and a staff of thirty-seven, that opened in 1952 and closed in 1982 because of a lack of funding.

Oddly, the records, press cuttings and Court transcripts often showed a conflicting picture of Farfield. The complaints were abundant, allegations of brutality and cruelty, lawsuits against the state for abuse, and mistreatment of patients appearing alongside letters of commendations to the doctors and staff, and state reviews of exemplary conduct. Then he noticed a search engine result that read "Charges of widespread abuse at Farfield mental institution, Norcross, Georgia." At first he thought it was just one more sensational headline that probably re-hashed what he had already discovered, but he clicked on it anyway.

The screen filled with a scan of the Rome Gazette newspaper, where an article on page seven reported the center's superintendent, Peter Gregson, addressing the allegations. It wasn't at all surprising that Dr. Gregson claimed there was no basis for the complaints, that was politics. What was surprising to John was the horrific extent of the details which Dr. Gregson so vehemently denied. A tragic story of pain and desperation, torment and abuse, and a state investigation concerning multiple suspicious deaths in the winter of 1980.

* * * *

Chapter 2

Ghosts of Madness – by John Mars

North Georgia. 1980

Mike Ratner increased his grip on the steering wheel of the 1974 Buick and leaned forward a little, straining to see through the rain-soaked windshield. He realized that the department was understaffed, but was it really necessary for him to drive at night, and in a blizzard? The rain was freezing into a wintry mix, shining in the headlights of oncoming vehicles like gems in the black coldness of the night sky. Through his windshield where the wiper blades had carved out an arc of visibility on the ice crusted glass, he saw a signpost and braked a little too quickly, causing the car to momentarily slide on the frozen back-roads east of Roswell. He reversed a few feet to read the signpost, which said "Norcross," and then made the sharp left turn onto the narrow road that he had almost missed.

Mike was no stranger to this weather. He had grown up in the North Carolina Smoky Mountains before moving to Georgia, where he found employment as a research analyst for the State Department of Human Services in Dawsonville – otherwise known as DHS Satellite office number 19. Dawsonville was a small town situated in the North Georgia mountains a little more than an hour from Atlanta, and a hundred years ago it had been home to the moonshiners, living outside the law with their hopped up, barely legal race cars and their illicit stills, hidden away beneath woodland canopy near cascading crystal pure waters washing their way down the Appalachian foothills. Satellite 19 was a small office with only four employees. It dealt with mostly clerical issues and case file review. So when the call from the Atlanta office came through requesting someone to help with what they called a "Procedural Audit," he had been given the job. He didn't want it, but had he known that it would mean driving for nearly three hours in an ice blizzard, he would have been even less enthusiastic.

Mike was at that age that might be called mid-life. The type of temporal paragraph that is usually associated with some form of crisis. He was midway through a life that Mike felt had never really begun.

Mike had a troubled existence. His father left when he was six years old. He had only the vaguest recollections of a big, cheerful man who would bounce Mike on his knee and tell him stories of travel and adventure. Much later Mike would come to understand that his father's good cheer was delivered one bottle at a time, a personal failing that created a deep and irreparable fracture in his parent's marriage. His overly religious mother was only partially successful at raising a boy alone. His early years were spent resenting the world and everything in it, including himself. Behavior that eventually led to his examination and treatment. An unpleasant memory that Mike had pushed deep into the darkest recesses of his mind. But as he grew into manhood his outlook had improved. He had adjusted to the mundane existence of a nine to five government job and entertainment provided by television and often a little too much alcohol. But as the years rolled by, he never forgot the thrill of listening to the adventurous stories his father told, nor did he completely eliminate the envy he felt for his father, running, escaping, getting away.

Over the last half decade, his mother had become sick, and much of his energy had been spent as her caregiver. A task not made easier because some part of him blamed her for his father leaving, as well as the darkest, most painful, episode of his youth. But his mother was gone now, and he was left alone. Alone with the despondency of a life not yet begun. A need to live his father's stories of travel and adventure. A need to escape his small rented apartment and his crappy job with no future. And so, Mike Ratner, in his mid-life, continued each day's ritual and waited for something to happen.

At the bottom of a long descent, where the two lane highway crossed the Chattahoochee River, flashing lights cutting through the relentless sleet told him something was wrong. He slowed to a halt behind three other cars and opened the driver's window to see what was happening. Two cars had tried to occupy the same piece of road at the same time and were now tangled together blocking both lanes on the bridge.

Despite the weather he got out of the car to investigate. He turned up the collar of his coat as he walked and tightened the scarf around his neck, blowing hot breath into his cupped hands as he approached the wreck. The freezing rain stung his face, and he regretted that he hadn't the foresight to wear thicker pants. A policeman was attending to the drivers, who both seemed unhurt, but until the cars were moved, it was clear that he wasn't going anywhere in a hurry.

"Need any help?" he asked the officer.

The cop drawled his response in slow, southern style, "No, We just have to get these vehicles clear of the bridge. The tow-truck is working on it now. Best just to stay in your car."

Mike nodded and walked back to the Buick. Leaning over to the passenger seat he released the catches on his brown leather briefcase and opened it up. He removed that morning's Atlanta newspaper and leafed through it. The front page on February 10th, 1981 was dominated by the story of another murdered child. Although not an Atlanta resident Mike was as aware of the Atlanta child murders as everyone else in the country. Was this the ninth or tenth? And still no sign of catching the one who was doing it. The story contained comments from city officials claiming to be doing everything they could, and on the facing page, quotes from community advocates saying that if the kids were white, the crime would be solved by now. The murders had been going on for nearly a year, but it wasn't until last fall that the FBI became involved, and now there was talk of the new president, Ronald Reagan, who had bested Georgia native Jimmy Carter last November, pledging federal funds to help the investigation.

Mike threw the newspaper on the back seat, and removed a brown folder from the briefcase. The front of the folder was labeled "Farfield Hospital" in blue ball point, and inside was a collection of mismatched papers and notes that Mike had assembled to help with the procedural audit. He looked at the fiasco on the bridge again. He watched the flashing light from the police cruiser get splintered into a thousand red luminous dots by the rain, and with an almost imperceptible shift his memory spilled into the recent past, and he was back in Ron's office at Satellite 19.

"Got a special assignment for you, Mike." Ron Katz was the local director and he had called Mike in shortly after receiving the call from Atlanta.

"That was Rich Benson on the phone." Rich was Ron's boss in Atlanta, and had visited satellite 19 only twice during the three years Mike had worked there. He was a big imposing man with a shock of blond hair and a cheerful, almost boisterous personality. In a different life he could easily have been a college quarterback, but in this one Mike pegged him as more of a politician, possessing the overt friendliness and social manipulation skills that, no doubt, propelled his rise to the lofty authority where he now resided. Beyond that Mike really didn't know him very well.

"And what did he have to say?" asked Mike.

"Well, apparently there is a DHS mental hospital just outside Atlanta called Farfield, and it's been having some..." he hesitated, taking time to extinguish his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, and looking for the diplomatic words that would have come more easily to his boss. Eventually he concluded "...problems."

At the words "mental hospital," Mike shivered as memories of his youth fought their way out of the gloom. He hoped it wasn't noticeable.

"What kind of problems?" Mike was already curious as to the reason he was being told this.

"There have been some..." he looked at the ashtray again. Another pause. "...complaints."

"From who? About what?" asked Mike. Ron seemed lost in thought. It was unlike him.

"Well, the complaints are mostly from family members and relatives, but last month GBI got involved."

"The Georgia Bureau of Investigation is investigating one of our hospitals?" Mike was shocked. "I haven't heard anything of this, have you?

"No," replied Ron, "but this was back a couple of months ago when the country was lost in election-mania. Bad news tended to get pushed to the bottom of the stack."

"Even so," said Mike. "It seems we would have heard about it. What were the complaints about?"

"Oh, the usual stuff," replied his boss. "Abuse, mistreatment. Nothing we haven't heard before." Ron gazed out of the window, at a sky of threatening gray hugging the distant hills.

"So, why did the GBI show up if all this is so typical?"

"Well," said Ron, "It'll probably turn out to be nothing, but three patients have died."

Now it was Mike's turn to pause. He thought this conversation was starting to generate more questions than answers. It was true that facilities like Farfield always had a complaints from people, mostly staff and family members, but usually they didn't amount to much. Not multiple deaths anyway, and certainly nothing that would attract the attention of the GBI. "Is there any truth to the complaints? Three people dying is a little unusual – something's not adding up here."

"Who knows?" said Ron. "That's what you're going to find out."

"Me?" Mike's voice was raised in surprise. There were those memories again. "Wait, I have to go there?" questioned Mike. Until now, he had assumed it was research work, It hadn't dawned on him that this was to be a site visit."

"Yes, you." Ron nodded.

"Can't someone else do it? Richard is a good man. I'm really not qualified."

"I've got no one else available. You'll be just fine."

Mike was unhappy with the assignment, but didn't feel like explaining why – his painful past was not public knowledge. He had hoped that he would never again have to visit any place like Farfield. Although he didn't really understand his own fear of it, he did realize there was no way to avoid the job. He quietly nodded.

"But what about the deaths?" Mike asked, trying to hide his nervousness.

"Accidents happen." Ron said. "Patients get into fights, they hurt each other, some hurt themselves. Like I said, it's probably nothing."

Mike nodded. "Do we have any reports or notes, maybe the GBI report?"

"No. It's all at the hospital – which is why you're going there to do a procedural audit."

"Why doesn't the Atlanta office deal with it. It's their mess."

Ron held up his hands. "Hey, don't blame me – I'm just the messenger here. It's head office that wants us involved, maybe they think a report looks more impartial if it comes from another office."

"How soon do I have to leave?" Mike asked.

"As soon as you can," Ron replied.

Mike rose from the chair. Another wave of panic hit him, feelings he didn't understand. He didn't want to do this. He wished someone else had the assignment. But it was done. Decided

As Mike left the office, Ron had called after him, "Remember, we need to cross all the i's and dot all the t's on this one."

The extended blast from a car horn expressed the frustration of a driver further back in the line and brought Mike back to the cold darkness of the present. It looked like the cop was towing one of the cars off the bridge. The traffic should be moving again soon.

* * * *

Farfield Hospital lay hidden behind a military style checkpoint that now had a faint dusting of white snow on the roof. An overhead spotlight illuminated the rolling steel-mesh gate, a dozen feet high. It seemed more typical of a prison than a hospital. Mike slowed the Buick to a halt beside the fogged up window of the guard shack. A heavy-set uniformed man leaned forward slightly.

"Can I help you?" he asked politely.

Mike cranked down the driver's side window. The wintry night assaulted his senses.

"My name is Mike Ratner, I'm here from satellite 19." He removed a letter from his still open briefcase and handed it to the guard.

The guard held the introductory letter under a desk lamp and squinted at it.

"Could I see some ID, please." he said.

Mike handed over his DHS ID card, to which which the guard gave equal scrutiny, and after a moment the official handed back the documents and the steel gate began to slowly open. In the spotlight, Mike could now see that a coil of razor wire adorned the top of the gate.

"Proceed down this road until you see the administration building on the left," the guard said, pointing down a frosty road. Winter has stripped most of the leaves, leaving the twisted skeleton branches to claw at the night sky. Mike drove forward slowly, and the clanking sound of the gate closed behind him. Mike felt his options evaporate and apprehension crawled at his skin.

The road followed a slow curve to the right and down a slight hill. At the bottom, situated in a clearing off to the left, was the administration building. The brick exterior of the two story building was wrapped in shadow, the only lights coming from three adjacent windows on the ground floor, and another of the yellow spots over the porch that shrouded a glass front door.

Mike parked the car close to the door, with only three other cars, each adorned with a dusting of sparkling frost. Buttoning up his coat again, Mike grabbed his briefcase and headed briskly to the door. He now noticed that the glass was criss-crossed with embedded wire – security glass. Someone was already crossing the room to meet him. The man in khaki dockers and a bulky green polo-necked sweater opened the door.

"You must be Mr. Ratner," the man stranger said, smiling.

"Mike," he corrected, placing his briefcase on the floor to accept the outstretched hand.

"My name is Jim Blake, I'm the deputy supervisor here. Welcome to Farfield."

"Pleasure to meet you," said Mike, unbuttoning the heavy coat and peeling off his scarf.

"And this is Barry Spires, our head of security." Jim said, half turning to introduce a stocky man in his mid-30's.

Mike shook Barry's hand, a firm grip, a curt nod, a steady eye. Barry had the look of an ex-cop or retired-military.

"Probably not a very good trip in this weather?" said the deputy.

"A lot worse than I expected, and a wreck on the bridge didn't help."

"Yes." said the security officer. "We heard on the radio that southbound 400 was shut down. Seems like people just can't drive in this weather. We were expecting you over an hour ago."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Mike said.

"Oh, it's not problem, really." Jim said – motioning for him to follow. "We usually lock the place down at nine. Kept the gate open specially for you. Come and have a cup of coffee or something. Warm yourself up."

The three crossed the cavernous foyer that served as a reception center. In a back corner, couches had been arranged in a formal square to serve as a waiting area, the glowing red light on a coffee machine guided them in. The three sat on the aging, threadbare green furnishings.

"So tell us a little about your visit, Mike. How long do you plan to stay and how can we help?" Jim said.

"Well, my brief is to conduct a procedural audit – which is simply a review of your operating procedures, so I'll probably be checking your policy handbooks, patient records – that sort of thing. I could use a place to work, a spare desk perhaps."

"We already have you set up with an office. We're a bit cramped so I'm afraid it's in one of the outbuildings – near Jim's office over in security. I hope that's OK." Deputy Jim Blake had an almost apologetic tone. Mike instinctively liked his humility.

"That'll be fine," Mike said," I understand you've arranged for some accommodations for me?"

"Yes," Barry replied. "Most of the staff go home every night but we have a dorm here with a limited number of beds – for round the clock staff. We have you in one of those. You'll be quite safe."

"Thanks," Mike said, realizing that for the next few nights he would be locked in a mental hospital behind a razor wire fence.

"I'm sure safety won't be a problem." he said. "The security here seems pretty strict." Mike looked at the security officer when he said this and tried to make it sound more like a question than a statement.

"Yes. Thanks to Dr. Gregson. You'll meet him tomorrow, he made sure security was top notch when he took over this place last year. Before that you could pretty much walk in and out of the hospital at will. Back then patients had to be confined to their rooms much more so that they didn't escape. The new secure perimeter means much more individual freedom for the residents here."

"So, how long have you been here, Barry?"

"I came last February, so – about a year. Dr. Gregson had already beefed up the fence and access gates. I took care of a lot of the other internal stuff."

"What about before then?" Mike inquired. Do you have a history with security?"

"Six years head of security at the GM plant in Doraville. Before that, Military Police at Ft. Benning." Barry's was visibly proud when he mentioned his military background.

"How about you, Jim? Are you a recent addition too?"

Jim stretched in his chair and stifled a yawn. "No. Fourteen years for me. I came back in '67," he said.

"So what is your take on the increase in complaints and the recent deaths?" Mike felt that sooner or later he had to get the conversation on track.

"I don't know," Blake said. "Yes, there have been more problems lately, but most of them are multiple complaints about the same thing from the same people, so the results are a little skewed. Where we find evidence of problems with the staff, we deal with it very seriously and very quickly. Despite what you might think, we do run a tight ship here."

"Yes, I'm sure you do." said Mike.

Barry jumped in with his less diplomatic approach.

"Obviously if someone dies we investigate it thoroughly, but here is the reality. Families that don't have the time or energy to look after crazy-cousin-Frank deliver him to state to be locked away in a dark and invisible corner of society to be forgotten – a place where the government looks after him and the taxpayer foots the bill. Then, they have the nerve to complain that their abandoned kin isn't getting his fair share of ice cream on Sundays."

Mike's comment had touched a nerve with Barry, so he decided to push him a little further. "But what about the recent deaths?"

"Accidents happen." Deputy Blake intercepted the question. "Out there in the real world, on any given day, people fall down stairs, step in front of cars and suffer all kinds of unexpected catastrophe. In a place like this where many of the patients require constant supervision – but don't get it because of a limited budget – the chances of accidental death are much greater."

The two men made a convincing case for for the problems at Farfield but was there more to it?

"What about the GBI investigation?" Mike asked.

Barry seemed a little irritated now, probably because this happened on his watch and he was tired of answering questions about it. "OK, here is what happened. Late last year a patient got hold of a kitchen knife – no one knows how. It happens, this place isn't exactly a church social group. This patient, Daniel Hempel, ended up committing suicide out in the woods. One of the family members, his brother, wouldn't let it go. He bombarded us with complaint letters and demanded an investigation, which we had already done. He practically camped outside the front gate to harass staff and visitors. And he called GBI. GBI came out and were satisfied with the investigation that we had done. They left the same day. It was a minor inconvenience to us, but it created a political shit storm."

Mike sat back in his chair and exhaled slowly. The stress of the drive was catching up with him.

"OK, gentlemen. Thanks for the information and the hospitality, but I should probably get some sleep."

"Quite understand," said the deputy. "Barry will take you to the dorm."

* * * *

Outside, the two men walked over to a green golf-cart. Mike threw his briefcase and luggage on to the rear facing back seat and climbed in beside Barry, zipping up the minimal shelter of a dirty white canvas canopy.

"No heater in this thing, huh?" Mike asked, trying to maintain an air of levity.

"Negative," replied Barry. "The dorm is only accessible by a foot path. It's not far but if you don't know where your going it's easy to get lost."

They listened in silence to the electric hum of the golfcart as they followed a winding concrete path, leaving tire tracks in the frosty dew.

"There are seven buildings in the complex," explained Barry. "That's the admin center, where we just were. There are four patient wards that hold between fifty or eighty beds each, and the dorm – on the top floor of this building just through these trees. It's situated over one of the minimum security wards. At the end of the main road is the treatment building. We have our security center in Building Four, that's where your office will be. We moved some patient files over there this afternoon."

It had started raining again by the time they reached the dorm – a cold freezing rain.

"Here we are." Barry handed him a key. "It's number six." He pointed to the red diamond-shaped plastic key tag. "Need any help?"

"No, I'll be fine." Mike said. "I'll get a good night's sleep and then start looking into these complaints, although it's the three deaths that concern me the most."

"Three?" Barry said, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes?" Mike's answer sounded like a question.

"No," Barry said, "It's been eight. Eight people have died."

* * * *

Chapter 3

John worked feverishly into the night to complete the first chapter of his new novel. He had not been able to stop reading the newspaper story from the Rome Gazette, and quickly realized that it provided enough content for him to not only write a first chapter, but also set the stage for the entire novel. Rome was a small town seventy miles northwest of Atlanta and back in 1980 the alleged patient mistreatment and deaths at Farfield were a big enough story for them to run, and yet John could find no mention of it in the local press.

As well as reporting the "large number of complaints" against the center, the newspaper also mentioned the interview where Dr. Peter Gregson, the hospital's superintendent, showed a surprising lack of concern, despite the fact that the GBI had completed its investigation at Farfield, but the deaths had continued and were now up to eight. There was a mention of a consulting physician named Williams who assisted with the GBI investigation, a case brought about by complaints from one Brian Hempel regarding the suspicious death of his brother, Daniel. Additionally, there was a "We're doing all we can" quote from Jim Blake the Deputy superintendent. At the bottom of the article was a photograph, which John knew was an essential part of the article and would have doubled the readership of the column. The grainy newsprint showed Blake, Gregson, Williams, and Barry Spires, the security officer, standing outside the newly constructed steel gates of Farfield Hospital. That would be another lead to follow along with the GBI investigation and the Hempel boy.

John felt he was was clearly on the trail of something, and quickly checked the local messages boards where he had left questions. Sadly, there were no replies – maybe after thirty-five years anyone who knew anything about Farfield had moved on – either geographically or from a mortality standpoint. Before leaving the house, John tried a few more searches, most of them uneventful, but when he tried "Old mental hospital at Norcross," there was another string of hits.

Much of the activity came from urban-explorer sites, stories from fifteen or twenty years ago, tales of exploring the abandoned ruins of an "Old Lunatic Asylum" in North Atlanta. There were also some faded photographs of dilapidated red brick buildings, overgrown with weeds and kudzu, crumbling roof-lines and broken windows. John was even able to find a YouTube video, which had been digitized from some grainy VHS tape. It showed several shaggy haired youths in jeans and leather jackets lurking through the darkness with flashlights. "Urban exploring" was a popular hobby that existed in the shadows of respectability and skirted the boundaries of legality. John knew a few devotees of the sport, and had even accompanied three guys on an exploratory mission outside his home town in Dawsonville, where the remains of the post-war nuclear reactor lay hidden deep in the forest behind rusty chain link fencing. These kids really had a passion for this kind of thing.

Several more sites dedicated to ghost-hunting and the paranormal talked of the "Haunted Asylum." A disused mental hospital in North Fulton county where anyone brave enough, or foolish enough, to explore after dark would likely see lights in room where there was no electricity, hear the sound of footsteps walking in empty rooms, and if they were very lucky, witness a small child weeping on the third floor of the old treatment building. In the basement of the treatment building was a morgue, complete with refrigerated storage drawers, which some people had opened and seen dead bodies.

John shuddered, grabbed his car keys and left the house.

On the way he stopped at Norcross City Hall and paid a visit to the Building and Zoning department. A polite secretary informed him that unfortunately the man he needed to talk to was on vacation – and of course, being a city government office, no one else could help. John asked the secretary if she remembered anything about the former usage of Creekside Park but she was unable to recall anything useful.

* * * *

After driving south into the city, John exited the interstate at Williams Street and drove through the congestion of downtown – a block from Centennial Olympic Park and then beneath the shadow of the Westin Peachtree hotel, still one of the highest hotels in the U.S.

The concrete exterior of the Atlanta-Fulton Public Library towered over Margaret Mitchell Square. The square, named for the famed author of "Gone with the Wind," was neither square nor impressive, simply a triangular piece of cement at the intersection of Forsyth and Peachtree that, John felt, failed to adequately honor the author. John ascended the main steps and after passing through the security checkpoint that seemed a ubiquitous component of all government buildings these days, he took the elevator to the fifth floor.

The fifth floor housed maps and special collections – including the typewriter used by Maragret Mitchell, but it was the aging microfilm machine that John now headed for. Here was where over one hundred years of Atlanta Journal Constitution newspaper records were kept, and he spent the next three hours sorting through the tiny reels of film and laboriously threading them through the viewer. Starting with mid-November of 1980, the approximate date of the GBI investigation, John extended his search several weeks on either side of that date. It was a painstaking process. Not only was the local press coverage skewed toward the national election between Carter and Reagan, of which Jimmy Carter was a local resident, but also because of the still unsolved Atlanta Child Murders. John scoured every page of every copy of every newspaper for weeks on end, only to find very little new information. Several hours later, he walked over to a desk, took out a legal pad, and wrote down what he had learned.

The GBI investigation had occurred in the first week of November as a result of what some felt was the "suspicious death" of Daniel Hempel, found in the woods on the grounds of Farfield Hospital with his throat cut. After what the newspapers called an "exhaustive investigation," the death was classified as suicide. The state investigators also found no foul play in two previous deaths, James Agra and Dorothy Mansfield, ruling them as accidental. The report also identified the name of the consulting physician who assisted the GBI as Dr. Jake Williams. Following the GBI investigation there were at least two more deaths, both deemed natural causes. But John could find no reports of the additional deaths mentioned in the Rome Gazette.

In another earlier article which appeared in the local news section, there was a story of the new head of security at Farfield, Barry Spires. This story carried the same photograph John had seen in the Rome Gazette of Barry, standing outside the wire perimeter fence with Gregson and Williams. John made a copy of the photograph and left the library.

John walked a couple of blocks down Peachtree and ducked into one of the fast-food joints on Broad Street. Ordering a coffee, he stepped outside and seated himself at a glass cafe table on the tree-lined sidewalk. Pulling out his phone he checked for messages, the ringer had been turned off in the library and he had missed some calls and emails. His agent had emailed to confirm receipt of his latest "Danny Blade" adventure, and there were a couple of junk messages that he immediately deleted. Additionally, there was a private message from Janet Hill. He had no idea who Janet Hill was, but smiled to himself when he saw the line below her name that read "Re: Your request about info on Farfield." He opened the message and read.

"Yes, Mr. Mars. There was indeed a mental hospital on the grounds of Creekside Park. My mother worked there in the late 1970's (I think – not sure about dates.) She did clerical work for the doctors. She is old now – but still active. I'm sure she could help you with your research. Let me know if interested. – Janet Hill."

There was a phone number listed after the name which John immediately called. It rang several times before it was answered.

"Hello?" a woman's voice said.

"Hello, Janet?" John said.

"Yes."

"My name is John Mars, thanks for answering my question on Fultonhistory.com."

"Oh, hello," she answered as if she knew him, "yes, my mom, Martha, worked there. I sort of remember the place a bit – but I was just a small child at the time."

"Great," said John. "Actually I'm an author and I'm doing research for a book about Farfield."

"Yes, so you said in the message. I'm sure my mom would love to help contribute to a book. She'll think she's famous."

"Well, I can't promise that, but I can put her on the Acknowledgment page."

"OK, well let me talk to her and see if I can set something up."

"Thanks, that would be great," John said, "just let me know when."

He opened his notebook and to the bottom of his list of names he added "Janet Hill's mother."

The list of leads was steadily growing. And John needed help to chase some of them down. He needed the help of William Brimage III.

William Brimage III, was known to almost everyone that knew him as "Brim." John first met Brim soon after moving to Atlanta, while attending a charity dinner where a journalist he knew was receiving an award. John had gone along to lend his support and enjoy a free dinner. He had been seated at the same table as William Brimage III, who was a free lance detective that farmed out his services to reporters in the Atlanta area. They had become friends almost immediately, bonding over a bottle of twelve year-old scotch. Brim was a big man – over six feet tall and nearly as wide, a straight talking ex-cop. Reliable. In the months that followed John would often joke that it was the only time he had ever seen Brim wearing a suit, the big man usually preferring a Hawaiian shirt and a panama hat that perfectly matched his gregarious style. The tools of Brim's trade were the very same sophisticated gadgetry that Danny Blade used in John's novels, and so Brim soon became "technical consultant" for John's writing. John spent many afternoons at Brim's office playing with pin-hole cameras, tracking devices and night vision goggles.

"Brimage Investigations." Brim's voice was rough with a granular edge to it that had not been at all refined by decades of alcohol and tobacco.

"Brim, it's John."

"Hey," Brim said, "what's the good word?"

"Well, I'm into a new story," John said, "and this one is a bit strange. If you want to get a drink I'd love to bounce it off you."

"Sure," Brim said, "how about two o'clock? The usual place?"

"Works for me," John said.

John looked at his watch – it was noon. He arose from the glass table and began walking back to his car. His phone rang again.

"Hello?"

"Hello, John, this is Janet Hill."

"Hi Janet."

"Hi," she answered. "Listen, I've spoken to my mom and she would love to talk to you."

"Great," John said. He was excited that this would, at last, be a first person account of the events that went on at Farfield.

"Can you be at the Hickory House in Dunwoody at four o'clock?" she asked. "That's where mom likes to have her coffee."

"Yes," he answered. "I can do that."

* * * *

It was a few minutes after two when John descended the cement steps onto the lower level of the Andrews Entertainment District. The lunchtime crowds were thinning out from the multiple restaurants and bars that were clustered in the three story complex. The basement felt dim as he stepped from the bright early afternoon sunshine. Ahead of him, on the left, was a phone booth – an odd sight in the age of cellar communications. But what made this phone booth even more unusual was the red cast-iron design, more representative of the streets of London than a basement in Buckhead. John entered the phone-box and faced a replica of a phone from the early part of the last century, checking a small piece of paper in his wallet, he dialed a code on the old phone.

After a moment, the entire back of the phone-box swung open and he stepped through a doorway into a windowless bar reminiscent of a 1920's speakeasy.

John scanned the room as his eyes adjusted to the soft amber glow of the luminous ceiling panels. Businessmen, engulfed in deep rich leather seating, closed deals by the light of the fireplace, a small group of tourists posed for selfies, and would be players reclined in comfort as they exhaled thick clouds of cigar smoke. He soon saw Brim, leaning up against the bar waiting patiently to be served. The barman clothed in 1920's period attire and armed with a long metal spike, soon finished his assault on a large block of ice and shared the results between two large glasses. John walked over and extended his hand. Brim shook it and immediately slid one of the glasses in front of John, beckoning him to follow to an intimate seating area. They walked across to the back wall and sat facing each other on heavily padded couches as they sipped their drinks.

"We have to find another place," John said, "this is becoming like Disneyland."

It was true that this prohibition-era-themed meeting place saw its share of tourism, but Brim seemed to like it, probably because it exuded the ambiance of half hidden mystery that was his profession. A world of darkness and secrecy paid his bills.

"So, what do you have going on?" Brim said.

John nodded and proceeded to relate the story of Creekside Park and the strange old man, the mental institution, his internet searches, and the newspaper article.

"And you want this to be your next book?" Brim asked.

"Yeah, well I kind of miss the old investigative stuff," John said, "And if I have to write another Danny Blade trilogy, I'll likely be the one in the mental hospital."

"Well, it's a good story." Brim said, and then he sat back, took a long drink from his glass and read the notes he had scribbled.

"OK," he finally said, taking a long breath. "No idea who the crazy guy in the park was – and wouldn't even know how to find out. Tracing the authors of the newspaper articles in the Rome Gazette and the AJC ought to be easy enough if they are still alive, but they probably won't remember much – to them it was most likely just a story. The GBI would definitely have a record, but you would need exact names and dates to get it pulled. The dead inmates should have a record somewhere, but the staff members, Gregson, Blake, Spires and this Williams guy? Well, that might be tricky, unless you can get something from your internet girlfriend's mom."

John rolled his eyes at Brim's attempt at humor. Brim thought for a moment while he chewed on his pencil.

"OK," he finally said, "you follow up with Janet Hill's mom and the reporters. Leave the GBI investigation with me – I might know someone over there in records that could help. If you find anything about the staff members let me know, and when we have some of this stuff nailed down we can follow up on the victims."

"Works for me," John said.

"The only thing is," Brim hesitated, "I've got a lot on my plate right now, so I'm going to have Colin look into it. He works with me sometimes – he's a good kid, and sharp too – probably better than me."

"That's not hard," John said with a laugh.

They shared another drink and talked about old times – football and other trivia – but the conversation repeatedly circled back to Farfield and the mysterious deaths there.

* * * *

John felt somewhat fortunate that he had the appointment with Janet Hill, which prevented him from joining Brim in his steady immersion in alcohol. He pulled into the parking lot of the Old Hickory House a few minutes before four, and was able to claim a parking space near the door. John walked in between the tables, searching for guests that matched the description of Janet Hill and her mother, but not finding them he sat in a vacant booth and ordered black coffee.

It was ten after four, but still no sign of them – he thought that they were going to be a no-show. He considered calling Janet and removed his phone, but she beat him to it. As he heard his ring-tone, a middle-aged woman, two tables from him who was holding a phone to her ear, looked over and waved. He walked over to join her.

"Hello, there." John said.

"Hi," said Janet, half standing.

John reached for her hand, smooth and well manicured. Janet Hill was about his age, in her forties. She was alone.

"I am so sorry my mother isn't here," she began apologetically.

"Why, what happened?" John asked. "Is she OK?"

The waitress arrived and John ordered a refill on his coffee.

"Yes, she's fine." answered Janet. "When I first told her that you wanted to talk to her about a book you're writing she seemed thrilled to meet you, but just as we were about to leave she asked me again – she's old and a bit forgetful, you know."

"It happens," John said.

"Well, it was the oddest thing," Janet went on, "but when I mentioned that you wanted to know about her time at Farfield, she just sat down and refused to move. I asked her what was wrong and she just kept shaking her head and refusing to answer. When I explained that I had promised to meet you, and if she didn't want to come I would have to go alone, she just looked at me and said, "Tell him some things should stay forgotten. He'll be in great danger if he writes that book."

* * * *

Chapter 4

Mike Ratner's watch said 7:20 AM. The dorm room was cold and he had a growling hunger in his belly.

The unlikely idea of eight people dying in the same number of weeks tumbled end over end in his head. He raised the blinds and looked out the window. The storm had subsided but an overcast gray sky veiled the threat of more rain. Two of the hospital buildings were visible from his room – utilitarian structures that had an appearance of neglect. Sporadic patches of moss clung to the roof, a broken gutter hung at an odd angle, weeds grew along the base of the walls. He could see a line of small windows on the second floor, each covered with narrow rows of bars – a legacy from a less enlightened time. Beyond the buildings, twisted branches of bare trees faded in the foggy distance.

He washed and dressed. On the nightstand, beside his bed he found an ID tag. It had his picture, his name, an internal control number and in orange block letters the word "UNRESTRICTED." He hung the chain around his neck and picked up his room key and his coat. As Mike walked over to the door, something caught his eye. On the floor, just inside the door, face down on the blue carpet, was a yellow piece of paper. Mike picked it up and turned it over. In thick black marker ink the message read, "Breakfast – Dining room – 6.AM to 8.30AM." Mike wasn't sure who sent the message but it was welcome information.

Retracing his steps from last night, Mike walked down the stairwell and out of the external steel door. On both sides of the door were large red signs that read "KEEP LOCKED AT ALL TIMES." Mike found that the door closed and locked automatically, but did as instructed and checked anyway.

Mike followed the path through the trees that he and Barry had taken the previous evening and rounding a stand of pine trees, their frozen needles sparkling in the icy morning air, he saw the administration building. He followed the sound of conversation and cutlery down a corridor and found himself in a small dining room with a buffet style breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast and coffee. He walked over to the chrome pans placed over Sterno tins, and helped himself to some food.

Jim Blake waved him over to an empty seat.

"How did you sleep?" Jim asked.

"Out like a light." Mike replied.

Jim Blake looked in turn at two other people sitting at the table.

"Oh, this is Marty Helms and Freddy Miles, two of the doctors here. Gentlemen, meet Mike Ratner. Mike is from the Dawsonville office. He's conducting an investigation into our recent troubles here. Hopefully, it will silence the critics for good."

"I hope so, too," said Mike, taking the empty seat. He managed to get two whole mouth-fulls of eggs before the questions started.

"So, Mike, how long do you plan to be with us?" Dr. Miles asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Mike replied. "The GBI investigation only took three days. I'm going to try and beat their record."

The doctors laughed. Mike suspected that it was from a sense of relief that they were not dealing with some stuffy bureaucrat.

"Of course," Mike continued, " the GBI only had to deal with three deaths. I have eight."

The doctors glanced at one another and Mike felt the tension return.

"You think the other five will be any different from the first three that the GBI looked at?" asked Dr. Helms. He didn't appear challenged by Mike's answer – he seemed genuinely interested.

"I don't know, guys," Mike replied. "Look, I just got here, I haven't even started yet."

"Yes, let's give Mike a little breathing room, shall we?" said Jim Blake.

"Sorry, Mike," Dr. Miles said. "It's just that investigations of any kind put everybody on edge."

Mike nodded. "Understood, Just remember I'm not the enemy here."

The four men ate breakfast while they discussed the weather and the front page of the AJC, which lay open on the breakfast table. A few minutes later , Mike decided to try again.

"So, regarding the allegations of abuse?"

"Do you mean the staff getting abused by the patients?" Dr Helms' comment brought a chuckle from the table.

"Well, no, not exactly – " responded Mike, but before he could finish Dr. Helms jumped in again.

"– Because not only is abuse against the staff much more common, but it tends not to get reported."

"How much of a problem is it?" Mike asked.

"This year alone I have been..." Dr. Helms gazed upwards and frowned, "...punched, kicked at least three times, spat on – "

"I was bitten twice last week," interjected Dr. Miles.

Jim Blake came to Mike's rescue.

"Look guys, I'm sure you're all assaulted by some deranged maniac on an almost hourly basis, but that's not what Mike is here for."

They apologized again, which Mike felt was sincere, and then they excused themselves to continue their rounds.

"We should be getting on as well," said Jim. "Let's give you a tour."

Outside, against the rear wall of the administration building, several green golf carts were parked beneath a fiberglass canopy still decorated with last year's leaves. They climbed into the nearest cart and followed a gravel driveway to the blacktop of the main road.

"This service road connects all the hospital buildings, although it does wind through the trees a bit. If you're not used to it, you'll convince yourself that you're lost, but just stay on it and it'll bring you right back to Administration. This is your building over to the left."

As they passed, Mike could recognize his building and easily pick out his room on the second floor.

"It's called Building One," Jim said. "The ground floor holds males, eighteen years plus. This group's not dangerous but you might hear some noise from them."

Mike remembered that inside the building just before the stairs to the second floor he had seen a gray steel door with heavy hinges and the familiar wired glass panel. Large red lettering read "KEEP LOCKED AT ALL TIMES."

"Building Two and Three." Jim was pointing to where a gravel service road twisted through some trees. Sporadically, people in white canvas clothing wandered aimlessly in the frigid air. Most wore heavy coats, a few clad only in the same canvas garments they wore indoors.

"Aren't you concerned that they might get too cold?" Mike asked, pointing to one of the patients who had deviated from the path and was walking slowly through the wet grass.

"No," Jim said. "They'll go inside when they get cold. I know that might sound harsh to you, but in truth we really don't have the resources to monitor every one of them."

They drove on. The bare winter scrub did little to hide two more of the anonymous red brick buildings. "Building Two is more adult males, Three is females and children."

"How many children here?" asked Mike.

"About forty – ages two and a half to eighteen."

They drove in silence for a while, Mike pondering the desperate fate of the children, who through the circumstances of birth had become trapped in a system that would confine them to the despair of living here for their entire life, and he silently questioned why we give such little help to the people who need it most. Somewhere off in the distance someone screamed – a desperate painful wail. He hadn't been aware of the silence until then.

"Jim," he asked, "honestly, how would you grade the level of care in here?"

Jim paused. He stopped the golf cart and stared at the steering wheel for a moment, eventually turning to Mike, his face serious, his tone solemn.

"I don't think the treatment here is any different than the treatment in any other similar facility. When Peter Gregson took over as the Superintendent here he had a grand vision to revolutionize this place, and drag it painfully out of the past. Until then it had been run like an old Victorian insane asylum, people locked in padded cells, strapped to their beds twenty hours a day. Barbaric treatment methods – insulin and electro-shock. No modern pharmaceuticals – just very heavy sedation. Many of the patients here never saw daylight."

"How recently was this?" Mike asked, horrified by Jim's description of Farfield before Peter Gregson.

"Just over a year. You have to remember that this was a deep dark hole, full of the most unfortunate human beings imaginable. No one knew anything about this place. No one wanted to. It was an ugly blemish on the civilized southern veneer, where people were happy to sip their sweet tea on the porch, and attend their church garden parties, without ever thinking about Farfield."

"So Peter Gregson really changed the way this place operated?"

"Yes," Jim continued. "When you run a place like that, under twenty-four hour lock-down, problems and patient casualties are minimal. Peter strengthened the wall, beefed up the security and let patients roam around more, so of course there were more accidents and troubles."

"But there really are a lot of complaints?"

"You'll find the same thing in any State facility that is as overcrowded, understaffed and overworked as we are. When patients don't get adequate supervision, problems are inevitable."

Jim turned back to the road and they started driving again. He pulled up next to Building Four, and Jim made a motion for Mike to follow him.

"Here is your office, number 4-23, upstairs. I have to get to a meeting, but when you're ready you can just follow the road back to your dorm in building 1. You can go anywhere you like, but you will need an escort, so call Administration and they will send one over."

"Thanks." Mike said.

Jim swung the golf cart in a wide arc that crunched on the frozen gravel. He called back over his shoulder, "This afternoon we'll head over to the therapy building so you can check it out – and I will try and set up a meeting with Peter."

Mike waved goodbye and went through the main door of Building Four. Inside there was a small lobby, to the left and right were the familiar gray steel doors plastered with red warning labels, and a steel staircase leading to a wire-cage balcony that looked down over the lobby. Mike ascended the stairs and approached the welded wire cage door. He could see there was someone on the other side, a uniformed guard who asked for his ID. Mike held his ID card up to the wire.

"Oh. Hi, Mr. Ratner, we've been expecting you."

There was a loud buzz and the light above the gate went temporarily red while the gate was opened. Mike stepped inside.

"Call me Mike," he said extending his hand.

The guard, whose name was Charlie Lyons, welcomed him with a toothy grin and explained that this was his usual post and he was always there if Mike needed anything. Mike thanked him and walked along the corridor to his office.

Space was at a premium in Office 4-23. An eight by ten room, cinder block painted government beige, with a desk and two chairs, a bookcase and a window that overlooked a large square, fenced in, concrete courtyard. Just inside the door, there were two disorderly stacks of hanging green file-folders, each with a name and a number on the top edge. Mike fully expected that somewhere in the pile of paperwork was the solution to the problems at Farfield, an explanation for the cruelty and death. Mike pulled half a dozen folders from the top of the pile and threw them on the desk. He sat down and opened the first one.

Andrew Maynard. #23657745. The patient data sheet showed the photograph of a young boy, admitted 09-14-54. Date of birth 03-21-40, he was 40 years old – about Mike's age. The admission report showed that the fourteen year old boy was admitted suffering from "Mania," and for the last quarter century had survived on a steady diet of sedatives and restraint. The treatment schedule, which was by far the most substantive document, detailed his monthly review notes, alternative treatments that were tried, including Electroconvulsive therapy and something called "RS-batch-004." There was also a monthly "General Recommendations Sections," which included the note "CTMC."

Mike tossed the file on the desk, casually, realizing that the state had, just as casually, tossed this boy's life into a place of anonymity and invisibility. A name traded for a number, a person traded for a vacant stare in a shabby white canvas gown. Someone's child to be denied and forgotten. Thrown into a failed system that Dr. Peter Gregson was supposedly trying to redeem.

Mike's memory spiraled down to his own disturbing past, and he sighed at the thought that, had circumstances been only slightly different, he might have spent his life in a place exactly like this. He shuddered.

The files didn't seem to be in any type of order, and there was no additional list of complaints, and no separate files about the deaths. He didn't even know the names of the dead patients. All the cases he was to review were layered between mindless data. This was going to be slow work.

"Hello, there," Security Chief Barry Spires poked his head around the door. "Not much room in here is there?" he said as he edged past the stacks of files to sit on the spare chair.

"This used to be an interview room used by the shrinks, but since security took over this part of the building, my guys use it to play poker."

"I'll try not to get in their way." Mike said, then paused for a moment.

"Barry, where could I get a list of the complaints and the deaths. I'm sure they are in here somewhere – but it's going to take forever to find them."

"I can get that for you. All that stuff comes through my department anyway. I'll bring it over later today."

"Thanks," Mike said, and then he remembered the treatment schedule in the files. "Hey, do you have any idea what RS-batch-004 is?"

"RS-what?" Barry looked puzzled.

"RS-batch-004."

"No idea, what is it in reference to?"

"Oh, just something I read on one of the files. How about 'CTMC,' any idea?"

"Ah, now that one I know," said Barry. "Continue Treatment and Monitor for Change."

"That makes sense," replied Mike, and wrote a note to himself. "So Barry, maybe you can help me. What exactly is the procedure for reporting complaints and incidents of harm."

"Well, as soon as we are alerted to a problem, security is called – that's us – and my orderlies are dispatched. We assess the situation and take any injured parties to the treatment center. If it's a fight, we obviously break it up first."

"You say that you assess the situation, but your guys are not doctors, right?" asked Mike.

"We try to recruit people who have some medical training; ambulance drivers, hospital porters, even some prison guards. They all have to have some first aid knowledge."

"OK, good answer, I can check that box, then." joked Mike.

Barry faked a big sigh and wiped the back of his hand across his dry forehead.

"And at the treatment center, what happens there?"

"One of the doctors patches up the patient, usually it's not serious."

"And if it's more serious – like death?"

"In that case we would take the body to the morgue. It's in the basement of the treatment building. We have a doctor here who is a coroner, fellow named Williams. He does all the "serious" stuff, and issues the death certificate."

"What happens to the bodies afterward?" Mike asked.

"Well, when most families deliver patients here they pretty much forget them, so they usually get a state cremation – it's the cheapest option. Same is the case when the state delivers someone to us, vagrants, criminals, people lost in the system. The few families that do care, like the brother of the Hempel kid, will sometimes take the body for a family funeral. That's what I think happened in Hempel's case – the shock of his brother's suicide and the state of the body was something he couldn't accept – therefore, it must have been our fault."

"State of the body?" asked Mike.

"Hempel was seriously disturbed. He was in some kind of frenzy that I'm sure the doctors have a name for, but the bottom line is that he slashed himself multiple times before bleeding out."

Barry left a short time later, leaving Mike to ponder and digest the new information. He went back to the files, and because the case of Daniel Hempel was fresh in his mind he decided it was a good a place as any to start. Sitting cross legged on the floor he began to go through the pile of folders and look for the Hempel file. He was nearly halfway through – without success, when an orderly appeared at his open doorway.

"Phone call for you, Mr Ratner, it's just down the hall."

It hadn't occurred to Mike until then that he had no phone in the office, so he got up and followed the orderly down the hall to the security break room, where two guards were sitting at a table drinking coffee and chatting. A wall phone handset was hanging from a tangled coil-cord. Mike picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mike. It's Jim. If you want to come over to the Administration building, Peter Gregson can meet with you."

"Fine," Mike said, "I'll be right over."

He asked one of the guards for an escort, who reluctantly dragged himself away from his newspaper and, tossing back the dregs of his coffee, arose with a groan. The two men walked along the corridor, through the steel security gate, and down the steel steps, out into the cold again. The guard cursed when he realized that there was no available golf cart for transportation, and spent most of the five minute walk to the building complaining about it. The grounds were deserted but for two or three patients, clad in white canvas coveralls, who were wandering beside the road. Mike presumed that these were not the dangerous ones, but felt safer with the guard by his side. Despite the cold, Mike enjoyed the brisk walk. It allowed him to clear his head and try to collect his thoughts – unfortunately he still didn't have much to go on.

* * * *

The Superintendent's office was situated on the second floor, overlooking an expanse of forest. Dr. Peter Gregson, rose from behind a hardwood desk and stepped over to meet Mike at the door.

"Good morning, Mr. Ratner. I'm Dr. Peter Gregson; please call me Peter."

"And I'm Mike,"

"Well, have a seat, Mike." Gregson motioned to the empty chair in front of his desk. "Are you finding everything all right?"

"Yes, thank you," said Mike, but he somehow felt uneasy about the question.

Mike provided some background on himself, and in turn Dr. Gregson told Mike about his dream to change the way things were done at the hospital, and hopefully set a new standard for institutions like Farfield all across the country. The passion that fueled his grand ambition was obvious in his delivery, and Mike found him to be a charismatic and likable man, full of energy and enthusiasm.

"The problem is, Mike, that this recent bad press is threatening to destroy the vision I have to help these unfortunate souls. It's making us look bad. If I have made any error in judgment, it is a failure to realize that my plan, being so labor intensive, would require so much additional funding. The new security alone has eroded much of our operating budget, but that is an essential part of the project."

"But won't the state see the good work you're doing and give you more money?"

"Last year they did, but there again, last year was an election year – and politics changes everything." Gregson began pacing back and forth with nervous energy. "In fact, because of the complaints, the politicians holding the purse strings are actually cutting my funding this year. We may even lose our Medicare support because of this – that why it's so important to have this investigation."

"But you've had an internal investigation..." Mike said.

"And all our doctors and staff were cleared." Peter Gregson anxiously completed the sentence.

"And the GBI have been in here," added Mike.

"Yes, and they found no wrongdoing – but it was their presence here that started all our problems with the DHS head office. Now, don't get me wrong, one more investigation proving we are operating above board will only help to re-establish our credibility. So I can't thank you enough for the good work you're doing here."

They talked some more, until Gregson started to re-hash his same battle plan for the third time, whereupon Mike expressed his excitement to get started and stood up to leave. Gregson concluded his monologue. "Well, if I can help with anything at all during your stay, please don't hesitate to let me know."

"Oh, there is one thing," Mike said, turning from the door. "What is 'RS-batch-004,' I saw it in a treatment report."

"I have no idea," Gregson said. "Check with Len Smith, our staff physician – he should know."

Mike thanked him, and collecting his handler, he walked back to Building Four.

Something was bothering him about the meeting. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He replayed the exchange in his head, trying to remember anything crucial. Then he realized that the uneasiness had been there from the beginning, it was just Gregson's fast talking enthusiasm that rolled right over it. It was when Gregson had greeted him and said, "Are you finding everything all right?" And when he really thought about this question, the answer was no.

He had been assigned an office away from everything, with no phone. No one had been very forthcoming about the extent of the problems here. The files for his research had been delivered in a disorderly pile, without indexing or explanation, and no one had yet provided a list of the complaints and incidents he was supposed to be investigating. Was this organization really this inefficient and undisciplined or was somebody deliberately trying to make things difficult for him?

* * * *

Chapter 5.

The early morning sun streamed through John's bedroom window. Janet's shocking words were still rattling around John's head. Her mother had said, "He'll be in great danger if he writes that book."

"What kind of danger?" John had asked.

Janet said she had no idea, her mother had never really talked about the place, much less indicated anything that might still be dangerous after all this time.

"I don't like to suggest this," John said, choosing his words carefully, "but could she be imagining it, you said yourself that she gets confused."

"I don't think so," Janet said, shaking her head slowly.

John stared at his coffee and wondered what could it have been about Farfield that had upset Janet's mother so much. He finally asked, "Do you think she'll change her mind?"

"I doubt it," Janet said. "I haven't seen her that stubborn in a long time. She seemed genuinely afraid to even talk about it."

"Do you have any old letters or photographs around the house that might give us a clue?" John realized he had just asked Janet, a woman he barely knew, to spy on her mother. "Sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have asked that."

"It's OK," she replied. "I understand. You've just been told you're in danger."

Now it was his turn to look away, and wonder how real the threat was.

After a few seconds Janet broke the silence. "Are you going to go ahead with the book?"

"I think I have to."

"Then I'll try and work on my mom to see what I can find out for you."

* * * *

John got up, had a light breakfast and went for a run in Creekside Park to clear his head. It was a new experience now. Knowing what this place was, and not being able to un-learn the dreadful truth of what happened here so long ago. He felt absorbed by the realization that some of the people intimately connected with the horror of the past, might still be alive. Where were they? What were they doing? He continued running, pushing himself. Running with the ghosts of a long gone mental hospital. The Ghosts of Madness. Yes, there was the book's title. He knew it would come to him.

He had written two chapters now. Chapters that materialized on the screen with an easy flowing style, far more fluid than the Danny Blade trilogy – a work that seemed almost awkward and clunky by comparison. He had heard writers on discussion panels pretentiously state how a book "just seemed to write itself," but he had never experienced such a thing, until now. It was as if each time he discovered some new fact about Farfield, it would effortlessly crawl into the pages of the book, finding expression and escape.

Before he realized it, he had circled the park, lost in thought, and exited the main gate. He was surprised to find himself nearly home.

* * * *

After showering and dressing he seated himself at his desk and checked his messages. Nothing from Brim or Janet Hill yet, but there was some activity on a Facebook page called The Atlanta Memory Machine. In response to his general inquiry about Farfield, several people remembered it, but not with much detail, and two people remembered patients escaping. One person thought it closed in the early '80s, and one suggested he try the Atlanta History Center for more information. There was also a private message from someone called Junior Hollywell. All it had was a phone number.

John called the number for Hollywell. It was a New York area code.

"Hello?" replied a scratchy voice on the other end. In the background John could hear heavy machinery. Factory activity.

"Mr. Junior Hollywell?"

"Yeah."

"John Mars here. You left your number for me on Facebook."

"Yeah. You were the one asking 'bout Farfield?"

"That's right," John said. He quickly placed Junior's accent as Southern, African American, maybe sixty or sixty-five years old.

"Why?" asked the voice. John felt that Hollywell, was asking more questions than he was answering.

"I'm a writer working on a local history book down here in Atlanta, and I'm gathering stories about the area. I heard there used to be a mental hospital in the area called Farfield."

"Yeah, there was," Junior said. "I worked there." What sounded like a loud electric motor started up in the background making it more difficult to hear the conversation.

"Really?" John asked, raising his voice a little. "What did you do there?"

"I worked as a guard. Worked for the head of security there, man named Spires."

The fact that Junior left his phone number was an indication he wanted to talk. John just didn't know what he wanted to talk about, but decided to ask an open question and see where it went. "What was it like back then?"

"It was a rough place, especially bad because there had been people in there since the '50s. Back then they threw anyone they didn't understand into a state institution – so you had people suffering with depression next to really dangerous people. Some of them violent killers."

"There were killers in there?" prompted John.

"Oh, yeah. All the really bad ones were kept in the basements of the ward buildings. I had that watch sometimes."

John wondered if he knew anything about the deaths there. "And you were a guard there, huh?"

"Yep. Six years."

"So were you there until the places closed?"

"Almost. I was there right up the point that bastard Spires fired me."

"He fired you? What for?" Something like a rivet gun echoed in his phone's earpiece, and he could hear men shouting.

"I was a good guard," Hollywell began. "I actually did care about the patients. Not like most of the others who treated those poor people like animals. One afternoon I'm making my rounds, and I look in one of the rooms, and there's a body, hanging from the sprinkler pipes. Dead."

"You found a body?"

"Yeah. Arnie Fisher, nice kid – wouldn't hurt a fly. Certainly wouldn't have expected him to do that. Not in a million years."

"What was the outcome?"

"The outcome was that I got fired. They said I had been late on my round and, if I had been on time, the boy might have been saved."

"Were you late?"

"Never. I was never late." John sensed thirty-five year-old pride in the man's' voice.

"So why did they lie about it?"

"There had been more than a few deaths there that winter, and it was starting to look real bad for the hospital – like it wasn't being run properly. They even had the GBI over there poking around, and one of their own investigators. The easiest way to explain away another suicide was to blame me. So I got fired."

"Didn't you protest? Demand an investigation or something?"

"Listen, man. Back then if you were black, in the south, fired, and wanted a decent reference to find another job, you didn't make waves. You just took it on the chin and moved on."

"So was there anyone else there treated like you?"

"Look," said Hollowell, quickly, "I gotta go – the boss is yelling for me." And with that, the conversation was over.

John glanced over the notes he had made during the call. He underlined Arnie Fisher.

The Rome Gazette had no memory of the staff writer who created the Farfield article back in 1980. The Atlanta Journal Constitution operator transferred him to the archives department, but they too had no record of the article's author. All they could offer was a recollection that there had been "some trouble" back in the early eighties and that Farfield was now Creekside community park.

Next, John called Brim. He told him about the dead ends at the newspaper offices, and the story of his conversation with Hollowell, and how the hospital had, for whatever reason, lied to cover up the true facts of a death there.

"Yep," said Brim, "Colin has been digging up some stuff on his own, a few other old employees of the hospital – he has followed up on some, but I don't know which ones yet. He also got a phone number for Jim Blake, the deputy superintendent during all that unpleasantness. I thought you might want to follow up with that one."

"OK."

Brim continued, "I will follow up with this GBI investigation and we can touch base a little later."

"Fine," John said.

"Oh, and I have two more things for you, Colin has a lead on Brian Hempel, the one who's complaints kicked off the GBI investigation. He's at 463 Willow Drive, in Virginia Highlands."

"Phone number?" John said, as he wrote down the address.

"Sorry, don't have one – looks like you're driving."

"So be it," John replied.

"And the other thing," Brim continued, "is we have a lead on that consulting physician, Jake Williams. Last known address was over in Druid Hills. I've sent Colin over there today to ask a few questions, but if this Williams guy was a consultant, he might not know much."

"Colin's a whiz-kid. How does the guy do it?"

"I don't know," Brim said. "Youth, I suppose. Well, youth and technology. Colin can get more done in twenty minutes, never leaving his laptop, than I can get done spending three days in a car with stale sandwiches, cold coffee and binoculars." He laughed, then added, "Did you get anything more from the Hill woman's mother?"

"Nothing yet," said Mike.

Next John called the number for Jim Blake. Blake was the deputy supervisor at Farfield and second in command. He would be the most senior lead so far. The trouble was, John knew getting senior people to talk about things that may cross a legal or ethical boundary wasn't always easy. He called the number.

"Hello?" a man's voice answered.

"Yes, hello, could I speak with Mr. Jim Blake, please?"

"Who is this?"

"My name's John Mars."

"What is this in reference to?"

"I'm writing a book about Farfield Hospital and looking for background information. Would you be able to help me?"

"Sorry, wrong number." There was a click and the line went dead.

John made a note to follow up on this later, and turned the page of his notebook to Brian Hempel's address.

The mid-morning traffic was light and John enjoyed being able to drive with the car windows down. He made use of drive-time by calling Janet Hill again. He didn't feel good about the way they left things – he felt she deserved an apology or something. In any event, it was a relief to find that Janet did not seem to bear him any ill will and he was thankful when she reiterated her intent to try and talk with her mother. She hadn't yet done so, but said she was "waiting for the right time."

463 Willow Drive was easy to find. It was a quiet neighborhood just a nine-iron from Piedmont Park. John found a parking spot within sight of the house. His phone rang. It was Brim.

" Hey, John. I just got a voice mail from Colin. He went over to talk to Williams like I asked, but it didn't come to anything. Apparently, Williams has been dead a long time."

"How?" John asked.

"Car crash."

"So that's a dead lead," quipped John.

"And that's a crappy joke," Brim replied. "Anyway I'm heading over to meet Colin in Little-Five-Points later. There's a beer in it for you if you want to come along."

"OK. I'm in. What time?"

"Four, at Jimmy's Tavern."

* * * *

John walked up the tree lined driveway and rapped on the black door just below the brass plate that said four-sixty-three. John could hear movement in the house which gradually grew louder. The door opened only as far as the security chain would allow it to to.

"Good morning. Mr Hempel?"

"Yes," the man was older, age lines apparent around his eyes, gray hair, fine and thinning, well dressed.

"My name is Mars, John Mars. I am a local historian writing a book about the area, and your name came up in my research."

"What kind of research?" Brian Hempel suddenly looked suspicious.

Here goes, I may as well plunge right in. "Well, actually it's about Farfield."

"What about it?"

"Back in November of 1980, there was a GBI investigation into some unsolved suspicious deaths." John deliberately used the word "unsolved" and "suspicious" to let Brian Hempel know which side he was on.

"The word 'suspicious' is a bit of an understatement."

"Yes, that's what I thought," agreed John. "I'm sorry about your brother."

Brian Hempel unlatched the silver chain and opened the door. John stepped inside. The place was well lived-in, clean but a little cluttered. Brian obviously lived alone. It suddenly struck John that people's houses always seem to be furnished in a style that reflects their age, that people reach a certain point in their lives and simply stop obeying the rules of fad and fashion.

Brian directed John to a seat in his family room and offered him a cold drink, which John politely declined.

"So what's the book about? asked Brian Hempel, groaning as he settled into a leather recliner.

"It's about the cruelty and abuse at Farfield, and the sudden surge in the death-toll that occurred in the winter of 1980 where eight people died."

"Ten."

"Excuse me?" asked John, leaning forward slightly.

"There were perhaps more than that," said Brian. "Back then, Farfield operated so far below the radar they could cover up a suspicious death simply by saying a patient had escaped. You should also look for records of escaped patients that were never caught."

"Why did the GBI not go back in?"

"Once a government organization completes an investigation, they sign off and congratulate themselves on a job well done. It doesn't look good if they have to go back again for the same problem. So the party line from the GBI was always, 'We have completed the investigation and found no evidence of wrongdoing.'"

"So all the deaths were classified as suicide?"

"Oh no, not all, there were also natural causes and accidental deaths, but suicide was the popular one."

"So your brother was the third patient to die?" John asked, carefully.

"My brother was the third to be murdered."

"What was it that alerted you to the problem?"

"We received his body, and the coroners report said it was suicide. But let me tell you about his condition – he was twenty-eight years old with the mind of a child. He was harmless, peaceful. He would paint and draw and sing. I used to visit him and we would spend the afternoon playing checkers. He wouldn't do that to himself. There were eleven stab wounds on his body."

"So how did the investigators explain the violence?"

"They said it because he was in a 'severely agitated state brought on by his condition' but that doesn't explain how he ended up with two of the stab-wounds in his back."

"How did GBI explain that?"

"They said – and this was taken right out of the hospital's report – that when he passed out from blood loss, he fell on the knife. If you read the report, it's obvious they pencil-whipped it. I just don't know why."

"So what do you think is the explanation?"

"It's hard to say because there was never a proper investigation, but here is what it boils down to; It was either a problem of overcrowding and budget cuts, which is what the hospital said, and yet they didn't use it as an excuse to try and get more funding. Or if it wasn't that, then someone is a mass murderer, either a hard-core patient, who is getting out when he shouldn't be, or it's one of the staff."

They talked a little more until John had to leave for his barroom gathering with Brim and Colin, but Brian extended an open invitation for John to come back and chat, or bounce any case developments off him. John thanked him, fully intending to take him up on the offer.

* * * *

It was not a long drive over to Jimmy's in Little-Five-Points, Atlanta's "bohemian" center, a colorful combination of tattoos, tie-dye shops, incense, crystals, and ethnic cuisine. A place where trendy youngsters and aging hippies mingled among street musicians and sidewalk artists. John was still driving when his phone rang.

"John, this is Brim, listen carefully. Colin's dead."

"What?" John blurted out.

"Don't ask now. Just listen. Get to my house as quickly as you can. Use the back door, you know the access and alarm codes. Get the Farfield file from my desk and get out quickly"

* * * *

Chapter 6

Three times Mike h ad made the short walk down the corridor from his office to the break room and used the wall phone to set up a meeting with Dr. Len Smith, the staff physician that Gregson had suggested he talk to. Receiving no response, Mike spent the morning reviewing files. It was early afternoon when Dr. Smith arrived.

"So, what exactly are your duties here?" Mike asked.

"Well, technically I'm the staff physician. At least that what my job description says."

"Sounds like you have some doubt about that."

"No," responded Dr. Smith. "I still hold that position, but it doesn't seem like my credibility is what it used to be."

"What happened?" Mike asked.

"Williams happened. I have been here for nearly ten years. Gregson took over last year and for a while things went well, It was Gregson, Jim Blake – the deputy superintendent, and me. We were the holy trinity of Farfield. But it soon became obvious that Gregson belonged to a new breed, one that believed these unfortunate souls could be fixed by letting then out to wander around and giving them sunshine and fresh fruit." There was a long pause before Smith continued. "I guess Gregson has a good heart, but also a genuine ambition to go down in the medical history books as the man who revolutionized mental care."

"So how did that effect your working relationship with him?"

"Gregson wanted to explore treatment methods other than restraint straps and heavy sedation. He hired some so-called genius who had been a drug developer and ran clinical trials for some pharmaceutical company up north."

"Williams?"

"Yes. Williams is a man who shares Gregson's rosy vision of the future, one where alternative treatment methods and a new range of psychoactive medications would allow everyone to live happily ever after."

Mike realized that sarcasm played a large part of Dr. Len Smith's portrayal of events. "And Gregson demoted you one rung on the ladder?"

"Not exactly." replied Len. "I still have my position, but my opinion doesn't count for much now. Gregson consistently defers to Williams – the golden child. And I think sometimes Gregson's judgment is not all it should be."

"What do you mean?" Mike asked.

Smith tapped the side of his nose twice and sniffed. Was he trying to say that Gregson had a drug problem?

"You really think so?" Mike asked.

"Who knows?" Smith replied.

Mike realized Smith was not going to say more on this subject so he moved on.

"And Williams works over in the therapy building?

"Yes. The bastard even has my old office."

Dr. Smith's bitterness was transparent.

"So are the new methods working?"

"I think the approach they are taking needs a lot more manpower and money than we have."

"What about Jim Blake?"

"Blake's a decent guy. I like him, but I think he has also been left behind a bit because of Gregson's new ideas."

"Do you think those new ideas have caused an increase in complaints of abuse?"

"Undoubtedly." Smith dropped his glib cynicism and looked directly into Mike's eyes. "Free-range patients are harder to control. I'm not saying that a straight-jacket and Thorazine is the ideal approach to the problem, but if you don't have the manpower to watch a suicidal patient closely, you shouldn't let them out. Before Gregson's free-range approach to mental health we had maybe one or two deaths a year. Gregson opened up the cells last fall. Since the beginning of November – that's a little over thirteen weeks – we have had eight deaths. This system isn't working."

Mike could sense Smith was getting agitated.

"Dr. Smith, I was told that you possese more medical and drug knowledge than perhaps anyone here. Would you say that's correct?"

"Yes, I would say that is generally true. Dr. Williams and myself, yes. Why?"

"Because I was reading some case notes and found reference to 'RS-batch-004' in the treatment file. Do you have any idea what that is?"

Smith gazed down and shook his head, "No," and then, after a pause, "Wait...did it look like it might be medication?"

"Could be," answered Mike. "Why?"

"Back before I got here, sometime in the 60's, I think Farfield was involved in some drug trials. It may have been one of those – I think they were mostly anti-psychotics. Whenever you see the word "batch" written on the drug name it's usually experimental, after approval they just stamp the medication with a production date. That's actually a trick so that you throw old drugs away and buy the same ones again."

"Does Farfield still conduct drug testing?" asked Mike.

"Good lord, no." answered Dr. Smith, somewhat outraged. "These days the process is much more regulated. Pharmacological studies, FDA monitoring, insurance bonds, placebo comparison studies, all kinds of red tape and legal hoops to jump through – probably one of the reasons prescription drugs are so costly."

"Perhaps," Mike said, nodding.

Dr. Len Smith eventually left. Mike sat in silence, thinking. Smith came across as definitely old school – a dinosaur about to be made extinct by the changing face of medicine. Mike realized that had to create workplace conflict.

A distant scream sounded from the floor below, a wail of anguish that faded, only to be immediately replaced by shouts and something banging on steel, the shouts of authority, the shouts of guards. A few moments later Barry Spires appeared in his office doorway.

"Is everything OK?" Mike was suddenly concerned.

"Yes, why?" asked Barry.

"I heard some screaming and banging from the secure area downstairs."

"What about it?" Barry asked.

"It sounded terrible." Mike replied.

"Working in this office, you will hear something like that two or three times a day – it's normal." Then he thought for a moment, "Well, maybe not normal, but usual."

"And, how can I help you today?" Mike asked.

"I have your list." Barry said, handing him a sheet of paper with a list of names. "These are the deaths that have occurred in the last ninety days along with the major complaints."

"Major?" Mike asked.

"The ones that required medical attention, or showed any sign of injury – even the self inflicted ones. A lot of the time patients will hurt themselves or simply imagine that they did."

"Oh, I see," said Mike, remembering that Barry had promised to deliver details of the complaints and incidents. Each name had a one word entry – either "injury" or "deceased." and a short description of the incident. Mike had been expecting a formal report on each event. Times, dates, locations, names, doctors, treatments, outcomes. Someone was trying to hinder his investigation. Was it Barry?

"Um..." Mike hesitated, unsure how to phrase his question. "Do you not have anything more? I was expecting some formal documentation for each one."

"Yeah, we have an incident report for each case, which we usually filed here in security, but Jim Blake asked for them to be added to the patient's case files, so they should be in that pile somewhere." Barry pointed to the stacks of case files on the floor.

The radio hanging from Barry's belt crackled into life.

"Gotta go," said Barry. "Catastrophe calls."

After Barry left, Mike surveyed the list. He skipped over the "injury" names and focused on the deceased. James Agra, drowned in retention pond, accidental death. Dorothy Mansfield, heart attack, natural causes. Daniel Hempel, knife wound, suicide. Ron Marriot, failure to take blood pressure medication, accidental death. Pam Harrison, blood loss, suicide. And so it went... Willy Madigan, Frank Hilbert, Jenny Lorano, all accidental death, natural causes or suicide. But what were the chances that so many would die so quickly. It didn't seem likely to Mike.

Mike looked out the window. A very light snow had begun t fall. Mike wanted to be back in his house by a log fire with his TV and a drink. Not stuck here in a chain link prison playing who dun it. There it was, "Who dun it." His thoughts had betrayed his belief. Despite the overt testimony of the staff, claiming all the deaths were perfectly normal, he thought that this was not as innocent or as simple as it was claimed to be.

Mike began to organize the pile of green files on his floor. He decided that the easiest way would be to create individual piles for each letter, and then collate them alphabetically. He was wondering why he was the one doing this and not someone in the hospital records office. The pile was too big to fit on the desk, so he stacked it along the floor against the wall, and it was as he did this, that it struck him. The first person to die on Barry Spires' list was James Agra. There was no file in the A's for James Agra. He hurriedly began checking the other names that Barry had given to him. There were three names beginning with M – Mansfield, Marriot, and Madigan, but in the stack of files that had been delivered to Mike's office none of these were present.

Mike's irritation began to escalate. Who was interfering with his audit? Were these people really that incompetent? Mike walked to Barry's office, it was empty. Then he remembered the radio message. Walking back to the steel cage and the gray security door he saw Charlie Lyons.

"Hi, Charlie. Could you call a guard for me? I have to go to the records office."

"Sure, I'm just going off duty. I'll take you."

Mike saw a scrawny man ascending the stairs. He looked agile more than thin, and his face was hard like Georgia granite. Charlie opened the door, the familiar loud buzz sounded louder than it needed to be in the hollowness of the metal-framed atrium. Handing some keys and a clipboard to his replacement, Charlie Lyons grabbed his lunch box and signed himself out.

Outside, the cutting chill of February sliced through Mike's shirt. The two men climbed into a golf cart and Charlie zipped the cover closed. At the main road, Charlie turned left which surprised Mike.

"Where are we going?"

"Records."

"I thought they would be in the Administration building."

"No," replied Charlie, "the doctors use them the most so their are located in Therapy."

The road made a slow bend and they had to drive around two men who were standing in the road talking. One man, in his twenties with shaggy, blond hair, waved his hands at the golf cart. They stopped.

"Not for you! This is our road," he said, meekly. He had a shyness about him, and had trouble meeting their gaze.

"That's Norman," Charlie said. "He likes to think this is his road. He's really quite harmless, a nice kid really. You'll see him wandering the grounds a lot."

Off to the left Mike saw a swampy area bounded by a low concrete wall. The water was frozen. Some sparse vegetation at the waters edge defiantly struggled through the ice and stood stick-like in the frigid air while other plant life had failed to survive the harsh winter. Charlie noticed Mike studying the pool.

"That's the retention pond."

Mike remembered one of the victims – he didn't know which one – had drowned here.

"Someone died in that pond," Mike said. He was speaking softly, almost to himself, but Charlie answered anyway.

"Yep. James Agra. From Building Two. They found him early one morning. He had been there all night."

"What was he doing out all night?"

"No idea. He wasn't dangerous so there was no need to keep him locked in his room. He spent a lot of time just wandering in the woods here, but still, someone should have made sure he was back in by nightfall."

"Who would that have been?"

"The duty orderly, it was his job to do bed check. Don't know who was on that shift."

"Was the duty orderly reprimanded?"

"I don't know," Charlie said. "I don't know what happened. They don't talk about these things much."

Ahead of them, through the delicate drifting snow, the shadowy outline of the therapy building emerged. As they approached the imposing block of featureless gray, it transformed into pale pink which in turn surrendered it's anonymity to the detail of Farfield's familiar red brick. They parked in front of the main double doors.

Inside was a small lobby with a reception desk and a staircase to the second floor. Seated at the desk was a woman, mid thirties, prim, freshly starched blouse, hair tied back, glasses. She sat behind a neat and ordered desk. Behind her another of the steel security doors.

"Hi, Jane," Charlie said.

Jane smiled and greeted him.

"This is Mr. Mike Ratner, from head office. He's doing an investigation," Charlie explained.

"Certainly, Mr. Ratner, If I could just see your badge?"

Mike took the access badge hanging around his neck and extended it toward Jane. She leaned forward and tilted her head back to squint through her bi-focals. She thanked him and together Charlie and Mike climbed the staircase.

From the blue plastic name plates outside each of the top floor offices, Mike was able to deduce that this area was used for administration, storage and patient review rooms. One of them "Dr. Jacob F. Williams." Mike realized this must be Len Smith's old office – the one he was so bitter about losing. Three doors down on the right another name plate; "RECORDS OFFICE – Martha Hill." They knocked on the door. There was no sound from inside. They knocked again.

"Hold on," said Charlie, after a moment, "let me check."

Charlie walked to the end of the hallway and opened the door to the stairs.

"Hey Jane," he called out, "is Martha here?"

Mike heard the distant reply.

"No, she's off today – had to take her little girl to the dentist – she'll be back in tomorrow."

"Damn it," Mike said.

They walked back downstairs together. At the bottom Mike pointed to the gray door.

"What's in there?" he asked.

"Oh, that's Dr. Williams' area," Jane said.

"Good," Mike nodded. "I've been meaning to see him."

Charlie left, and Mike went to the steel door. He tugged on the handle but it didn't move.

"Oh, I'll have to buzz you in," Jane said, as she pressed a button on the edge of her desk. There was a click and the door opened.

Mike walked into a large open area, plainly furnished with a couple of industrial looking metal desks and some filing cabinets. On one wall were wooden doors, probably offices, Mike assumed. On the other wall were three reclining chairs, not unlike those used by dentists, behind each was a bank of electronic controls, and a reel-to-reel tape recorder. One of the chairs was occupied by a patient. He was strapped into a chair, motionless. Several wires emerged from his white cotton clothing, and a black coiled cord ran from the wall to the headphones that were clamped around his head. A man in a white lab coat was sitting at one of the metal desks, with his back to Mike. He was leaning over studying some papers.

"Dr. Williams?"

The man turned and stood. He was younger than Mike expected, perhaps mid-thirties, with a shock of uncombed black hair hanging over his left eye. He wore the wrinkled pants and brown shoes that Mike thought typical of the academic geek that Len Smith had described.

"Dr. Williams?" Mike repeated.

"Who are you?" asked Williams, brushing the disobedient hair from his face.

"My name's Mike Ratner, I'm here from Satellite 19."

"Nobody told me you were coming. How did you get in here?"

"Dr. Williams, I'm here to perform a procedural audit, I have a few questions. Is now a good time?"

"No. It is not," Williams raised his voice "Just stand over there against the wall and stay out of the way."

Before Mike had a chance to engage the doctor, a buzzer sounded and Jake Williams walked briskly to a gray steel door at the end of the room. He turned and pointed directly at Mike.

"Don't move." he said, and jabbed his finger in Mike's direction several times to emphasize his seriousness. On the keypad next to the door Williams entered a code and opened the door. He stood to one side as two burly orderlies escorted a patient through the opening. The patient was a large man, unshaven with short cropped hair. His hands struggling against the leather straps that secured his wrists. Additional ankle straps limited his gait, and as the orderlies pushed him, he shuffled forward. Mike immediately noticed the man's eyes, erratic and nervous. Like an animal caught in a trap. Then those eyes focused on Mike and narrowed into a wild intensity, a gaze that Mike couldn't hold. He looked away and felt a wave of uneasiness that he tried to overcome with reason and common sense, but could not. The strangeness of the situation, the unpredictability, the anger that radiated from the struggling man, the echoes on steel, white coats, restraints, returning memories, his own fear, his own anger. The demons returning. The stuff of nightmares. Mike stood very still and averted his gaze to briefly study the linoleum floor, but almost immediately found that he could not keep from looking at the scene before him. The man had now begun to shout threats and obscenities, violent and without reason.

One of the guards lifted what looked like a short thick metal stick into the air and Mike heard the loud crackling buzz of electricity as a blue arc of sparks danced on the end of it. At the sight of the electricity Mike began to sweat, a cold clammy sweat. The clinical crispness in the cold room, the buzz of blue energy, burning the air. Burning him.

At the sight of the cattle prod, the patient's eyes widened even more, which Mike didn't think was possible, and he then calmed noticeably – Mike sensed that the big man knew how it felt. After that it became easier for the guards to push and drag the patient to one of the reclining chairs and, with some difficulty, he was strapped down.

From a box on his desk, Williams removed a hypodermic needle and a small vile of clear liquid. He loaded the syringe and threw the empty vile in his trash can. Walking over to the the restrained man, he injected the drug into his left arm. Then, and only then, everyone began to relax.

"Nice timing, Mr. Auditor." Williams' statement contained more than a little contempt. He sat down and lit a cigarette. "That's Ronnie. He's one of our stars. Paranoid, violent, anti-social and delusional. We like to keep the therapy room sealed off when we bring him out."

"I can see why." said Mike, beginning to regain his composure. "What are you doing to him? Is that a cattle prod?"

"Something like one. But more powerful. It's used by the police in some South American country for riot control." Williams held up the thick black handle and with a suddenness that made Mike jump backwards as the end of the stick crackled with the sparks of condensed lightning.

"That's barbaric." Mike said, horrified.

"Would you prefer we just shoot him? Or maybe you have another suggestion for how to control a two-hundred and thirty pound raging maniac? Mr. Ratner, this is a non-lethal solution, it will render him unconscious, but usually the sight of it is enough to calm anyone down – especially if they already have an acquaintance with its effects."

Mike, looking over at the massive bulk of Ronnie, realized that Williams was probably right. "What are you doing with him?"

"When the sedation takes effect, we'll start him on our new sound therapy."

"Sound therapy?"

"Mr. Ratner," Williams began with his typical condescending style, "did you ever notice that if you play a piece of sad music to someone they experience sadness? Happy music makes people happy. There are resonant properties to sound that affect us on the most basic mental level, and that is true across cultural boundaries. A sad piece of music written here in the U.S. sounds just as sad to someone in another country – even if they don't speak English. Look at the emotional power of blues, gospel or opera."

"So your plan is to play pop music to maniacs?" Mike didn't think the comment was fair, but he wanted to send a little bit of condescending sarcasm back at the doctor. If Williams noticed it, he didn't let on.

"No. But if certain combinations of tones and frequencies elicit an emotional response we should be able to find the ones that are natural sedatives and relaxants – and who knows what else?"

The effects of the injection seemed to have found their mark and Ronny was now settling. Williams became much more human and animated when he was talking about the subject that gave him so much passion, and he quickly descended into technical descriptions of brain waves and musical scales, blood chemistry and symphonies. Mike began to see the mad professor persona that Len Smith had alluded to appearing before his very eyes.

Dr. Williams rose from his chair, walked over to the massive bulk of his comatose patient, and took his blood pressure.

"Is he out?" Mike asked.

"No," Williams said. "He's awake, but unable to move."

"What did you give him?"

"Oh, just a common benzodiazepine to calm him down."

"Are you sure you gave him enough?"

"Mr. Ratner," Williams said, looking at Mike with a cold seriousness that seemed devoid of emotion. "If I were to give him any more, he wouldn't be able to breath on his own."

He then placed a pair of headphones on Ronnie and switched on the reel-to-reel tape player.

"You know, Dr. Gregson thinks very highly of your new treatment methods."

"That's nice to know." Williams flushed with pride. Mike paused.

"I was reviewing some case files, and it seems that there has been an unusually high number of deaths at the hospital in the last few months."

"Yes." said the doctor, making some adjustments on the audio equipment and watching a small needle bounce back and forth across a signal meter.

"And I understand that you are the one who performs the examinations following injury or death. Is that correct."

"Yes."

"Don't you find that odd?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you really think all the deaths are natural causes," Mike chose his words carefully, " or is it possible someone else was involved?"

"Look," Williams said, "I act as the coroner here. I determine the cause of death. If someone drowns or cuts their throat, I can tell you that. What I can't tell you is whether anyone else was there at the time."

Mike was feeling pushed up against a wall. Sent to do a job, only to find the Farfield staff unhelpful. Nobody wanted to admit there might be a problem. Mike felt anger rise up in him – it had been brewing for a couple of days.

"Look, Dr. Williams. Please understand – "

"No," Williams interrupted him. "You understand. We are trying to do good here. We are on the verge of discovering something that might be the most beneficial breakthrough for mental health treatment since we stopped drilling holes in people's heads. Any interruption or interference that impedes progress toward that goal is not viewed favorably by anyone here." He took a breath and continued. "And while I honestly don't believe you will discover anything that the GBI, or our own internal investigations missed, your questions, your second guessing, your poking around and your accusations of...whatever you are accusing, are simply distracting. So please, leave me alone to work."

Mike realized that with the doctor in this obstinate frame of mind he would make little progress.

"Dr. Williams," Mike said, "I'm not making any accusations, simply trying to conduct an audit. I think it would be better if we talked when you have more time."

Mike stormed out of the therapy room and asked Jane to call an escort for him. He wasn't proud of losing his temper, but found Dr. Williams to be quite an infuriating man.

* * * *

Back in his office in building four, Mike walked along the corridor to use the phone. He dialed his office in Dawsonville and asked for his boss, Ron Katz.

"Mike. How's it going down there?"

"Not great, Ron. I'm really not getting much cooperation from the staff here."

"Well," Ron said, "I guess we should have expected that. They have been used to doing things their own way and probably resent a stranger coming in and asking questions. Remember, Farfield doesn't want any more bad press."

"Yes, I understand, but it seems there are a few suspicious things going on here."

"Well, look," said Ron, "don't tell me on the phone. You need to put all this in writing and send it up to me. Remember – we have to cross the i's and dot the t's on this one."

Mike was about to protest but Ron cut him off.

"You need to put it in in a written report." Ron spoke slowly and deliberately. Mike wondered if even his own office wasn't interested in the investigation.

* * * *

Chapter 7

John had no idea what was going on. His life had, quite without warning, gone from a novelist working on a book about a mental hospital, to someone whose life now included the murder of a colleague and an instruction to break into a house before the killers got there. It was as if he had just stepped over a cliff, and everything he believed had been safe and reasonable was now gone. He was in mental free-fall, scrambling to find the firm footing he had once known. What had happened? Why had Colin been shot? Who shot him?

Holding fast to Brim's instructions, he pressed the gas pedal to the floor and burned through a yellow light.

Brim lived in Inman Park, not far from Little-Five-Points. And John couldn't be more than two miles away. He drove through the less crowded residential neighborhoods, and when he arrived on Brim's street he made a slow pass in front of the house. It looked quiet. He circled round the block and found a parking spot in view of the back of the house. He walked along the path casually, so as not to attract the attention of nosy neighbors, and lifted the latch on the back gate. He walked up the path and the two concrete steps leading to the back door. Brim had fitted a combination lock, and John was a frequent enough visitor that he knew he code by heart. He entered the four digits and let himself in, canceling the alarm on his way.

Once inside the seriousness of the situation hit him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to try and focus. What if the killers were already in the house? No, that's not possible – not enough time, they would have to trace Colin first. John made his way through the mud room and the kitchen and started up the stairs, quietly tip-toeing on the polished wood. Why was he sneaking around – he was alone in the house – or was he? He told himself to snap out of it. When he arrived the alarm was still armed. If anyone else was here, it would be tripped, wouldn't it?

At the top of the stairs, a vision burst into his head. A vision of Danny Blade, his old literary creation, breaking into a criminal's office by defeating the alarm with tin foil from a gum-wrapper. Was that really possible? He took another deep breath and choked down his fear.

The upstairs corridor was in front of him now, stretching to Brim's bedroom at the end of the hall. Brim's office was next to the bedroom, through the door on the right. But wait, what was that noise? Was that someone moving around in Brim's office, how did they get here so quickly? John took a quiet, careful slow step sideways into the open doorway of a bathroom, and tried not to breath. He strained to hear any sound over the noise of his own heartbeat, echoing on the white bathroom tile. Nothing. Had they also heard him, and were crouched in similar stillness, listening to something they couldn't hear? Or could they? Now he had no escape – he was in a bathroom with one door. How stupid. If they heard him now, he was trapped.

There it was again. What was that sound? Not a person. Too rhythmic. Too metallic. He moved forward slowly, and peered around the corner of the office door. The office was empty, the only movement being the gentle click of the blinds as they swayed under direction from the ceiling fan.

John scanned the office, a spacious picture window overlooked the street. Last year Brim had coated the exterior with tinted reflective film, something to do with the bright summer sunlight interfering with Brim's hangovers.

But what if they used the back door after he had, and the alarm was already turned off – he wouldn't hear them. They could be in the house right now.

Guns, thought John, and he opened the drawer of Brim's desk, knowing what he would find. He took the pearl-handled forty-five and stuck in in his belt. It was heavy. John wasn't sure whether having the nickle plated cannon in his belt made him feel safer or more afraid. The sense of security the weapon brought was counter-balanced with the sense of seriousness it gave to the situation.

Another noise – just the air conditioner starting up. John derived some comfort from the fact that while he was expecting them, they probably wouldn't be expecting him. So if anything happened, he had the element of surprise. It wasn't much, but it was something.

He looked nervously around the office again. Stop. he told himself. Focus. Breathe. The file. The Farfield file.

There were a stack of papers on Brim's desk. John anxiously sorted through them, although he hadn't realized it, he must have been keeping one eye on the front window, because he stopped and froze when he saw the white Lexus pull up and park across from the house. Two men got out and crossed the street to Brim's front gate. Both men were big, one wore a baseball cap and had a close cropped mustache and beard, the other had a shaved head and even from across the street John could make out the spiderweb tattoo on his neck. Even though John was untrained at this type of thing, in an instant he knew these men were the ones that killed Colin. They were just wrong, out of place, too confident, too alert. He was afraid that if he moved, they would notice him. It took all his ability to overcome the fear and convince himself that the reflective film would render him invisible. Then John heard a knock on the door.

In a panic now, John urgently rummaged through the the desk, but could find nothing that looked like the Farfield papers. Where had Brim put it? He said it was on his desk.

There was another brisk rap on the front door as muffled conversation drifted up from the porch. Were they looking for Brim? Would they think he was Brim and kill him the way they killed Colin?

John ran his hands through his hair and looked around the office. Was he so panicked that he was looking but not seeing. Now he could hear a noise at the front door, like keys in a lock, but somehow more scratchy.

John was frantic now. Being caught here would be a worst case scenario. Standing behind the desk he pulled the gun out of his waistband and looked down at it. Could he kill someone if he had to? Almost subconsciously he glanced under the desk, and then he saw the stack of files. On top was a manila folder, the word on the front in black sharpie was "Farfield."

John stuffed the file into his belt and ran, as quietly as he could, toward the the stairs. Five feet from the top step he heard the door open. If he took one more step he would be in their sight line. Having no choice, he turned and as lightly as he could retreated back down the bedroom hallway. He could hear activity on the stairs now, voices saying something about "...no alarm..." and, was that "...no one's home" or "...someone's home?"

He couldn't go back in the office, that's exactly where the men would be heading, so John kept moving toward the bedroom. He had to get there before the men reached the top of the stairs. As he rounded the open bedroom door and stood behind it, trying to feel invisible, wishing he could be. He could hear footsteps in the hallway getting louder. But what if they came in – they would certainly be searching the whole house. The ivory handle of the Colt, felt sticky and moist in John's hand. A lengthening shadow began to loom in the doorway – someone was coming into the bedroom. He glanced briefly at the gun, and another wave of fear washed over him as he wondered if the gun was even loaded? It had a clip in it but would Brim keep a loaded gun in his desk? And if he did would the safety be on? While John fixed his stare on the back of the open door, he rubbed his thumb over the side of the gun. The safety was on, that meant it was probably loaded, but the click of a safety being released would sound deafening in the bedroom.

The shadow grew longer, creeping horizontally over the bedroom carpet. John raised the gun and pointed it at the back of the door. His own heartbeat was deafening.

John could just make out something past the edge of the door, gradually coming into the room, something small, angular and lifeless. A gun barrel.

"See anything?" the voice was distant, downstairs, possibly in the kitchen.

Then a voice so close, so loud, that John felt it.

"There's an office up here."

The gun barrel retreated, and John heard its owner walk next door to the office. Then steps, taking the stairs, two at a time, fast paced walk along the corridor to join the other man in the office.

"What are we looking for?" one of the men said.

"Anything," answered the other and then added, "Anything that mentions Hobson."

John had no idea who Hobson was, and wasn't in a position the worry about it. The men had guns. They had shot someone. They could pick locks. They were professionals. If they didn't find what they were looking for they would systematically search the rest of the house, and find him.

John needed to get out of the house fast. The longer he waited, the greater the chance that he would be discovered. But the only way out was to walk along the corridor past the open door of the office where the two men were. He again considered using the gun. He felt he could sneak next door and, with the element of surprise, he had a pretty good chance of shooting both men, but even as he thought it, he knew he would never do it. These men were professionals, faster reflexes, better shots and no conscience to hinder them. Even with John's element of surprise they would still probably kill him.

Slowly, with all the courage he could summon, John moved. He slowly leaned forward to look around the edge of the open bedroom door. The corridor was empty, gentle commotion coming from inside the office. The rustle of papers, drawers being emptied, books being pulled from bookshelves. For a moment John wondered if he could quietly exit without them noticing, but that was too risky, the chance of discovery was too great. They would soon give up on the office and expand their search – probably beginning with the bedroom. Could he jump from the bedroom window? No, opening it would be noisy enough to alert the men to his presence in the house.

He stepped carefully, gun in hand, silent footsteps on the heavy padded bedroom carpet, but now he was in the doorway, in full view if one of the men happened to stick his head out of the office. He kept moving, and as soon as he was passed the doorway he flattened himself against the wall again.

"I don't think there is anything here." It was the voice of the man John had identified as the leader.

"There has to be something," answered the other man.

John's shaky fingers reached out to a spot just above the light switch.

"Let's check the rest of the house, you go downstairs, I'll check the bedrooms up here."

With trembling fingers, John pressed the emergency fire alarm button on Brim's bedroom panel, and somewhere outside the electronic warble of a siren burst into life.

"Shit," he heard one of the men say, "this guy's got a secondary alarm, you probably tripped it."

"Me? It was most likely you," came the indignant reply.

"You were the one that went into the bedroom – there was probably a motion detector in there, you dick."

John was amazed. Any normal person, like him, would be running for the door now, but these men were quite calm. They were complaining and blaming each other as they casually walked down the corridor toward the stairs. Then John realized that these men would probably know that they had several minutes before the police would arrive. Professionals.

John walked to the bedroom window, and hidden by the curtains, he peered down onto the street. He heard the front door close and saw the two men cross the street to the white Lexus, pausing for a final verbal interchange across the roof of the car before they climbed in.

John fumbled for his phone, and took several pictures. He wasn't fast enough to get good pictures of the men, but he did get some shots of the car as it drove away. John went back to the office. It was a mess. Papers everywhere, a chair overturned, desk drawers removed and emptied. John rushed over to the closet, its contents ransacked. Under a pile of the debris that had been stored there, John grabbed an aluminum briefcase and dragged it out before running back down the stairs and out the back door.

On the short walk back to his car, John felt the air had never smelled sweeter, nor the warm breeze so fresh, or colors so vibrant.

Starting his car, he checked the rear view mirror, patiently waiting for a gap in the constant stream of traffic.

The third or fourth car to pass him was a white Lexus.

As the car went past him, John could see the two men. What were they still doing here? He watched as the car turned the corner to cruise past the front of the house again. The alarm had stopped now. Although he couldn't see the front of the house, the crowds that gathered at the corner told him that something was happening. He knew he could melt into the crowd and observe the situation with minimal risk of discovery.

The crowd of ten or fifteen people had assembled at the corner to watch the firefighters walk round the property. It didn't take them long to determine it was a false alarm. Many of the onlookers were holding up their cell phones up to capture the drama. John blended in perfectly when he did the same.

The fire engine left in anti-climactic silence and the crowd dispersed. But the Lexus didn't move. John went back to his car and waited. He was glad of his car's tinted windows as they prevented any clear view into the car, but they didn't obstruct his view of the Lexus. The two men remained inside and showed little interest in moving. What were they doing? Waiting for re-reinforcements? John chuckled to himself. They were waiting for Brim to return? This was the most probable explanation. He called Brim. There was no answer so he left a message telling his friend not to return home because the "killers" are watching his house. The more he thought about it the more he realized that Brim wouldn't be back anyway, that's why he had told John to get the file.

John decided he had done all he could here, he had, after all, retrieved the Farfield documents, and obtained photos of the killers, and their car, including the license plate. It was time to leave. John reached for the car's ignition key, but just as he was about to turn it, the driver's door of the Lexus opened.

The two men got out of the car and walked back across the road toward Brim's house. John was amazed that these men were completely un-phased that they had broken into a house, ransacked it, and been chased away by firefighters. They were actually going back in. John decided there was nothing he could do and reached for the car-keys a second time when he realized that this might represent an opportunity. He reached over and opened the aluminum briefcase that he had thrown on the passenger seat, after taking it from Brim's house.

Inside was a collection of what Brim called his "toys."

The case contained a collection of surveillance equipment. Microphones and recording gear, cameras, a night vision scope, bugs, bug detectors, wires, cables, black boxes. John had a passing familiarity with most of the gadgets in the case from his Danny Blade research, but there were some things that he couldn't identify. He sorted through the case and found what he was looking for.

John walked back toward the corner where the Lexus was parked. He was fairly certain that the car was parked too far from the house to be observed, and as he crossed the road and approached the car he was certain. The front of the house was over a hundred yards from the car. There was no way he could be seen. Approaching the passenger side of the vehicle, he dropped to one knee, and removed a small circular disk from his pocket. Reaching up inside the wheel-well he placed the disk against the bodywork, it adhered to the metal with a strong magnet. John walked back to his car. The tracking device was in place.

* * * *

Chapter 8

The next morning, at breakfast in the Administration building, Mike saw Peter Gregson and Jim Blake sitting together. When they saw him they beckoned him over to join them.

Peter Gregson was his usual talkative self, bubbling over with enthusiasm, Jim Blake periodically interrupting his consumption of a short-stack and coffee to nod in agreement. It wasn't long before Dr. Gregson turned to Mike.

"So how is your audit going?"

"Not as well as I had hoped." Mike confessed.

"Sorry to hear that, how can I help?"

Mike explained about the missing files, and the lack of interest from the staff. He also mentioned his run-in with Dr. Williams, but knowing that Williams was close to Gregson, he downplayed the events of the dispute.

Gregson played with his eggs while he thought.

"Mike," he began. "Everyone here is very busy, and on top of that you are someone they don't know, who is investigating what they do. Three months ago we had the GBI all over us, and everyone is a little gun-shy, if you know what I mean. I know all the staff – they're good people, I'm sure they don't mean to be unhelpful. Maybe you should just try to tread a little more lightly."

"And the missing files?"

"Files move around all the time as our doctors need access to them, but they should all end up in the Records office. Check with Martha Hill. She's over in Therapy."

It was clear that Gregson didn't want to hear bad news that might overshadow his ambitious dreams for the hospital, so Mike contented himself with listening to snippets of hospital gossip and discussing insignificant pieces of local news. As everyone finished eating and got up to leave, Barry Spires came over and joined them. Mike took the opportunity to ask the security chief if it was really necessary for him to have an escort wherever he went.

"Not really," answered Barry. "Lot's of people don't feel comfortable walking around alone, but if you're OK with that, by all means explore on your own. But you might want to ask for a guard if you plan on going into any secure areas."

"Thanks," Mike said. "I will."

Then, Mike remembered his written report to Ron in Satellite 19 and removed the envelope from his inside pocket.

"Where can I mail this?" he asked.

"You'll need to put it in the outgoing mail tray in reception, here. I'll show you." Barry said, pointing toward the canteen door that led out to the reception area. "The mail is picked up every morning by one of the staff on the night shift. She drops it at the post office, so make sure you put it there the night before." They all walked out to the reception area, and Mike threw his letter in the tray for pickup the following day.

The front door opened and a courier walked in with a purposeful stride. He carried a a clip board and a small parcel about the size of a shoe box. He placed the package on the reception desk.

"Delivery for Dr. Jake Williams," he said.

The receptionist accepted the clipboard and signed for the package. Jim Blake leaned over to read the address on the package.

Mike realized that he still had to meet with Martha Hill and asked Jim Blake if she was working today.

"Yes." replied Blake, "she should be in her office, did you want to get the rest of those files?"

Mike nodded.

"I'll walk over with you, I need my morning exercise walk, and I can deliver this package to Dr. Williams."

Mike said he'd welcome the company, and the two men set off.

"What's in the package? asked Mike.

Blake held the box up and read the label aloud. "It's a Type 3, Audio Sine-wave Signal Generator, whatever that means."

"No doubt something for his headphone healing method," Mike said.

"It probably is." Jim Blake chuckled. "That man has more electronic gadgets than Georgia Tech."

"Do you think any of them work?" Mike asked.

"Who knows?" replied Blake. "He believes it, and he's got Gregson convinced of it as well."

Once inside the Therapy building Jim Blake gave the package to Jane, explaining it was for Dr. Williams, and Mike went up the stairs to Martha Hill's office. The door was open, and Martha was leaning over her desk working intently.

"Mrs. Hill?" asked Mike.

"Yes?" she answered.

"My name is Mike Ratner. I've been sent – "

"Yes, I know who you are." Martha Hill stood up to shake Mike's hand. "Please, have a seat."

Martha was younger than he expected, perhaps thirty or so, ten years his junior. She was neatly dressed in a blue suit, sporting brass buttons and heavily padded shoulders. Her shoulder length hair was neat, and seemed to reflect Martha's meticulous habits, that were evidenced by the tidiness of her office. Her files would be in alphabetical order, not randomly stacked in piles.

"Martha," began Mike, "I came to see you yesterday, but sadly you were out."

"Yes," she explained, "I had to take my daughter, Janet, to the dentist. Children can quite dominate your life."

"Yes," agreed Mike, not really knowing if it were true. "Anyway, I'm here to perform a procedural audit – "

" – Because we have been having so many problems," she completed his sentence. "You've been sent from Satellite Office 19, because someone wants an internal endorsement that we are doing everything properly."

Mike had considered that he was on a genuine fact-finding mission, but Martha Hill's statement, if true, explained a lot. It explained everyone's reluctance to take his visit seriously. Even his boss, Ron, who had been uninterested in discussing specific details of his findings. It explained the incomplete and disordered case files, and him being placed in building four, away from the administration, with no phone. Just "dot the t's and cross the i's" was what Ron had said, making it sound like his visit was just a formality.

Of course that didn't mean that something fishy wasn't going on.

"Maybe," Mike said, "but that doesn't mean that something fishy isn't going on."

Martha paused longer than she should have – she knew something. Mike sensed it. "And before that, before Farfield, Mrs. Hill, did you have experience working in a records office."

"Yes, and please call me Martha. I ran the distribution office for 'Pharmacon,' it's in Duluth. We were a shipping facility for pharmaceuticals from various drug manufacturers to doctors and hospitals nationwide. Accurate record keeping is essential."

"I see," Mike answered, and then he asked about the missing files.

"Jim Blake had asked me to add all of Mr. Spires security reports to the patient files. That was completed."

"But I didn't receive them."

Martha looked surprised. She walked over to a storage area adjoining her office, and let loose a sigh of desperation. "After I finished adding the reports Jim was supposed to collect these and take them to your office. I'm so sorry – but you should probably blame him." Martha handed Mike a stack of file folders.

"Well, that solves a mystery." Mike thanked her. "And thanks for at least recognizing the increase in problems recently, it's refreshing to find someone who will acknowledge that."

There was that pause again, and a smile, a smile that seemed a little too nervous.

"It's just an observation," she said. "I have been here two years, and there has been an increase in complaint cases. I'm probably overly aware of it because I process all those records."

Mike nodded. "So if I have any more questions?" he patted the stack of files.

"Just stop by." she said.

* * * *

Mike stepped out into the cold again. This was the first time he had been on the grounds without an escort. He could see several patients, most of them alone, as they shuffled along with head hanging forward or held imaginary conversations with their memories. He felt strangely uneasy and anxious to avoid an encounter with any of the hospital's residents. Despite repeated reassurances that anyone he might encounter would be harmless, he was still a little nervous. Being near these unfortunate people was truly a disconcerting experience, for these were the damaged goods of the human production line, the sad individuals with a psyche so broken that an essence of unpredictability enveloped them like an inflammatory cloud. But Mike reasoned they wouldn't be roaming around if they were dangerous.

He walked on briskly, partly to avoid spending too much time in the cold, but mostly to reach what he felt was the safety of his office. A place away from the reminder of what he might have become.

"Hi, I'm Norman. Are you a doctor?"

Mike turned to see the blond headed boy that had accosted him and Charlie on the road the day before. He was looking down at the ground and speaking softly.

"Err...No," Mike managed, uncomfortable about meeting the boy's withdrawn shyness – what disturbance below caused him to be here?

"Are you new here then? They gave me the mix up stuff." Norman spoke slowly, as if retrieving each word in his sentence from a private internal dictionary. Mike wondered if he would understand the definitions if he were to read it.

"No," Mike said, "I'm just visiting."

"Yeah, me too, but the songs of the devil will make you stay."

"Oh, is that right?" said Mike, struggling to maintain the dialogue – if that's what it was.

"I better go now, before the stick man comes," Norman said, and angled his pace away from Mike.

Mike quickened his step and was relieved to reach his office, where he threw the new files that Martha Hill had given him onto the desk. He slumped into the chair. The strange encounter with Norman ran through his head. "They gave me the mix up stuff.... The songs of the devil will make you stay...Before the stick man comes." It made no sense, and Mike felt a deep pity for the confused youth, lost in the random imagery of his own universe.

After a few minutes he leaned forward and opened the first of the files: Willie Madigan. He decided that everything might make more sense if he he put the files in the order that each death occurred, so he re-ordered them from James Agra to Lenny Lorano.

James Agra, twenty-three years old. Wandering around the hospital grounds, like so many of the patients do, and drowned in the retaining pond, accidental death.

Dorothy Mansfield, thirty-nine years old, died of a heart attack. Mike thought it was maybe a little young for a heart attack but still it was ruled "natural causes."

Daniel Hempel, twenty-five years old. The death that started the GBI investigation when Daniel's brother, Brian raised complaints. He committed suicide with a kitchen knife. The report did not explained how he got hold of the knife.

Ron Marriot, only sixteen years old. Died after failing to take essential medications. A nurse was fired for failing to provide adequate supervision.

Pam Harrison, fourty-four, female, sliced her wrists on the barbed wire of the security fence during an escape attempt. Mike wasn't sure that suicide was the appropriate cause of death, but he reasoned that if it was his job to make the call, he really wouldn't know what else to call it.

Willy Madigan, aged fifty-one died of complications relating to a prolonged illness. Illness not specified. Natural causes.

Frank Hilbert, thirty. Fell from stairwell. Accidental death. An orderly was fired for negligence.

Lenny Lorano. Forty-five. Missing at bed check, wandered off into the woods and froze to death. Accidental death.

In summary he had eight people. Five males and three females. Aged sixteen to fifty-one. Two suicides, three accidental deaths, three of natural causes. Three from Building 2, three from Building 3, two from Building 4. Five of the bodies found inside, the rest outside – two in the woods and one in the pond. They happened at different times, on different shifts, under different supervision. In short, there was no pattern that Mike could find, and nothing that linked the victims.

Eight people, who had died in such a short span of time, it defied the odds. How could this have happened?

Mike walked along the corridor to the coffee machine and helped himself. As he passed Barry's office he noticed the security chief in his chair, with his feet up on the desk, reading a report.

"Hey, Barry."

"Hey. What's up?"

"I was just going through these files. It's tough work."

"That's because you're looking for something that isn't there," answered Barry.

"I'm starting to think you're right about that, but it might help if I could get a copy of the GBI report. Do you know where it is?"

"I haven't seen it. Gregson may have a copy, but if not, I have the investigator's number somewhere. You should call him, I think his name was Steadman." Barry put his feet down and began shuffling through the papers on his desk, without success. "I have it here somewhere, I'll find and bring it over."

"Thanks," said Mike.

Back in his office Mike tried again to make sense of the deaths. Perhaps it was exactly as everyone seemed to think, that when the hospital transitioned from lock-down to a more free and unsupervised approach, more accidents and patient conflict occurred, and the minimal staff became stretched too thin to provide the necessary oversight.

But along with greater freedom for patients would come a greater ease of opportunity for anyone wishing to do harm.

Mike also thought about how the staff at Farfield was crying poverty, about having no money, insufficient staff, and dwindling resources, but somehow they managed to construct an elaborate new perimeter fence.

Mike couldn't escape the feeling that something was very wrong at Farfield.

Jim Blake had said, "In the real world people have accidents every day and no one thinks it's suspicious." But the events here were a statistical anomaly that, in Mike's mind, couldn't be explained. And, if it wasn't just every day, business-as-usual, then someone was behind it. Someone was killing these patients, and everyone else didn't seem very concerned. But who had the motive? Who had the opportunity? Mike liked Barry, but Barry had not volunteered much information to help with the investigation. And now, after much delay, the security chief had been only marginally helpful with the GBI investigation data. Barry was certainly uncooperative. But that didn't necessarily make him a murderer.

Martha Hill, the records lady, was definitely hiding something, but he had no idea what. Len Smith seemed bitter and resentful toward both Gregson and Williams. But was he a killer?

Gregson was a man with a mission who would do anything to realize his goal, and possibly he had a drug problem. Williams was abrasive and objectionable, but could they murder multiple people?

That left only the guards, or if not them, then the patients were killing each other, and neither of those explanations made sense either.

Mike realized that he still needed more data, not on the deceased, but on the living. Somewhere in the personnel records of the hospital there may be a clue to an employee that would shed light on this mystery.

Putting on his coat he picked up a legal pad on which he had been making notes, left his office and walked downstairs – he could make it to the therapy building in five or six minutes. Mike almost expected Norman to be waiting for him, to shadow him, stumbling after him and mumbling about the "songs of the devil," and the "stick man," again, but fortunately he was nowhere to be seen. Mike was having difficulty tearing his mind away from the mystery of the multiple deaths, but as he walked in the cold winter air, his head began to clear. It was as if he could step back and see the big picture now. Perhaps this was nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps the suspicion he felt toward everyone's reluctance to co-operate was simply because they were protecting the establishment, or their jobs, or their dream of better health care, or their sound therapy program. What if this was just blip. A spike of unlikely events without reason or meaning. But if that were the case, had the deaths stopped? Or would there be more?

As Mike entered the door of the therapy building. Charlie came into the lobby from Dr Williams' lab, he was breathless and agitated.

"Hi, Charlie." said Mike.

"Mr. Ratner, I was just coming to find you. There's been another death."

* * * *

Chapter 9

John had a troubled night. He had been tormented by dreams of strangers, vicious and hostile, creeping through his house, invading his half conscious state of sweat soaked restlessness and tangled sheets. It was early and the sun was barely visible through the dense trees behind John's house.

A shower, longer than usual failed to wash away the foggy feeling from lack of sleep, and still left him with the strange sense of altered reality. John managed only a light breakfast and coffee before he began to restlessly pace through the house. He needed to write, to immerse himself in a story, but there was no escape from this one.

He crafted another quick chapter of his novel, weaving the story of Mike Ratner, into a troubled and desperate man, trapped in the mysterious web of events at Farfield, and unable to make sense of them – a nervous and unbalanced existence that now strangely paralleled his own life. If events did get out of hand, this story would be a testament to the injustice that occurred in the once horrific place that now crumbled beneath overgrown weeds and brush in Creekside Park. A story where the names would not be changed to protect the guilty, but their terrible deeds would, at last, become known.

Around noon he got the call he had been waiting for.

"Hello?"

"Meet me at the rooftop." The call went dead. John recognized Brim's voice immediately, and just as quickly realized the reference to the unspoken location.

* * * *

It was an easy drive south into the city. John exited the freeway at North Avenue and then made a right onto Techwood Drive. To the south was a collection of trendy and expensive housing for Georgia Tech students that a few years earlier had been Techwood homes, the first public housing project in the country, and an area that had quickly become the blight of urban Atlanta. A poverty stricken, crime filled area that the city fathers had demolished just ahead of the Olympic games in 1996.

John drove onto the Georgia Tech campus, passing the Yellow Jackets stadium and rows of fraternity houses, finding parking close to the Clough Undergraduate Learning Commons. He crossed the street and entered the building, catching the elevator up to the second floor Starbucks, where he purchased a five-dollar coffee in a paper cup. Then back into the elevator to level five.

From the fifth floor roof garden of the Clough building, the skyscrapers of Atlanta's commercial development dominated the skyline. John always loved this view and took a moment to drink it in, it tasted a lot better than the five-dollar coffee. He walked through the lush foliage and shrubbery sprouting from concrete planters, and followed a flag-stone path until he spotted Brim, sitting at a table next to the wire-strung railing.

"You OK?" Brim's voice sounded unusually hollow, devoid of his usual jovial delivery. He was clearly concerned. Rightfully so.

"Yeah," answered John, but he really wasn't. One of Brim's researchers had been shot and, had the life's odds broken differently, he might also be dead.

"I've been trying to call you," John said, "Your phone just rings."

Brim scribbled something on a legal pad, and tore a few inches from the bottom of the yellow lined paper, pushing it across the table to John. "Use that number, and only that number to call me, and get yourself a pay-as-you-go phone to call me. Don't answer your other one if you don't recognize the number."

John folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

"You think this is really that serious?" John asked.

"Yes. I do."

"Why Colin?"

"Farfield," Brim replied. "He was asking questions and someone got nervous."

"But how can you be sure it was about Farfield?"

"That's all Colin was working on, and his killers showing up at my house confirms it."

"Who do you suppose Colin asked about that set all this in motion?"

"Who knows. All his case notes were on his laptop – which is now in the hands of his killers."

"They took his laptop? Why?"

"To find out who he was working for," Brim said.

"What happened?"

"As you know I had arranged to meet you and Colin at Jimmy's."

"Yes."

"I arrived a little early. Colin's car was already there, and I thought I would just check my messages before I went in. I had missed a text from Colin that said he thought he was being followed. When I looked up from my phone, two guys were breaking into Colin's car."

"Both well built – one with a baseball cap and beard, the other bald, spiderweb tattoo?" John tapped his neck to indicate the location of the ink.

"You saw them?"

"They came to your house while I was there."

Brim looked puzzled. "How did they get there so quickly?" He paused. "Anyway, they broke the passenger window of his car and grabbed his laptop."

"Instinctively, I thought I would go over there and yell and they would run off, but just as I reached to open my door, Colin walked around the corner – I'm thinking he had second thoughts about leaving the laptop in the car and went back to get it. He was on his phone, texting or something, so they saw him before he saw them. That's when one of them pulled out a gun and shot him, twice. They didn't hesitate. Then they just calmly walked away. I rushed over to help Colin."

"Did they see you?" John asked.

"Yes. They looked back and got a good view of me. I'm sure they didn't know Colin was working for me, but they saw me pretty good."

Brim looked to his left, twisting his head around to look over Tech Green, where five floors below, two students played Frisbee and another small group sprawled on blankets to study outdoors. John sensed that Brim was taking Colin's death harder than he let on.

John was going to say something to console his friend, but Brim spoke first, an outburst of emotion that startled John. "Stupid kid," he said. "I told him if he left his laptop in a parked car he was asking to get robbed. And that god-damn cell phone – if he hadn't had his nose stuck in it, he might be alive now!" There was a long pause.

"That's how they found me so quickly," Brim said.

"How?"

"The phone. After they shot Colin they took his phone and his wallet. He was using his phone, which meant it was unlocked, which meant they probably read his text to me about being followed, and then they looked me up in his contacts. So they got my name, phone number, perhaps my picture, and apparently my address – because that's the first place they headed. I knew they would find me fairly easily. I just didn't expect it to be that quick."

They sat in silence for a few moments.

"Did you get the file from my house?" asked Brim.

"Yes, after being nearly killed." John related his side of the story, including his narrow escape from the house, and his retrieval of the Farfield file, the 'toy' box and Brim's gun. He also told Brim about the tracking device and showed him the photographs of the car and its license plate.

"Wow," Brim seemed genuinely impressed. "So these guys were definitely professionals. To the cops it's going to look like just one more robbery that went wrong."

Brim reached down to his ankle and palmed a .380 Walther pistol. He gave it to John.

"Here, let me trade you for my Colt." They switched guns, John passing the big .45 under the table. In Florida John had owned a .38 Smith and Wesson that had gathered dust in his nightstand draw. Holding the black steel of the Walther now, his hand began to sweat. He stuck it in his waistband.

"Put it in your pocket." Brim said. "You'll lose it like that."

"What are you going to do now?" John asked.

"Dedicate my life to finding Colin's killers. We have to find out who these guys are. We have pictures and the details of their car. And the other good news is that you got the file from my house, which is most likely the only evidence connecting you to this nightmare, so you should be safe, at least for now."

"What do you mean, 'for now.'" John didn't feel very happy with this last bit.

"Well, we don't know what was on the laptop – there may be something that implicates you."

John leaned forward and cupped his face in his hands. He had considered walking away from this whole situation while he still could, but it now looked as if the Colin's stolen laptop might make that impossible. John felt anger welling up inside him.

Brim craned his neck to look over the low wire fence. It wasn't until then that John realized why Brim chose this location. He was up high, he saw John arrive and could make sure he wasn't followed, and looking down he could see everyone who entered or left the building.

"Hold on." John said, "How do we know the laptop really matters? This might not be about Farfield. What if it is just a robbery?"

"It's not just a robbery," said Brim. "You know that. You know something is rotten with Farfield, Colin starts sniffing around, he thinks he's being followed, and then this happens. These guys weren't vagrants or junkies. Their look, the way they reacted, their weapons, the precision of their shots, the way they stayed cool. This was a professional job."

"Ordered by who?"

"That's an unknown, we don't know everyone that Colin talked to, but someone got very concerned about it. He touched a nerve."

"So the bad guys, whoever they are, just look at his stolen laptop and they know all about us, and everything we're doing." John's nervousness was growing.

"No. Not so easy," said Brim. "Colin kept all the case relevant data on a Google drive account that I have access to. I already downloaded it and deleted it from the cloud. All we have to worry about is any copy he kept on a local drive or any notes or e-mails that might still be on the machine."

"OK," John said, impatiently. "That's still a problem for us."

"Yes, but not an immediate one. Colin kept all his data encrypted. Trust me the NSA would have trouble getting into it. The bad guys will be able to crack it, but it'll take them some time."

"Do you think they are looking for us?" John asked.

"Yes," said Brim, "that's why we're changing our phones, and I'm growing a beard. From visiting my house they have surely figured out I am a private eye, which means I'm working for someone – err...that would be you. They'll will coming, we just have to stay ahead of them."

"Can we do that?"

"They don't know we're on to them, that gives us some advantage."

"But you said it yourself \- these guys are professionals – look how easily they found Colin. How could they do that?"

"Easy," said Brim, "you come to my door asking awkward questions, I say 'sorry, Brim's not here, you can find him at the Starbucks on First and Main.' You drive off in your blue Toyota. I immediately call my friend, Mr. Killer, and say, 'Go follow the blue Toyota, it's parked at first and Main.' Job done."

"Why don't we just go to the cops?" asked John.

"Oh, they already called me. Want to talk to me," Brim said.

"How are they on to you so fast?"

"I called in the hit on Colin, they have my name. A detective Richardson called me about half an hour ago, he knows the fire fighters were called to my house for a non fire. He's trying to connect the two events."

"What are you going to tell him?"

"Nothing. If what we are into is thirty years old, then the bad guys have some help on the inside. As soon as we are on the radar of APD, we're on the radar of the bad guys. I just want to keep a low profile for now."

"So, what now?" John had no idea how to proceed.

"Now," he replied, "I'm going to find out everything I can about the owners of a white Lexus. Then I'm going to download the data from the tracking device that you planted, and see where they've been going."

"What can I do?" asked John.

"You can go and find Colin's laptop."

"How the hell am I going to do that?"

"I don't know. But If I were you I would start by going to see..." Brim lifted a couple of sheets of the yellow legal pad and peered at his notes, "...Shyam Badami and Ramanan Patel."

"And, where would I find them?"

"About three hundred yards over there." said Brim, pointing over the roof of a two story structure to the modern, sweeping glass front of the Georgia Tech Advanced Computing Building.

* * * *

Chapter 10

Mike was stunned.

"Another death?" he said, as much to himself as to Charlie.

"Yes sir. Follow me."

Jane buzzed them in and the two men walked into Dr. Williams' empty therapy room.

"Where is it?" Mike asked.

"This way, Mr. Ratner."

The big guard led Mike over to the door in the wall from where Mike had seen Ronnie emerge the day before, bound and furious. Charlie pressed a code into the keypad on the wall and they descended a stairwell down through a one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn that left them in a square concrete room. Mike reasoned they must be below ground. At the base of the stairs there was a table with two metal chairs, a radio, a newspaper and two coffee cups. A space heater radiated warmth creating a pocket of comfort in the chill of the basement. Mike threw his clipboard onto the table to remove his coat, which he casually threw over the back of one of the chairs.

There were only two doors, one was labeled "MORGUE." They walked over to the other one, which was covered with the red warning signs. The guard pressed the keypad and the familiar door-lock-buzz ushered them in to a world that Mike never knew existed.

A corridor, perhaps four feet wide ran between a row of doors on either side, strong doors, metal with a small barred window in each. Mike grappled realized there were some dangerous patients at Farfield, but this more closely resembled a maximum security prison than a hospital.

The stench of human waste hung in the cold air and, from some of the rooms, Mike could hear noises – groans and mumbling, fragments of incoherent conversations. Mike tried hard not to look through the barred windows, tried not to look into a world he would have rather believed did not exist. So he walked forward staring straight ahead at the back of Charlie's blue security jacket, until a sudden noise made him instinctively glance to the right. A man's face was pressed to the iron bars. He had several missing teeth, and his head, twisted strangely to one side, showed some kind of jawline deformity. He had an expression awash with pain and anguish and a captive state of hopelessness.

"What is this place?" Mike felt hollow inside.

"This is the very worst side of Farfield." said Charlie, "the side the public usually doesn't see."

Mike knew that there must be areas of the hospital for the more disturbed patients, but this place was like something out of a medieval horror film.

"Be careful as you go by number three here on the left, he likes to try and grab."

Mike did as instructed, and stayed to the right, passing a cell where a man, in almost total darkness, lay curled up on his bunk – moaning and rocking back and forth, his arms wrapped around his head.

The fourth door on the right was open, and as they approached, Mike saw another guard inside that he recognized as the other orderly that had delivered Ronnie. Also in the cell were Deputy superintendent Jim Blake and Dr. Williams.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Williams said, without emotion. Mike thought Williams should say something else – he didn't know what, but "good afternoon gentlemen" sounded too polite.

"What happened here?" Mike asked.

"Well, Mr. Ratner, it looks as if you will be able to witness one of your suspicious deaths, close up"

Mike tried again, this time addressing everyone. "What happened?"

"Junior?" It was Blake who prompted the guard to speak up.

"Sir," said the guard called Junior. "I was making my rounds as usual, and when I got here I found him, just like this."

Mike stood in a tight semi-circle with the other four men and looked at the body. The dead man hung limply from a belt that was tied around his neck and strung over a sprinkler pipe. His back was to the group, his limbs dangling lifelessly as he swayed slightly back and forth in the stagnant air.

Williams stepped forward and reaching out and with his thumb and forefinger, he pinched a fold of the patients canvas sleeve and slowly swung him round, the body revolved easily on the belt.

As the face turned, the dead man's eyes stared right through Mike. Williams showed no reaction, his eyes as cold and unfeeling as the lifeless body that hung before them.

The body appeared to be in his late twenties, perhaps younger. Mike felt slightly sick.

"That's Arnie Fisher, isn't it?" Blake said.

"It is," Williams replied, and then turning to Mike he said, as if speaking to a small child, "How do you suppose the murderer got into a locked cell?" A fleeting half smile crossed his face and was gone.

Mike stood in silence as Junior and Charlie righted the chair that lay on its side, then Junior climbed onto it and struggled to untie the belt while Charlie, the larger and stronger guard, lifted the dead man by hugging his legs. It was soon accomplished, the task made easier by Arnie Fisher's slight stature. They lay the man on his bunk and Dr. Williams stepped in to examine the body. Loosening the dead man's collar, he inspected the red welts on his flesh. Next he cupped the motionless head between his two palms, one on each side of the jaw and tested the head's range of motion.

"This man hung himself," Williams said. Then looking at Mike, "Shouldn't you be taking notes or something?" Williams nodded to Junior and the guard silently disappeared.

Mike didn't like Williams flippant attitude toward one of his patient's dying, nor his feeble attempts at humor, but he had recently come to realize that this was the personality of the doctor, eccentric and unfeeling. Mike wondered how Williams ever ended up in this profession.

Junior was now returning pushing a wheeled stretcher bed, and with Charlie's help, the lifeless form of Arnie Fisher was loaded on to it. Then the pale corpse was wheeled back down the corridor and out to the room. They followed with Williams opening the door to the morgue, allowing the silent procession to enter. The doctor followed them in. Mike had intended to join them and gather any additional information that might prove useful, but Williams, while locking Mike's gaze with his own steely stare, slowly closed the door to the morgue.

Mike grabbed his coat and followed Jim Blake back up the stairs. He was shaken by the entire experience. They were back in Williams' therapy room before Mike found words.

"So, what happens now?"

"Dr. Williams will perform an official examination as to the cause of death, write a report and file it with the state. Then either the family will claim the body or he gets a state funeral."

Mike realized that the hospital was completely responsible for dealing with the entire event. From a patient's last breath to his burial. Could this process, that existed without outside supervision, lend itself to corruption? He wanted to make some notes, but realized he had left his clipboard on the table downstairs.

"I forgot my clipboard," Mike said walking over to the door. He tugged on the handle, but found it locked – then he remembered the keypad.

"7713" Blake said, from across the room.

Mike entered the digits and the door buzzed open.

Downstairs, Mike retrieved his clipboard and thought about trying talk to Williams again, but the doctor had sealed himself inside the morgue. Anyway, Mike's original reason for coming to this building was to see Martha, so he went back to Williams' sound lab, excused himself with the deputy-superintendent and went upstairs.

"Hello, again," Mike said.

"Oh, hello." said Martha. She was busy collating papers on her desk.

"Did you hear about what just happened?" asked Mike.

"Yes," Martha said, "Jane just told me. It's very sad."

"It happens a lot around here." Mike said. Martha didn't say anything, but there was that look again. Something she wouldn't say. Secrets.

"Martha," Mike began, "I can't help feeling that you know more about this place that you are letting on."

Martha looked away – out of the window. She was turned away for so long that Mike thought she was ignoring him, waiting for him to leave. Then she got up, walked over to the door and closed it. She sat down again, and leaned forward. The sociable Martha was gone, replaced by a serious and concerned woman.

"Mike," she began, "if I share my concerns with you, you must promise never to name me or involve me in your reports or investigations. I am an unmarried woman, with a small daughter. We're entering a recession. Unemployment is high and on the rise. I need this job."

Mike thought carefully, not wanting to make a promise he couldn't keep, but he genuinely didn't want to see her harmed because of it.

"If you tell me what concerns you, I promise I will not use your name in my reports or any other interviews I conduct here."

She paused and looked out of the window again.

"Have you ever stopped to consider what type of people get a job in a place like this? You know my situation. I'm here out of desperation. But why would a highly qualified doctor want to work here instead of Emory or one of the other great hospitals in town? To work here, in this run down facility, among all the suffering and filth. It's dangerous, soul destroying, and it doesn't pay very well."

"So why do it?"

"If you dig deep enough you will find that many of the people here have a history. They would never get a job elsewhere."

"Like who?"

"Have you noticed anything strange about Superintendent Gregson?"

Mike remembered Len Smith insinuating that Gregson had a cocaine problem. "You mean the rumors about his drug habit?"

She nodded. "And what do you think about Dr. Williams?"

"I think that in one of his textbooks on psychiatry, there is probably a name for what he has," Mike said, only half joking.

"Yes, he is a strange one. Did you know he was the one that pushed for Gregson to hire Barry Spires, the Security Chief."

"I didn't." Mike said, "I assumed Gregson hired Barry."

"No. I saw Barry's file when he was hired. Williams personally vouched for him, and conducted all Barry's background checks himself. Why would a senior physician do that? Especially, a consulting physician who doesn't really work here as an employee? And why would Gregson allow that?"

"What about the other background checks?"

"All done, or not done in some cases, by the Deputy Superintendent, Jim Blake."

"This is the records office. Do you have any of the personnel files?"

"They used to be here, but when Gregson took over he had them all moved to Blake's office."

"So you have seen them?"

"Yes, some of them. Many of the guards were fired from other facilities, hospitals and some prisons. I'm sure some have criminal records."

"What about Williams?" Mike asked.

"I don't know much," Martha replied. "As I said before, he is a consultant. But Jane worked as Blake's secretary for a while, I know she saw his employment record when he was hired. I'll ask her. She loves to gossip. "

"But Gregson puts a lot of trust in Williams."

"Yes. I don't think Williams is a bad person – he is just very focused on his therapy methods, and has that superiority thing, where he talks down at everyone."

"I thought it was just me he did that to."

Martha laughed. It was good to see. She was torn by a sense of duty and justice, but tethered to a environment she disliked by the need to keep her family economically secure.

"Well, I have to visit Williams again. Wish me luck," Mike said.

"Some advice?" She asked.

He nodded.

"Be nice to him. Pander to the greatness of his wonderful intelligence. You'll get a lot more out of him."

Mike thanked her and left.

Downstairs, in the therapy room, Mike found Dr. Williams applying the headphones to another of his dormant subjects.

"Good afternoon, Doctor," began Mike, "I feel I owe you an apology."

"Oh?" said Williams, looking up and raising his eyebrows.

"Yes. Since I arrived here I have been struggling to understand some of the policies and procedures, and have been quite concerned with presenting that information to my superiors in a positive light. I feel I may have let my feelings get the better of me and been unnecessarily abrupt or rude to you, If that is so, then I apologize."

Williams just stared at Mike. He finally sighed and said, "Yes, of course you do. We both have jobs to do Mr. Ratner." Williams was still the only person at the hospital that called him "Mr. Ratner," but at least the arrogant edge was now missing from his tone.

Mike thought that he may as well add another layer of butter to the bread. "It's just that I am very anxious to wrap up this investigation and go home, and I really think that you have so much knowledge that could help me."

"Yes, Mr. Ratner, I understand. Allow me to try and be a little more accommodating. How can I help you?" Mike couldn't believe how easy this was. Williams had been transformed into a normal person.

"I have to file a report on the latest suicide, and I think If I can do that quickly I could be out of here by the end of the week." Mike was getting sick of this place. It played on his nerves and he genuinely hoped the time-frame he had just given Williams was a realistic one.

"OK," said the doctor. "Let's go and see Mr. Fisher." Williams walked over to the wall and punched '7713' into the door lock, the same code Mike had used. He observed how everyone had the same code. This was probably a security flaw, he would put it in his daily report to Satellite 19. That would fill up a half a page or so.

Together they walked down the stairs and through the lobby, where Mike had left his clipboard, and then turned right into the morgue. The room had concrete walls, white-washed and windowless. Double doors at the far end that would be for the loading dock and access ramp for an ambulance. The floor was square red tiles, worn and cracked, that gently sloped to a drain in the floor. A dark hole to flush away sadness and horror. Storage racks and cabinets populated the walls, and adjoining them was a long low workbench cluttered with lab glassware, jars of unknown chemicals, and a microscope. Beside the door, black and ugly, hung the cattle-prod, oozing with its own potential for pain. On the opposite wall, where a door had been left open. Mike could see a toilet and wash room. Mike wondered how many gallons of blood had been scrubbed from Williams' hands and washed away. Further along the wall, at the height of the gurney, were two white square refrigerator doors. Mike knew these were cold storage for unfortunates like Arnie.

A bare, stainless steel, operating table claimed prominence, and beside it, the gurney on which Arnie Fisher lay in terminal stillness. The room was hard edged. Frighteningly clean. Hauntingly quiet. Mike hated it here.

"Here he is," Williams said, walking over to the body. "Want to take a look?"

"It's OK," Mike said, hoping his discomfort didn't show. He felt sure Williams would have loved to see it. Instead of walking toward the body, Mike unconsciously backed up a step, until contacting a gray plastic trash can. His left hand feeling for the obstruction, his fingers wrapping around the rim, holding on to something real and firm.

"The neck isn't actually broken, which is something you hope for with a hanging – because it's quick." Williams moved the boy's head again and leaned forward until his face was inches from Arnie's neck. Mike turned away and looked down, finding the view of the trash can's interior preferable to the sight of the dead Mr. Fisher.

"No, this poor lad strangled...Compression of the carotid artery..."

Mike fought off the the image of Arnie Fisher, swinging, thrashing wildly on the end of a belt.

"...lack of oxygen probably caused unconscious in about a minute..." Williams seemed fascinated.

Arnie would be slowly turning blue, and gasping his last. Struggling. Dying.

"...Death would have followed several minutes later."

Mike was trying not to be there – staring unthinkingly at a torn cardboard box among the debris in the trash can.

"Mr. Ratner?" Williams called him back to a painful present.

"Yes," said Mike maintaining his composure. He felt sick.

"There is nothing special about this death," Williams said, holding his hands out, palm upwards. "no bruising, no scratches, no suspicious marks. The blood work will be ready tomorrow, but my money says this is exactly how it looks. A simple suicide."

* * * *

It was getting late as Mike walked back to his office, Williams' words rattling around his head. "A simple suicide," as if there was such a thing. How simple was it for Arnie Fisher?

As Mike entered the cramped work-space of his office, mentally composing his daily report to Satellite 19, he noticed a piece of paper face down on the blue industrial carpet of his office. He was sure it hadn't been there when he left. He picked it up and turned it over. Black ink on white paper, bold letters, two words. Mike stared at the message.

"NOT SUICIDE."

* * * *

Chapter 11

John strolled easily across the Georgia Tech campus. Brim had waited to make sure nobody followed him. John had just begun to appreciate how much help Brim had been. Until this situation started, Brim had been a buddy, a drinking partner and a technical consultant to John's writing. Now he had become much more than that and his expertise and street wisdom had probably saved John's life.

John had never stopped being amazed by the number of people that Brim knew. And not just regular people, people with such a diverse range of skills that it seemed he was able to find anyone, get into anywhere, and dig up facts that nobody remembered still existed.

On the second floor of the Advanced Computing Building was room 209, where Brim had told John he would find "the geeks." Two young men, not yet twenty, sat facing large monitors, each providing a custom view of robots sporting futuristic weaponry, working together to slay a dragon that had been somehow upgraded to shoot a laser-rifle, which combined with the more traditional fiery breath, gave the robots something of a challenge. The room was awash with sound from a futuristic war zone that flowed into the room from multiple speakers. Surrounding the boys, electronic boxes adorned with flickering lights, screens, keyboards, cameras, printers, and odd looking pieces of custom fabricated hardware, all connected by a maze of colored cables, strung from the roof like a giant rainbow cobweb.

" Shyam Badami and Ramanan Patel?" John shouted, above the noise of the battle.

"Yo. Who wants to know, Dude?"

"My name is John Mars. Brim sent me."

"Never heard of him. man," yelled the youth, who was sporting a shaven head and John Lennon glasses. The charming and melodic accent of his native India had been replaced by that of a Californian surfer.

"William Brimage?" shouted John. It was hard to be heard over the plasma rifles and gravity mines.

"Yo dude – Brim. The guy that helped my dad, remember?"

"Oh, Brim," replied the other student. Both screens froze simultaneously and the room dropped into silence. The boy got up and rushed over to John, extending his hand. "Shyam Badami."

"John Mars." he said.

"And this is my buddy, Ramanan Patel."

Ramanan, drained the remains of a Red-Bull, and walked over to greet John. "Call me Ram. What do you need, my friend?" The accent was generically southern, but John couldn't place it.

"Well, we have a little problem that Brim thought you might be able to help with."

"Shoot," said Shyam, removing his glasses and cleaning them on the front of an oversized t-shirt depicting a large cartoon wasp.

"OK," John said, taking a breath. "Let us presume I have a laptop that contains some sensitive data, and someone has stolen it and I don't want them to see the data. What are my options?"

"Oh dude, you should have encrypted it."

"It was."

"Strong password?" Shyam asked.

"Probably."

The two technologists then took turns firing questions at John in a lightning round of data collection. Who stole it? How long ago was it stolen? Is the data backed up? Where is the machine now? Was it Windows or Mac? Did the laptop have any tracking software installed? Was it running Dropbox? Did it have Gmail? Did John know any of the passwords? How much data was involved? Does the email client automatically log in?

By the end of the interrogation, they knew practically nothing. Shayam informed John that he was "Totally screwed, dude," while Ramanan opened another Red Bull with a faint hiss.

"Ram wagged a finger in the air nervously as he thought aloud. "If we knew more about the machine, and the thief was foolish enough to connect it to a network, we night be able to get an IP address, which gives you a five mile radius of where it is. But to translate that IP address into a physical street address you would need to know someone at the ISP – AT&T, Comcast – whoever leased the IP address.

"Or Homeland Security," said Shyam, "they could probably do it for you."

John sat in silence, this wasn't what he wanted to hear. "Isn't there anything we can do."

"Not really," said Ram, "see, here is what's going to happen. The person or persons that have your computer will first try and turn it on. Then they'll find they need a password. So they take it to an expert – someone like us – but probably not as good. They will likely hack the password in about ten minutes..."

"Ten minutes?" Mike repeated Ram's time estimate with astonishment and disbelief.

"Shyam could do it in five," replied Ram, "and own your cell phone at the same time. Next, they are going to look at your files, and see the ones they are interested in, they'll probably all be in one folder so it will be quite easy for them. Then they see the files are encrypted, and this represents their first real obstacle. They will either try to hack into the files on the machine, or the smarter way would be to first copy the files off the stolen machine. Either way, if they are determined, and have the skills, they're going to get your data."

John sat, staring at a screen showing a motionless dragon with a laser-rifle. He wondered if he still had time to leave the country.

"And you say these guys will be looking for something specific?" It was Shyam who asked.

"Yes," replied John, "why, do you have an idea?"

"Maybe," replied Shyam. Then, looking at Ram, "What if we could get some code on the stolen machine."

Ram looked at John. "Do you have an email address for the laptops owner?"

"I can get one." John took out his phone and sent a text to Brim.

"And the owner's name?"

"Colin." John said.

"Shyam, pull up that de-compiled code we have on the quarantine drive," Ram said, "then cobble together some AV sneak stuff, and build a client piece for..." he looked at John's phone, "...Android – you might be able to use the one we did for that guy from the high energy physics lab."

"Yeah, his name was Jason." Shyam plugged some white ear-buds into his head and went to work silently in a corner.

"OK," Ram positioned himself directly in front of John as if he was about to reveal a great plan, and opened an email program on a desktop machine. "So, the data they are looking for – what is it about?

John gave him an overview.

"OK – give me some keywords that might capture the thief's attention." Ram handed John a piece of paper.

John began to mentally compose a list of words. Obviously Farfield, All the names of the people he knew there, the words deaths, cover-up and guilty and a few more that were less obvious.

Ram was on a roll now, raising his voice slightly he said, "Mavis?"

"Ready, Mr. Patel" an automated, slightly metallic, woman's voice, filled the air above John's head.

"Mavis. Search and download uncompressed documents. Quantity ten. Search term 'mental health report.' Search term 'government personnel.' Search term 'patient abuse.' End request."

"What just happened?" asked John.

"Download complete," said Mavis in monotone.

"We're developing a lot of Automation and AI stuff here. Mavis is a work in progress."

John's phone beeped. It was Brim, sending Colin's email address. John showed Ram, who then typed it into the open email form.

"OK," said Ram, "How does this sound? It's going to Colin's email address, and has to sound like something the thief would open. Tell me what you think. Subject: The Farfield information you requested. Message: Hi Colin, Attached are my findings about Gregson, Williams, Spires and other suspicious personnel at Farfield, along with info about the patient deaths and the cover-up. Multiple files here. Hope this helps. My invoice will follow, regards, Stan."

"That sounds good," said John.

"Now," Ram said, "when Shyam has finished, we zip his file and add all the files that Mavis gathered, and attach them as a self executing file to the email we are going to send."

"Like a virus?" asked John.

"No. Like a piece of mobile malicious code. But if it helps you to think of it as a virus, then go ahead."

"What if he doesn't open the attachment?" John said. "I wouldn't."

"You probably would if it was from someone you knew, and you had requested it, and the content was something you wanted to get. Let's hope so anyway, because if he doesn't, the plan won't work."

"So when he opens the email, we know where he is, right?" John was becoming excited now.

"No, we told you that was impossible."

"Then what use is it?" John's frustration returned.

"OK, here is what will happen. He gets the machine started and is notified about new emails. Hopefully he sees one about Farfield and clicks on the attachment. When he does, he sees all the bogus nonsense that Mavis collected – but there is so much of it that he doesn't have time to check it all and see it's bogus. Se he thinks he's got your, or Colin's, research. Now, when he opens the attachment the program executes on the laptop that turns on the camera and the microphone, then it scrambles and overwrites all the data. That's the best your going to get."

"Your little program can turn on his camera and microphone?" John asked.

"Our little program could do anything that the thief could do using the keyboard and mouse."

"So the best I get is a picture of the thief."

"And his voice, if he says anything," corrected Ram.

"But it will definitely destroy all the data on the drive?" This was a critical issue for John.

"Ah well, yes, as long as he doesn't copy the drive first or remove it and analyze it using a different computer. That's what we would do, but your thief probably isn't as smart as us. Right Shyam?"

"Right." Shyam said.

"And, you say, if he pulls the data off the disk before he opens the email, it wont get erased?"

"That's correct," Ram said, "but you could still get some nice pictures of the guy."

"How does that help?"

"Some time back there was an internet contest where they published ten seconds of film and people had to try and determine where it was. You would be surprised how many clues there were that most people don't take notice of."

It didn't seem very likely to John that the video feed would reveal the Laptop's location. He said so.

Ram nodded. "Well, like I said, this is the best your going to get."

Shyam announced that he had completed his work and the spy-program was added to the zip file, Ram handed the phone back to John. It immediately rang. John looked at the phone. The screen filled with a image of Shyam drinking a Red-Bull.

"Great," said Shyam, "it works. So, when the program executes on the stolen laptop, your phone will ring and you will see and hear everything going on in front of the laptop. Your phone will also record the activity."

Ram tapped the "Send" key, and the email was sent to Colin's computer from a Gmail account that had been specifically created for that very purpose.

"Now you just have to wait." said Shyam.

* * * *

John drove north on State Rd 400 and exited on Peachtree in Buckhead, where he found a Kroger grocery store that sold pre-paid cell-phones. A few minutes later, and ninety-six bucks lighter, he left the store with a working cell phone. He called Brim on the new number and told him about the high-tech duo, and the software they had mailed to Colin's laptop.

"Well, that's some progress. Not great, but I suppose it's the best we can hope for."

"Yes, that's what they said," John told him.

"I downloaded the tracker data from the transmitter that you put on their car. They stopped at four places, I have hit two of them already, one of the remaining locations is up in Sandy Springs, the other is not far from you – off of Roswell Road." Brim gave John the address. "Swing by and check it out. Don't knock on the door, just park down the street and see what you can make of the place."

John climbed back in his car and set his GPS. As he entered the address that Brim had given him. He now had become caught up in a dangerous game of cat and mouse that could easily turn deadly. But what bothered him the most were the things he didn't know. Where was the connection between a series of mysterious deaths thirty-five years ago and the men who would kill without hesitation, simply because someone was asking questions? He pushed away the anguish, because inside, in that place beyond conscious thought, where, barely perceived ideas circled without form, he knew he had started on a path he could not stray from. He had to press on, driven to understand it all, to find that one piece of information that might plug the hole in the mystery and allow him to return to writing mediocre paperbacks in the comfort of home in the Atlanta suburbs.

He pulled out his new phone and called Janet Hill. Something he had been meaning to do since the whole investigation jumped the tracks.

"Hi, Janet."

"Oh, hi, I didn't recognize your number."

"No, I have a new phone."

"Oh."

"Janet, I'm calling about the investigation into Farfield..."

"Yes, I've been thinking a lot about that." she interrupted him. "I have been talking to my Mother, but she seems very closed mouthed about it." John wanted to cut her off, tel her to stop talking and forget all about Farfield, before she becomes ensnared in a strange and terrible world where people are killed for their electronics. But something in him had to hear what she had to say.

Janet continued. "The other night, after dinner, I tried to bring it up again. She talked a little bit about her job there, which was in the records office – so she saw a lot of official paperwork, perhaps even things associated with the deaths, but when I asked here about it all she would say was 'I don't know,' but I honestly think she does."

"Yes,that may be," said John, "but I have to tell you that one of my investigators has been shot, and I think it may be too dangerous for you to continue to be involved."

"Shot?"

"Yes, it happened yesterday afternoon in Little-Five-Points."

"Oh, my god, I saw that on the news, but they said it was just a robbery."

"Trust me. It wasn't. This thing is much more dangerous that we first thought. I really must advise you to walk away from this whole thing."

"But, surely you don't think mother and I could be in danger?"

"No, but if you continue to ask questions you might inadvertently talk to the person who would kill to keep everything quiet."

" Who do you think that is?"

"That's the problem," John said, "I have no idea."

* * * *

Chapter 12

Mike stared at the hand written note in his hands.

"NOT SUICIDE."

A deluge of questions washed over him. Who could have sent it? Why? Was it true?

The note was found on the floor of his office. An office in the security wing of Building 4. An office behind a locked security door that was guarded. That pretty much ruled out the theory that the note was written by a patient, which was a good thing, because if it had been written by someone suffering from some type of mental illness it would introduce questions about credibility. So Mike had to assume the note was genuine and had to have been written by Barry or one of his staff. Many of the security personnel working for Barry Spires used the break-room just down the hall, so it was a long list to choose from. He considered consulting Barry. He didn't think Barry would have written the note – Barry would have just come out and said it, so that meant it had to be one of Barry's employees. If he involved Barry in any kind of public investigation, the author of the note would almost certainly not admit it, after all, it was an anonymous note. In any event, Mike had not yet ruled out Barry as being somehow complicit in the problems at Farfield, mostly because of Barry's lack of cooperation with the inquiry, but now also because Martha Hill had brought into question the circumstances of his employment at Farfield.

So if he assumed the note was true, then it meant the death was either accidental or murder. Since there seemed no reason to cover up an accidental death, Mike had to interpret the note to mean that Arnie Fisher was murdered. But how would that have been possible? Arnie Fisher's body had been found hanging inside a locked cell, in a secure area. If foul play was involved it was someone who had access, which meant Williams, Barry Spires, Charlie – the guard on duty at the time, or the orderly that everyone called Junior – who was making his rounds and found the body. Deputy Superintendent Jim Blake was also there when Mike arrived – how long had he been there? If the room door wasn't locked, then another patient housed on the floor could have done it, or for that matter, anyone in the entire facility who had a key. Of course, they would have to go through Williams's therapy room – and if Williams was there they would have been seen. Could it have been Williams? Mike didn't know if Williams was there at the time, but he doubted that the doctor would have the strength to lift the struggling body and hang it from a belt which had been attached to a sprinkler pipe. Could anyone? How high had the sprinkler pipe been – ten feet? What had the other patients seen? Would their testimony make sense?

Another scream echoed from the floor below, Mike was starting to get used to it. That frightened him, that he could somehow reach a point where all this disturbed suffering could start to feel normal.

Mike leaned back in the chair and ran both hands through his hair. What was he doing here investigating a death? He was a procedural auditor for a government health agency, not "Columbo." Ever since arriving at Farfield he had questioned if he was the right person for the job. He had never done anything like this before, and was entirely unsuited for an assignment of this kind. Or was that intentional? Had he been chosen because he lacked the experience to get to the bottom of this? Was this just a whitewash? Mike remembered Ron's words, "just dot the t's and cross the i's." He also remembered Ron's lack of interest in talking about Mike's findings on the phone.

Mike spun the chair around and looked at the cold gray winter landscape. It was then that he realized this was something he would finish. He would follow the investigation whereever it led. This was his chance to make a wasted life matter, to fight a battle for those who could not. To find satisfaction and relief to fill the hollow emptiness he had known for so long.

Mike left his office and walked briskly to the therapy building. The lengthening shadows brought an uneasiness to Mike. Was that something or someone over by the pines that bordered the clearing by the retention pond? No, he was simply a victim of his own fertile imagination. In this world of half life and expectant stillness, he couldn't help but hear noises and faintly mumbled conversations. The darkness seemed to take shape and move in ominous and threatening ways, his own footsteps, crunching on gravel, so loud they surely could be heard in the world of desperation and hopelessness that resided behind the sealed confinement of concrete and steel bars.

It was a relief to step into the electric orange glow that spilled from the glass front doors of the therapy building. Inside it was quiet. It looked as if everyone had left for the day. Mike walked over to Williams' room but the door was locked. Remembering the security lock, he walked over to Jane's desk. The release button for Dr. Williams' door was easy to find, it looked like a house doorbell and was screwed to the desk leg. Unfortunately, the door was ten feet behind Jane's desk.

Mike opened the desk drawer and found what he expected. Alongside a row of pens and pencils, next to a note pad, was a roll of sticky tape. He removed about four inches from the roll and stuck it across the button. The resultant click of the door lock echoed loud and sudden in the sparsely decorated lobby area, and John rushed to open the door, fearing the deafening noise would attract attention. His hand was already on the door handle when he realized that everyone had gone home for the day. The building was deserted, save for him and a dozen or so patients on the basement level.

Mike opened the door. He removed the wallet from his back pocket and used it to jam the door open while he went back and removed the tape from the button. The lights were on in Williams' room, Mike thought there might be some value in looking around – perhaps searching through the doctor's desk, but he felt some urgency about visiting the morgue to see Arnie Fisher's body. Mike's apprehension was on overdrive. Although he had the authority to be there, he knew that if he were discovered, certain parties – namely Williams – would not look favorably upon it. He shivered, and told himself that his nervousness was simply due to sneaking around alone in a mental hospital at night, trying to surreptitiously examine a possible murder victim. And what if he were discovered? It probably wouldn't matter unless he was discovered by the killer.

Mike approached the door to the basement and dialed "7713." The door opened and he descended the concrete steps. As he rounded the corner, a man approached the stairs, a silhouette, edged in the obscured brightness of the light behind him.

"Mr Ratner?"

"Yes?" answered Mike.

"What are you doing here at this hour?" The man stepped back to let Mike enter the room, Mike could see that it was the guard who had relieved Charlie the previous day, the man with the granite face.

"I just had to follow up on some details, I have to check the body for my D-19 report to the head office." Mike was certain that the guard wouldn't know what a D-19 report was, because he had just invented it. He was also pretty sure the reference to "head office" would ensure the guard's compliance.

"Oh, I'm Jerry Biggs, by the way." said the granite face, instantly shedding his security officer persona, and adopting a more friendly attitude.

"A pleasure." Mike shook his hand. "Everything quiet tonight?"

"Yes, sir."

"OK, good job," Mike said, and started to walk away, before realizing that the guard might be able to shed light on the death of Arnie Fisher. "Jerry, are you stationed here much of the time?"

"No. This area doesn't get much guard duty."

"Why's that?"

"Well. We're pretty short staffed, and Dr. Williams is upstairs most of the time. Anyway, so far nobody's just gotten up and walked away from the morgue."

"But it does get patrolled, right? I mean Junior was on patrol when he found the body today."

"Yes. The patient rooms get patrolled every four hours."

"And there's nobody here in between." Mike was surprised. Four hours seemed a long time between checking on patients.

"Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Usually no."

"And are the rounds usually on time."

"Again," said Jerry Biggs, "sometimes yes, sometimes no."

"How about Junior?"

"Oh, he was always on time. Every four hours – like clockwork."

"OK, thanks." Mike said and walked into the morgue.

Just inside the doorway he fumbled for the light switch, and a cold glare cut through the silent stillness of death. Arnie still lay on the gurney, covered with a white sheet. Mike approached cautiously. He found himself trying to walk quietly, but didn't know why. Pulling the sheet away from the motionless body, he stared at Arnie's lifeless form. The face of a young man, peaceful, free from the pain of his final moments. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The only obvious sign that something untoward had happened were the welts and bruising around the neck. Were they really what killed this young man? Mike didn't know – he wasn't a pathologist or a coroner. He was little more than a glorified social worker. He knew enough to know that no autopsy had been performed, but that didn't mean anything – there was probably no reason for it.

Although he had no desire to touch the body, Mike carefully reached out and touched one arm. The arm was stiff, like a mannequin. Cold, like the steel table beneath him. It must be rigor mortis, thought Mike, how long does that last? He didn't know. He only knew that on TV they were always able to touch a body and determine the exact time of death. But everyone knew the time of death. Didn't they? The body had been discovered by Junior on his rounds, so the death must have occurred no more than four hours before that. Or had it?

Mike had been grappling with the idea that if it was murder, someone had to lift a struggling body and hang it on the water pipe, but what if the victim had been strangled first, and then hung up. It would certainly be easier, and could probably have been done by one man. The murder could even have occurred in another place, at a different time. But if that were the case, why take the trouble to move the body? The only reason to do that would be to make murder to look like suicide. Which might be a good idea if there was an investigator sniffing around. It was an interesting idea,but there was no evidence for it.

Mike sat on a three legged stool and looked around the morgue, hoping that he would see something to explain the mystery. Something that would be obviously incongruous, something that wouldn't fit with the scene. A clue that would clarify his thoughts and allow him to proceed toward what really happened.

He looked over at the body again, now beginning to see it for what it was, a lifeless form. A collection of bones and tissue that had once been a living person. A footnote to a life without meaning, a misunderstood existence spent in captivity, with a mandatory diet of behavior modification chemicals. A sad existence for a boy who owned nothing but his own suffering. He didn't even own his clothes. A crudely made two-piece outfit, soiled and ill fitting. A canvas jacket with the sleeves a little too long, elastic waist pants with worn knees – used clothing designed for a larger man.

Elastic waist?

The pants had an elastic waste. What was Arnie Fisher doing with a belt?

This latest revaluation definitely pointed to foul play. Dr. Williams had pronounced the cause of death as strangulation not a broken neck, which Mike, even with his very limited medical experience, thought was odd. At the time Mike had reasoned that maybe the drop was not sufficient to break the neck, and the boy slowly strangled. But if he was murdered, strangled, then the results of Dr. Williams' diagnosis would make sense. So Arnie was first strangled and then hung up to make it look like suicide. One or more people were involved, and the original murder may have taken place in the cell or elsewhere.

Mike unconsciously scanned the room again as he thought. The memory returned of Williams coldly relating the details of Arnie's strangulation. What was it that felt so distasteful about it? It was Williams. It was his detached approach to a tragic death. Could it be that the doctor had seen so much of it that he ceased to be moved? No – that wasn't it. His manner wasn't just detached, it was almost as if he enjoyed it. He was too comfortable around death.

Whichever way Mike looked at it, Williams was the one person who had the opportunity, or would have been present, or would have seen the real killer come and go, or would have seen the dead body brought to the cell. He was convinced that Williams was somehow involved, but could neither prove it, nor figure out what motive the doctor could possibly have. The other problem was that although Mike wasn't an expert on murderers, he found it hard to imagine that Williams would strangle someone, or for that matter stab someone. He could see the doctor using poison or even shooting someone, but a hands on approach seemed far too personal and intimate for a man who behaved so aloof and superior. Mike once again found himself gazing into the trash can, as he had before. Gazing at the same piece of cardboard trash. Why did it hold such a fascination for him? He reached in and removed it, and immediately recognized the box as the carton that had contained the shipment to Dr. Williams – the one that Deputy Jim Blake had delivered earlier in the week. A box that had contained an electronic addition to Williams' impressive array of high-tech gadgetry. A "Type three, Audio Sine-wave Signal Generator," which Mike knew must be something akin to a portable radio in size and weight, and yet the remains of the carton had a Styrofoam packing insert, that contained fifteen or twenty small round holes. Mike had no idea what this was for, but he was sure that it left no room for the electronic device that it supposedly contained. The Styrofoam insert bothered him. Not only because it meant that the declared contents of the shipping carton were incorrect, but because he was sure he remembered seeing something like that before.

Mike pulled the box from the trash. It had been shipped from a company called "Delta-Rhodes." A name that meant nothing to him.

Mike stood in silence, raking through his memory for understanding. A sudden sound behind him made him spin around abruptly.

"Perhaps I can help you search my morgue?" said Dr. Williams.

* * * *

Chapter 13

John drove across town to the location Brim had texted to him.

When John had placed the tracking device on the white Lexus driven by Colin's killers, he had not been certain that it would be of much use, but fortunately Brim had been able to download some useful information from it, and overlay it onto Google maps. John and Brim now knew that after killing Colin and driving over to Brim's house – where John had been surprised by the two men, they had driven to four different addresses. John hoped that one of the locations might yield some useful information about Colin's death, the home invasion at Brim's place and the reason that someone was willing to kill to protect whatever information John and Brim might discover.

John checked his phone for the address in the text that Brim had sent. He knew the area – it was off Roswell Road, just inside the 285 Perimeter, and he found the place easily. First he made a slow pass along the tree lined street, counting down the house numbers on the brick mailboxes, until he found the address. He reduced his speed and studied the house as he passed. The property was an anonymous looking ranch house and didn't stand out as being any different from the others on the street. John guessed that it was probably built sometime in the 1980's, when developers rushed to complete the suburban expansion on Atlanta's outskirts. The house sat on a level lot, twenty yards back from the road. A blue Cadillac was parked in the driveway, and the curtains in the front window were open, but other than that the house showed no sign of activity. Mike drove to the end of the street and then turned around in someone's driveway. He drove back toward the property with the Cadillac, but stopped two houses away and, leaving the engine running, he parked under an overhanging willow tree. If the owner of the house he was watching looked out of the window, his car would be out of view. He took out his phone. If anyone from a nearby house became suspicious he would appear to be just another driver that had stopped to check directions or answer an email. He felt quite proud of himself that he was doing so well playing detective, but then as he sat there holding his phone he regretted that he hadn't taken a picture of the house or the car or something. Brim would have done that.

He watched a few minutes crawl by on the quiet street, and felt as if he should be doing something. Brim had explicitly told him not to approach the house, and even if he did, what would he say? What could he possibly learn?

In his rear view mirror, John saw a car pull out of a driveway behind him and cruise up the street to pass him slowly. The driver took no notice as John pretended to talk on his phone. A couple of minutes later a post office van entered the street.

John decided to call Brim.

"Hi," answered Brim.

"Hey. I'm at the address you gave me," John said.

"What does it look like?"

"Nothing remarkable."

"Is anyone at home?"

"I can't really tell."

"Well, don't go in. And don't stay too long – just a few minutes more and then leave. Meet me at your house."

John agreed. They hung up, and John watched the mail-truck stop at the house and deposit a few letters before continuing its crawl along the shaded street.

He waited. No one came out of the house.

John had picked up his own mail earlier that day, and had casually thrown it onto the car seat. There were a couple of bills – electricity and phone, a letter from a bank he didn't use that was anxious to have him carry one of their credit cards, and, of course, the ever present advertising. John threw them back on the seat. Still no one had come to the curb to pick up the mail. The mailman had completed his deliveries and was now turning the corner at the far end of the street. John looked at his own mail again and had an idea. Shifting the car into drive, he rolled slowly forward coming to a stop just past the mailbox of the house. Checking that the street was still quiet, he picked up the lawn service postcard from the seat, got out of the car and walked casually toward the mailbox. If anyone saw him or questioned him he would say he was "as requested," delivering the ad for the lawn service.

The metal flap opened with a slight squeak, and John reached in. He didn't want anything that said "current resident" or "occupant," he needed something that would tell him the name of the person living there. He picked up a stack of mail and quickly found an electric bill addressed to James B. Lawson. He took the bill, and walked back to his car trying to look innocent, whatever that looked like.

He climbed in his car and started the engine. Checking his rear view mirror he saw a black Escalade with dark tinted windows enter the street from behind him, and moving too fast.

John waited. Instinctively, he felt something was wrong. He had to either stay put and let the vehicle pass or pull out in front of the speeding SUV. He decided to sit tight and let the Escalade pass him. It was coming up on him quickly now, and looked strangely out of place – almost like a government vehicle or something you would see in a presidential convoy. John doubted that its owner lived around here, residents didn't usually drive through their own neighborhoods like they were on a NASCAR track. John sat still and waited, but when the SUV got within fifty yards of the back of his car, it suddenly slowed and abruptly turned into the driveway of the house that John had been watching.

John knew he had to leave, quietly and without fuss, but he was anxious to see who was in the SUV, and what was about to happen next. Then he saw the vehicle's rims, bright high dollar flash – not a government vehicle. He began to inch his car forward, just as the front door of the SUV opened and a man got out. A scrawny but lean man, cropped hair, mirrored sunglasses, arms covered in tattoos. He wore a cotton sleeveless undershirt and baggy jeans. In the rear view mirror John could see that someone else got out the other side of the vehicle, but he was already moving away and couldn't see him well. The scrawny man took a long look at John as he drove off.

* * * *

It was late afternoon when John arrived home. He immediately noticed that Brim had wisely parked his powder blue Ford in John's garage. It was a high visibility ride, and Brim was smart to get it off the streets. Brim had let himself into John's house and begun construction of their command post in the basement. He had wiped clean a large white board that John used to plan out story lines for his novels, and listed details of the convoluted and dangerous mess in which they now found themselves. John read it.

The word "FARFIELD" and "GBI" dominated the top of the board in capitol letters,and underneath the names Peter Gregson, Jim Blake, Barry Spires, and Jake Williams. The word "DEAD" was written next to Williams' name. Also on the board were the names of Daniel Hempel – the dead patient, Martha Hill – Janet's mother – who accurately predicted that they were in danger if they investigated Farfield, and Junior Hollywell – fired from Farfield after a death occurred. Also the word "Killers" along with two question marks, and the four addresses they visited. Taped to the edge of the board were printouts of the pictures John had taken. Pictures of the white Lexus.

"You know," Brim began, as he leaned back in one of John's dining room chairs, "stealing mail is a federal offense."

"Perspective," said John, "the bad guys have killed and stolen and broken into your house. stealing mail is fairly insignificant in the grand scheme of things."

"Oh, I don't know," mused Brim, "just hope you don't get one of the murderers as a cell mate."

Brim lifted a bottle of Sweetwater 420 in a toast before taking a long swallow.

"So," he continued, "James B. Lawson is the name of our resident, and that's about all we know other than the fact that he is a fairly average consumer of Georgia Power's electricity."

"How about your 'FBI' men in the black SUV?"

"Judging by the truck, and the fact that they seem to have too much money for people who looked like they don't have jobs. I'm thinking they're not anything to do with the government."

"Agreed." said Brim. "And from your description of the pimped-out wheels, I'm thinking drugs." He walked up to the white board and artistically drew a small hypodermic needle and a question mark next to one of the addresses. "Given his two dubious visitors, James B. Lawson appears to be somewhat suspect. We need to keep an eye on him."

Brim asked about John's visit to the Georgia Tech nerd-squad and John explained about the tracking software on the stolen laptop. He checked his phone as he spoke, but there were no updates.

"What do you think is on the laptop?" John asked, "anything that would lead them to us?"

"Probably," Brim replied, "but only if they can decript Colin's data."

"Well, I hope we can get it back before that happens."

Brim just shrugged and said that he didn't hold out much hope, adding that they should get into the habit of keeping a very low profile. Brim explained that he had not been back to his house since the break in, and planned to get a different car. Then he asked about Junior Hollywell.

"I tried to call him back," said John, "but there was no answer."

Brim marked Junior Hollywell's name with another question mark.

"And the Hill lady?"

"Yeah, Martha. I called her daughter to warn her. Told her to stop questioning her mother and stay out of this – but I get the feeling that she won't listen to me. She seems to have developed a genuine interest in the case."

"Too bad really," Brim said, "I think she knows something."

"Me, too." John said.

They sipped their beer in silence. John stared at the board, hoping something would jump out at him."What about the other places the killers drove to?"

"I checked out one of them. It's a bar in East Point. I went inside but couldn't tell very much. They may have just stopped there for a drink. The other place was a house over in Sandy Springs. We can drive over there later. The last place they visited is in Vine City. Dodgy neighborhood. The car was parked there overnight and then the tracker stopped transmitting at about four a.m."

"Then that's probably where they live." John was excited by his own deduction, and then as an afterthought, "And it looks like they found the tracker."

"You're catching on." Brim took a long swallow of his beer. "Wanna go check it out?"

* * * *

John and Brim took John's car to the the Avis office on Peachtree Industrial Boulevard, and picked up an anonymous white Camry. From there they drove downtown and then west.

It was called "The Bluff." An infamous Atlanta suburb west of downtown known for its high crime rate and narcotics trade. In the shadow of the Georgia Dome and World Congress Center, impoverished and mostly unemployed people lived out their lives of desperation in a hopeless landscape, where unschooled children played with spent needles in the roadside dirt while menacing teens plied their trade in potions, powders and weapons. A couple of years ago the local news had done a story on "The Bluff" calling it an open air heroin market, that shattered the peaceful illusions shared by the affluent North Atlanta residents of Sandy Springs and Dunwoody.

In the last few years, as downtown real estate had begun to skyrocket, the city had made inroads with civic improvement and beautification projects, and now, trendy townhouses were emerging on the outskirts of squalid and hazardous neighborhoods. But in the heart of Vine City and the English Avenue districts it was still dangerous and unwelcoming.

The car bounced over potholes, past boarded up abandoned houses with weed filled front yards. At each corner, groups of young men with baggy clothes and way too much jewelry, glared hatred at the clean white car and its occupants. Each turn they made took them into a street with more derelict houses and suspicious eyes. Brim followed the GPS co-ordinates.

John didn't feel comfortable. He looked over at Brim to see if there was any indication the the more experienced man was also nervous, but he could detect none.

"I wouldn't want to live here," John said, mostly to break the tension.

"No," agreed Brim. "Even the cops think twice about coming in here. Glad we took the extra insurance on the car. We might need it."

That didn't make John feel any better and he instinctively felt for the 380 Walther in his pocket.

Even though Brim didn't seem to be looking at him, he saw it.

"I wouldn't bother with that if I were you. Around here we would be hopelessly out-gunned." Brim leaned forward to study the GPS. "Now, just around this corner was the last known transmission from the Lexus. It should be Paines Avenue."

As they approached the corner of Paines, it was clear that some commotion was occurring in the street. The roadway was narrow and blocked with activity. John could see the front of a large tow-truck and several small groups of people gathered behind it, watching. Brim continued past the turning and parked, then the two men walked back to investigate.

The tow-truck was winching the burned out carcass of a Lexus onto its flat bed. Two policemen were supervising the operation and performing crowd control and traffic direction.

"Oh, Christ. There goes our evidence." John said.

"Maybe not," replied Brim, walking toward a burly police officer and holding out his hand.

"Why, if it isn't Micky Peters."

The cop took a moment to register and then a wide smile crept across his face.

"Brim! How the hell are you, what's it been? Eight...nine years?

"Something like that." Brim replied.

"So what are you doing in this hell hole?" asked the cop.

"Working a case." Brim said. "Looking for someone who jumped bail. His wife lives just down here. Figure she might know something." Then he said, almost as an afterthought, "What happened here?"

"Don't rightfully know." said the cop. "Someone torched this car in the early hours, so we got called."

"Brim, moved closer to the charred wreck. "What was it, a Lexus?"

"Yeah, looks like it," said the cop.

Brim was now slowly walking to the rear of the car. "Jeez, there's so much plastic in these things, almost everything burns. It's hardly recognizable." Brim was now studying the back of the car. "What about the owner?"

"No sign of him and the plates are missing. We're waiting for downtown the run the VIN."

"Stolen?" Brim asked, continuing his inspection, running his hand under the wheel well, where the tracker magnet should have been.

"Could be. Don't know until we get it to the impound yard and run the numbers on it."

The two men chatted for a minute or two, and then Brim made a polite excuse and the two men walked on past the burned car.

"We'll just walk round the block so he thinks we are going to see the imaginary missing person's wife."

"Why don't we just tell him what we know and get the police to help us?" John asked.

"Because the police won't help us, trust me – I used to be one. Here's what will happen. If they know we are involved with the murder, and we know about the Lexus we will immediately become suspects of something or other, and they will want to know what we did to bring this on ourselves. They will waste our time and make it difficult for us to remain incognito. They won't solve the murder , and in the meantime, we'll still be in danger. I'm not saying that we shouldn't involve APD at some point, but first we need to know what we are dealing with."

"So that was the same Lexus, right?" asked John.

"Same one." Brim said. "And the remains of the tracker was still there. It was pretty much melted by the fire – but it was there."

"So if they didn't find the tracker then they didn't know they were being followed, so why did they torch the car?"

"Maybe they didn't. Maybe they just parked it in the wrong neighborhood, an accident, and someone else did it."

"Or maybe they parked it here knowing it would be trashed, ripped off or chopped, to get rid of it," John said.

"But why?" asked Brim.

"Because it had been used in a murder, and may have been spotted?"

"But the cops are going to trace it to the rightful owner anyway – so why bother?"

"It must be stolen," John said.

"You're catching on."

"So, that's a dead end."

"There's no such thing as a dead end," Brim said.

They got back to the rental car, and Brim took out his cellphone and dialed a number. After a few seconds he began speaking.

"Hi, Ralph. It's Brim. Did you come up with anything yet on those Lexus plates?" Brim reached into his pocket for a notepad and pen, and began scribbling in it. "Thanks, Ralph. I gotta go. I owe you one."

Brim immediately got back on the phone. John could hear that he had reached a voice mail. After a moment he began to speak.

"Hi, Joey. Its Brim. Listen, I need you to go digging for me. Pull up whatever you have on Jerome Spencer. 3582 West View Terrace, Decatur."

* * * *

Chapter 14

Dr. Jake Williams stood before Mike. His appearance in the morgue was unexpected. Mike was under the impression that Williams had left for the night. He was wrong. And now here they were. Mike lurking in an area that was fiercely protected by Williams, and Williams returning to his private lair and catching Mike there. It wasn't that Mike had no right to be there – he was performing a procedural audit of Farfield and as such had unrestricted access to the hospital but it was unlikely that Dr. Jake Williams would see it that way.

"What's going on here?" Dr. Williams asked, raising his voice. "What are you doing in my morgue?" Mike could detect that the doctor was shaking with anger and his voice rode on a current of uncertainty.

Mike had begun his relationship with Williams on an unsure footing, he didn't particularly like the man. Adopting his approach to a more submissive and patronizing delivery had improved the lines of communication but Mike could now see all of that good will evaporating into the cold still air of the morgue. Mike felt they were past the point of civility and respect, and decided to let him have it with both barrels to try to gain the upper hand.

"Excuse me." said Mike, imitating Williams condescending tone. "Did you say your morgue? I was under the impression that it was part of Farfield Hospital, and as such, property of the Department of Human Services and paid for by the U.S. taxpayers. Now, since I am an employee of said Department, and charged with performing an audit of this facility, I actually have more right to be in here than a contractor like yourself. Wouldn't you say that was true, Dr. Williams?"

Williams hesitated a moment before regaining his composure.

"If you wanted something, you only had to ask me. But instead you went sneaking around behind my back."

"Mr. Williams." Mike deliberately avoided using the doctors official title and stayed on the offensive. "We all have jobs to do. Mine is to audit this facility. Someone died here today. I would be remiss if I did not include all the details in my daily report. I am here to view the body. I would have asked you first but you were not around."

"But you have already examined the body. We did it together," Williams reminded him.

"I wanted another look," Mike said, the words came tumbling out of his mouth without the benefit of conscious direction. And there it was. He wanted another look. An implicit statement that Mike did not trust Dr. Williams' original assessment.

"Why do you feel that you cannot trust my examination results?" he asked.

"Because of the facts," answered Mike.

"What facts?"

"Arnie Fisher was under your care, was he not?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Perhaps ten months or so." Williams seemed to be thinking hard, unsure, but Mike felt it was an honest answer.

"And in all that time did you ever diagnose him as suicidal?"

"No."

"Were there any previous attempts at suicide?"

"No." Williams looked as if he sensed the direction of the dialogue and for the first time had a look of uncertainty in his eyes.

"Was he taking any medication that may have agravated his suicidal tendencies?"

"No, but it's not that simple," countered Williams, "the people we treat have problems. In therapy we seek to understand those problems, but sometimes the problems are a result of other deeper problems. It's like peeling an onion. You never know what's in the layer underneath."

It was a convincing answer. Mike paused, allowing Williams to think he had satisfied Mike's curiosity. Then he leaned forward and watched carefully for a reaction when he said,

"Dr. Williams. Where were you today between noon and four P.M?"

"Oh, come on. You're not suggesting..."

"I'm not suggesting anything, I just want to be sure I have covered all the bases.

"I was upstairs. I spent the afternoon in my lab reviewing yesterdays test results. Where were you, Mr. Ratner?"

Mike ignored the doctors silly game.

"And you saw and heard nothing suspicious?"

"Mr. Ratner, This is a mental hospital. I hear bangs and thuds and shouts and screams, all day and all night. But to answer your question, No. I didn't see or hear anything suspicious. Nor did I see anyone enter or leave. Nor do I know anything about Arni Fisher's death – other that what I was able to determine from examining the body. Will that be all Mr. Ratner?"

"No." Mike said. "Why was Arnie Fisher in the maximum security section downstairs if he wasn't dangerous?"

"Because we also use that area as holding cells for patients waiting for their sound therapy treatment."

"So Arnie was receiving sound therapy?"

"Yes. He was about to have his third session," said Williams.

"Well done, Doctor. It seems to be a very effective form of treatment." Mike couldn't help the sarcasm. He knew it would needle Williams.

Williams bit his bottom lip. "It takes much more time than two sessions Mr. Ratner. Much more."

Mike knew he had now angered Williams and wondered what would happen if he kept pushing.

"Where do you suppose he got the belt?"

"What belt?" Williams spat out the word as if he no longer had time for this line of questioning.

"The belt," repeated Mike, "where did he get it? His pants have an elastic waist."

Williams sighed with impatience.

"I have no idea where he got a belt from. Found it. Stole it. Received it as a gift. Traded it. Who knows. And I don't know why he wanted it if his pants were elastic. Look around Mr. Ratner. This is a mental hospital. There is a woman in here who wears three pairs of socks all the time. There is someone else who tries to wear nothing at all. I have more serious concerns than the dress habits of Farfield's patients."

"Dr. Williams, you should know that I intend to report this as a suspicious death, not a suicide."

"Do as you wish," snapped the doctor. "It really makes no difference to me."

Another long pause followed. Williams sighed and his shoulders dropped in resignation.

"Mr. Ratner," Williams tone had lost it's fire. "A hundred and fifty years ago if you suffered from some of the ailments that you see here at Farfield, you would be thrown into a dungeon with twenty others and left to starve, unless you were killed first. Look how far we've come. We've advanced over the years with new ideas and new technology, and what you're seeing here, my sound therapy, represents the cutting edge of mental health treatment. It will change psychiatric care forever." Williams had a light in his eyes now. The light of belief. The light of certainty.

"You may not believe it Mr. Ratner but we are seeing real results here. We are on the verge of something so new and revolutionary that injecting people with drugs will soon seem like drilling a hole in their head to let the madness out."

Mike began to feel quite uncomfortable. It was out of character to see this level of passion and belief in a man normally cold and unemotional. There was an element of unpredictability about him. Mike wanted to say something to pause the doctor's ravings, but could find no words.

"I know what you're thinking Mr. Ratner. You're thinking that my sound therapy is unscientific, but let me remind you that most of science throughout history has been proven wrong. These days, the current fascination is with sophisticated pharmaceuticals but that's a relatively new idea, and it will become obsolete, just like flat Earth theories, blood letting, and the Greek idea of matter. It all gets replaced by a better understanding. Sound therapy is the future, and it can't be stopped. Not by you, or your Satellite 19 office, or the GBI or that Brian Hempel that causes all the problems."

Mike's mind started racing to keep up. Williams' sudden shift from defensive doctor to psychiatric historian was hard to follow. Was he trying to avoid talking about the death of Arnie Fisher because Mike was getting too close? Was the doctor trying to force Mike to see the value of the his work and thus make an ally of him?

Williams went on."Soon after the turn of the century, some doctors thought that sticking a steel spike in your eye socket and scrambling your pre-frontal cortex was the solution to mental problems. Then in the 1920s we all got enlightened and realized creating seizures was sometimes helpful. Do you know what happens when someone is given such huge doses of insulin that it produces a coma lasting several weeks?"

Mike began to feel very uncomfortable. Dr. Williams monologue was dragging him down a dark corridor. Down into the depths of his repressed memory. To the nightmare of a young boy, being pushed and dragged down a dimly lit corridor, to that place. That terrible place, with the bright lights and the crisp white coats, the sterile smell of alcohol and fresh paint. He could still smell the fresh paint. The sickly odor of curing pigment filling the air – filling his head. But the Doctor wasn't stopping.

"Insulin shock therapy, as it is called, was of course messy, difficult and time consuming, but just before the second world war someone invented this. See if you know what it is?" Williams opened one of the wooden wall storage units and on the shelf Mike saw a cream colored metal box and coils of wire.

Mike knew immediately what it was. And with the sight of it, the cracks in his self control opened.

The doctor continued. "It's an Electro-Convulsive-Therapy machine. An old one. A classic." he was uncoiling the wires carefully, almost lovingly.

Mike felt cold and clammy.

"Can you believe that they would often administer the electric shock without first using an anesthetic." Williams seemed quite entertained by this idea.

Mike felt pressure building in his chest. Pounding in his head. Fear.

"Much more powerful than the the ones they use today."

Mike slipped under to his own painful history, immersed in memory like it was yesterday. Like it was today. He was a teenager again. The straps on his arms and legs. The crying and the pleading. The rubber plug, forced between his teeth. The cold, cold sticky gell smeared on his temples. The white coated anonymous figures leaning on his struggling body. The buzzing. That terrible buzzing.

Mike stumbled backwards, knocking over the trashcan that spilled it contents onto the well scrubbed floor of the morgue. He couldn't breathe. He had to get out. He held up a hand signaling Williams to stop and without words walked unsteadily to the door.

"Wait, Mr. Ratner, we still have to discuss the side effects."

Mike thought he heard Williams chuckle as he left.

* * * *

Mike rushed outside into the coal-blackness of the night. The cold, thin air seemed to help get himself under control. He was still breathing hard and the perspiration that had moistened his shirt now became chilled by the night.

He was barely a teenager. He did what all teenagers do. He got a little wild. Made a few mistakes. Things his mother found unacceptable and an insult to her god. And she had made it her mission to drive away his sin.

He couldn't push the memories of that frightful event away. For so long it had remained a dream, but now they had become very real. He could still smell the wet paint. It wouldn't go away. He remembered the days that followed. The headaches. The pains in his joints from the violent convulsions, nausea, confusion and how he had trouble remembering what should have been the most familiar things in his life. And the fear. The fear that he would never be normal again; that his memory would never return. And then he circled back to recall the resentment and hostility he felt toward his mother for taking him to that dreadful place after her attempts to banish the devil with prayer had failed.

It was late by the time Mike got back to his office. Once inside he realized that he had been running but couldn't remember it. He slumped into a chair and closed his eyes. He wanted a drink more than he had in a long time.

Williams was crazy. He knew that for certain now. Whatever he had done, had triggered a side of the doctor that was not normally on display. He had become a frightning, obsessive man who took delight in a morbid fascination with psychiatry's instruments of torture. Mike remembered the look on his face as his hands smoothly caressed the metal skin of the E.C.T. Machine, the look of joy in his face as he played with the coiled wires and contact pads. Mike wondered if any of the other staff had seen this side of Williams, or even if they would believe him.

What Mike found most worrisome, was that Williams now knew his weakness. The doctor certainly knew that he had done something to seriously disturb Mike. He was now highly suspicious of the doctor, and another confrontation was almost inevitable.

In reality – if there was such a thing in the twisted torment of Farfield – Mike didn't know if Williams was a suspect or not. According to Mike's limited knowledge of psychiatry he was certainly crazy, but did that make him a murderer? He seemed unconcerned about Mike's discovery of the belt, and so committed to his own research project that little else seemed to matter to him. But had he killed all those people?

And Williams wasn't the only one. They all seemed to be hiding something. Barry Spires seemed likable but unwilling to offer much help. Peter Gregson – the man who ran the hospital – possibly had a cocaine problem. Martha Hill had indicated that some very questionable hiring practices were in effect, and someone was sending Mike anonymous notes about murder.

Unwillingly his mind darted back to the scene in the morgue and how he had knocked over the trashcan. Debris had spilled onto the floor. He remembered the cardboard box from Dr. Williams' "signal generator." It had contained a Styrofoam packing insert with numerous small round holes. And at that moment he knew what it was. He had seen one before.

Mike was done with this charade. He took out a blank report form and began to write. He held nothing back. Not the suspected murder of Arnie Fisher, not the possible drug use by the hospital's chief administrator not the questionable hiring practices and certainly not the unpredictability and possible murderous capabilities of Farfield's head physician, Dr Jake Williams.

* * * *

Chapter 15

Brim drove the rented Camry toward Decatur at a speed that reached the upper limit of John's comfort level, although he had to admit that his apprehension was partly due to the uncertainty of what they might find at 3582 West View Terrace, the registered address of the blackened remains of the white Lexus. John felt like asking Brim what he thought they might expect when they got there, but before he could ask, Brim's phone rang again.

"Yeah?" Brim answered.

After a few seconds Brim wedged the phone under his jaw as he reached for his worn notebook. He jammed his knee into the steering wheel and began taking notes. When the call ended, John asked Brim if it was good news. Brim kept one eye on the road and read an abbreviated version of his scribbling.

"Jerome Spencer, born 10 August 1974, Akron, Ohio. Moved to Atlanta in '91'. Spent eighteen months in 'juvy hall'. Two trips to Fulton County lock-up. Currently unemployed, single, no kids, shitty credit score, and if I'm any judge of character, probably more than a few unpaid parking tickets. What a superstar this guy is. What do you suppose he was in the joint for?"

John adopted and exaggerated expression of concentration. "Was it for tearing those little white tags off his mattress?"

"Good guess," answered Brim. "Try possession and distribution of a controlled substance. So, we have a convicted drug dealer who lends his car to two killers who visit what is likely to be a drug house, then later they abandoned the vehicle in a drug neighborhood. I'm thinking this case might have something to do with drugs."

* * * *

They parked on a side street around the block, a habit adopted by Brim ever since the time he had parked outside of a house while working a marital infidelity case – which also involved drunkenness and a good measure of domestic abuse. Two days later the irate and intoxicated spouse had recognized Brim's car in a Kroger parking lot and decided to personalize it using a baseball bat. Brim had come out of the grocery store with a frozen pizza, a case of beer and a loaded forty-five, and sadly, had been unable to resolve the dispute without putting a bullet in the leg of the bat-wielding wife.

As the two men walked up the azalea bordered path toward the front door, John became aware that his chatter in the car was just to distract him from whatever waited inside the house. He wondered if the same was true of Brim. He doubted it.

They stood beneath the branches of an overhanging oak and Brim knocked on the door. A purposeful, deliberate knock. It took longer for the door to be answered than John thought was normal. It opened several inches, and a shaft of daylight sliced through the dim interior illuminating the security chain spanning the gap. Behind that, the nervous eyes and pain lined face of a man.

"Yeah?" said the man, suspiciously eyeing Brim and John as he inhaled cigarette smoke.

" Jerome Spencer?" Brim asked.

"Who wants to know?" Jerome said, nervous cracks running through his words.

"Detective Hank Watson, APD." Brim opened his jacket to display his old police badge clipped to his belt. Jerome Spencer barely glanced at the badge, being more interested in the gun butt visible at Brim's waistline. "Can we come in and speak with you, sir?"

Jerome opened the door and stepped aside to allow the two men access. The house was disorderly and dark. Jerome Spencer beckoned them to follow him into a front room, where a view of the road was filtered through white lace curtains. Brim sat down in an over-sized arm chair without invitation. John stood uneasily, looking around the room. Jerome sat in a chair opposite Brim, and John could now see that Jerome Spencer seemed to have aged prematurely, the look of a man who had punctuated his existence with frequent trips to prison.

"Mr. Spencer," began Brim. "do you own a white Lexus – license plate XNZ 558?"

"Yeah," said Jerome. "Why? What's this about?"

"And how long have you owned it?" continued Brim.

"Um, maybe three years."

"Mr. Spencer, may we see your vehicle, please?"

"Sorry," said Jerome, lighting another cigarette. "It's been stolen."

"And when was that?"

Jerome thought for a moment. "Early last week."

Brim nodded. "Do you have a copy of the police report that we could look at?"

Jerome thought again. "No, I haven't filed one yet. I've been kind of busy."

"Where was it stolen from?"

"My driveway. Happened in the middle of the night."

"So you still have the keys?" Brim asked. John felt that this was one of those "gotcha" moments.

"Yep, sure do." Jerome walked over to a small desk, and opened a drawer, his hand disappeared inside. Brim quickly drew his Colt and pointed it at the center of Jerome's back.

Jerome turned around, recoiling at the sight of Brim's gun. In his hand were a set of car keys.

"OK. Take it easy," Jerome said, holding his left hand high in the air and slowly extending his right, the keys dangling from his thumb and forefinger. He edged forward and deposited the keys in Brim's open palm. Brim examined the Lexus keys. Jerome looked smug.

"Mr. Spencer, we found your car parked in a drug neighborhood with a dead body in the trunk. Do you have anything you want to tell us at this time?"

Jerome Spencer stopped looking smug and looked genuinely stunned. He began to stammer repeatedly insisting that the car was stolen.

"Maybe it was stolen," said Brim, "but it would be hard to convince a jury of that. You see, when we asked about the car you didn't initially mention that it had been stolen. On top of that you never filed a police report, and the keys you just handed me show no sign of wear – probably a duplicate set." Brim looked at the keys again and paused for effect. Then he looked directly at Jerome Spencer. "And let's face it, Mr. Spencer, you're not exactly a stranger to drug neighborhoods are you?"

Jerome was visibly frightened now. He lit his third cigarette with shaking hands. "Listen, I don't know nothing about any dead body."

"And yet, I remain unconvinced." Brim leaned casually back in the chair. "You're looking at doing some more time, Mr. Spencer."

Spencer looked down at his smoldering cigarette and said nothing. He was afraid, and John got the impression that it wasn't him and Brim that Spencer was afraid of.

"Who did you loan the car to?" Brim asked directly.

Jerome shook his bowed head.

"Look." continued Brim, "let me be honest with you. I don't think you did it. When you have been a cop as long as I have you get a nose for these things. Give us a name, and we can help you with this."

"I can't go jail again," Spencer stammered.

"That's the least of your problems," said Brim.

Spencer looked up. The room was still. He seemed to be thinking things through to reach the conclusion Brim was talking about.

Jerome had to know what type of people he had loaned the car to, and he was the one person who could implicate them in the crime. Jerome slumped back into the chair, a look of hopelessness on his gaunt face.

"I know what you're thinking," Brim said, "you're trying to decide if it's better to be killed by your so called buddies, or go to jail first and then probably be killed inside by their buddies. But there is a third option."

Jerome's head snapped upwards to look at Brim.

"You see, Jerome. We're not really cops. But we do need to know the identity of the two men you loaned the car to." Brim took out his gun again. Jerome just stared at him.

"You're not cops?" the look of confusion returned to his hollow eyes.

"No," said Brim, "and that should scare you more than if we were. So, let's do it like this." He paused again and studied the gun. " You tell us who borrowed the car, and then you leave. You just simply disappear. I don't think you'll get a deal that good from either of your buddies or the cops."

Jerome Spencer was thinking hard, his head hanging down again.

"Hurry up, Jerome. You don't have much time. How long do you think it will take the cops to trace your car?"

"They'll kill me if I talk."

"What do you think I'll do if you don't?" Brim waved his gun around to make his point.

John had no idea if Brim would actually shoot Jerome, but Jerome clearly wasn't sure that he wouldn't. After what seemed a silent eternity, Jerome began to speak.

" I was doing my second stretch in Fulton County on a possession rap. I had developed a pretty bad habit by then and hooked up with two guys who had a supply business inside..."

There was a sudden knock at the door, severing Jerome's confession mid sentence.

All three men in the room looked at each other in stunned silence. John waited for Brim to tell him what to do. He wasn't disappointed.

"John, get down behind that couch. If this all goes sideways, get ready to start shooting."

John crouched down as instructed, and while trying to control his breathing, positioned himself so that he had a view, through the net curtains, of the path approaching the front door.

"Now," Brim continued, grabbing Jerome Spencer by his collar, dragging him to his feet, and pointing his gun at Jerome's head," we're going to answer the front door and get rid of whoever it is. If it's the cops, you tell them that Jerome Spencer is not at home. You don't have to let them in the house. Tell them to come back with a warrant."

Together they left the room and John held his breath. John could hear muffled voices as Brim quietly said something else to Spencer, and then silence. He strained to see the front door but it was masked by the oak tree in the front yard. More silence. Then he heard the metallic sound of the lock being turned and the rattle of the security chain. Almost immediately he heard two muffled thuds and then, through the lace curtains, he saw a man walking away from the house. He walked easily, unhurriedly, and even with his sight-line impaired, John could tell it was one of the men he had seen at Brim's house. The man with the baseball cap. The moment he saw the killer, he realized what the two muffled thuds sounds were.

John jumped to his feet and ran into the hall.

The door was still open and Brim was peering from behind it, through the narrow slit by the hinges. On the floor in the hall, with a pool of blood gradually spreading out beneath him lay Jerome Spencer.

* * * *

They spent a couple of minutes looking around the house, and finding nothing, although John was in such a state of shock that he might have missed any number of critical clues. Then they walked back to the car leaving the front door open. John was gradually recovering from the unreal events of another murder – this one much more close up and personal.

By the time they reached the car, John's rationality was starting to return.

"What the hell happened in there?" he asked Brim.

"I walked him to the door. Told him if there was any funny business I would shoot him in the head. I stood behind the door as it opened so that the visitor couldn't see me. As the door opened, Jerome got this look on his face – surprise or maybe fear – and then the person at the door popped him twice, once on the chest, once in the head. I only saw his back. It could have been one of the scum-bags that killed Colin."

"It was," John said, "I saw him leave."

Brim was quiet, thinking.

"So what happens now?" John asked.

"Nothing," said Brim, "the police will almost certainly conclude it was just another drug deal gone bad. I doubt they will spend much time trying to solve it – nobody is going to miss Jerome Spencer."

The death of Jerome Spencer was an untimely event that had occurred just before he was about to give them a name. They had nothing to go on. They still had no idea who the killers were, who they might be working for, or what and who they were trying to protect.

"So that's another dead end." said John.

"There's no such thing as a dead end," said Brim, and took out his cell phone again. He dialed a number and waited.

"Roy? You and Mark still hang out at O'Mally's?"

* * * *

O'Mally's was a hole-in-the wall bar over in the East Village. Dark, thick with tobacco smoke and the muffled hum of conversation. After their eyes adjusted to the gloom, John and Brim walked over to the bar and got served quickly. Brim turned around and scanned the patrons. John, not really knowing what he was supposed to be looking for, took in the view. Dim lighting – stained nicotine yellow cast it's sickly glow across several round tables. The bar was run-down, its worn wooden floorboards and thread-bare chairs, concealing a million forgotten stories.

"Walk with me," said Brim, and together he and John walked down a darkened passage. Brim kept walking to the end of the passage and pushed on the door. It was stuck and Brim had to throw his shoulder against it. The two men stepped into a gravel courtyard that they shared with some trash cans and a car that looked if it hadn't been driven in some time. The small area opened onto a service alley, and Brim walked over to look up and down the narrow road.

"What now?" John asked.

"We wait," said Brim.

"Am I going to need my gun again?" John asked, only half joking.

The stubborn door burst open again and two men walked out, each carrying their drink.

Brim walked over and extended his hand. Then he introduced John, and announced that the two men were Roy and Mark, old friends of Brim's who were now nearing the end of their career as guards at the United States Penitentiary, Atlanta. John watched as the three men exchanged greetings and a couple of abbreviated adventures from a shared past.

"So what brings you out here?" Roy asked.

"John and I are working a case and ran into someone you might know," Brim said.

"Who?" It was Mark who spoke this time.

"Jerome Spencer."

"Yeah. I remember him," said Roy, "slimy little weasel. He's been in a couple of times What's he gone and done now?"

"Got shot in the head," Brim replied.

Roy and Mark looked at each other and raised their glasses in a unspoken, but clearly understood, toast.

"But he's not our man," Brim said. "We're trying to ID two men that we think he knew during the time he was a guest in your fine prison."

"That could be anyone. Got anything else to go on?" asked Roy.

"Yeah, both big men. One has a close cropped mustache and beard, the other's got a shaved head and a spiderweb tattoo on his neck."

"Anything else?"

"Drugs," said Brim.

"Aah, now that puts a completely different light on it," Mark answered, and kept talking. "The Blue Triangle gang. That's what we call it. It's a major drug ring that has operated in one form or another ever since we've been there. Mostly coke. No one has ever figured out where it's coming from. Jerome was a sneaky little son-of-a-bitch, worked as a delivery boy for the Triangle."

Roy interupted. "If I had to take a wild guess, I would say that your two men are Willie Taylor and Ben Mills."

"What makes you say that?" Brim was writing the names in his notebook.

"Well, we always felt they were somewhere near the top of the blue triangle gang, and they were the ones protecting Jerome. Trust me, if not for them Jerome Spencer, would have died inside within six months."

Brim held out his cellphone and the picture of the two men inside the white Lexus.

"Not a great picture, but yes. I would say that's Taylor and Mills," Mark said.

Roy nodded.

"So, who did these Willie Taylor and Ben Mills work for?" John asked, speaking for the first time.

"If they were working for someone else," Roy answered, "then he kept a really low profile because it wasn't at all obvious to us. As far as we knew, Taylor and Mills were the top of the Blue Triangle."

"Have been for years," added Mark.

"Decades," said Roy. " Taylor and Mills have each been in and out of jail several times...most of their lives."

"Yeah," added Mark, "and each time they come back in they pick up the business just where they left off. They began dealing within a few weeks of the first time they came in. They were barely kids at the time, maybe in their early twenties."

"Where did they get the stuff?" Brim asked.

"We could never figure it out, but there was never any shortage. My guess is that someone was getting paid off to look the other way," Mark said.

"But they've been released now," Brim said, "did the drug supply dry up?"

"No," said Mark, "no doubt someone inherited it."

"So did they start the Blue Triangle?" asked John.

"Well, there was a drug ring before they got there, so my guess is that they inherited it," said Roy.

"Who from?" Brim asked.

"Don't know. It was before our time. But I'm pretty sure my dad would remember something about it," said Mark.

"That's right," said Brim, "I had forgotten your dad also worked over there." John knew that it was not uncommon for work like this to be almost a family tradition.

"Yeah," said Mark, swilling back the remains of his drink. "He was there from the early seventies, saw a lot of shit go down. He got out just after he was almost killed in the Cuban riots of '87. He would probably remember something that could help you. I'll arrange for you to meet him."

There was a faint buzzing sound and John reached for his cell phone. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the glowing screen.

"Someone just opened Colin's email," he said.

* * * *

Chapter 16

Mike had not slept well. A troubled night where dreams of long sterile corridors, and the smell of wet paint plagued him as he drifted in the foggy half world, not knowing if he were awake or not. He woke with the dawn and couldn't go back to sleep, so he re-read the report he had written the night before and made some corrections. Then he sealed the envelope and went to breakfast. He was one of the first there and he ate alone. Afterward, he deposited his letter to Satellite 19 in the outgoing mail tray and walked over to his office.

The mysterious note from the anonymous author was still on his desk. Hi picked it up and studied it again. Hand printed on generic white copy paper. Two words. "NOT SUICIDE." printed using a thick black marker. There was no clue as to who could have written it, other than the fact that it had been slipped under his door, so it could have been any of the doctors, staff or guards who worked at the hospital. In fact, about the only person he could rule out was crazy Dr. Jake Williams.

Mike sat in silence studying the penmanship. The printing was neat but not excessively so. He leaned forward and looked at the paper, scrutinizing each letter carefully, and as he did, he noticed something odd. Each of the letter I's, which was the only letter repeated in the short note, finished with a very slight tail. It was as if the writer took too long to remove his pen after the forming the letter's downward stroke. It was a subtle anomaly, but quite a definite one.

He wondered if he should share the note with anyone. Normally, he would have shown it to either the superintendent of the hospital – Peter Gregson, or the Security Chief – Barry Spires. At this point he didn't know who he could trust. He looked out the window. No rain today, but cold and damp. For a few moments he just sat there gazing at the barren, desolate landscape and wondered whether his suspicions were valid. Could these deaths simply be a result of the patients enjoying more freedom? Inadequate supervision? Most of the people here felt that way – he was the odd one out. Was being in this place distorting his reason, causing him to distrust everyone?

No it couldn't be that way. There were just too many loose ends and things that didn't make sense. Martha Hill has told him that something was amiss here. He believed her. He trusted her.

He looked at the note again and then locked it in his desk drawer. He would tell Martha about the note. He would visit her and share the story of his odd encounter with Williams. Maybe if he did so, she'd provide additional information about the doctor's history.

Before leaving for the therapy building, Mike walked down the corridor to Barry Spires office. Barry was not in yet, so Mike scribbled a note to him and taped it to his door. It said "Please remember the phone number for the GBI investigator. Thanks, Mike."

It was still early. Outside it felt unusually still. There were a few patients scattered about the grounds, in solitary conversation, the dampness in the air seemed to deaden the sound of their disconnected voices. Two guards walked together toward the Administration building. The were laughing. It seemed strangely out of place here. Mike walked briskly to the therapy building. He didn't want to meet Williams again just yet – He was genuinely scared of the memories that Williams had made him relive.

Mike jumped with surprised fright at the scream that came from just behind him. Turning, he saw Norman, the kid with the shaggy blond hair. Norman was pointing right through him screaming "Stick Man, Stick Man, Stick Man." Then the distraught youth turned and ran away shouting "Stick Man. The Devil's Music."

Mike had not seen this side of Norman before – the agitated and erratic Norman. It seemed out of character. Mike hurried on, this time looking around, more aware of his surroundings.

Inside the therapy building, Jane, who stood guard over the button that granted access to Williams' sound lab, had just arrived. Mike asked her if Martha was in yet. He learned that she was, and went upstairs to her offices on the second floor. Her door was open.

"Morning," Mike greeted her trying to sound cheerful.

"So, what brings you over here so early?"

Mike told his story to her. How he had received the mysterious letter claiming that Arnie's death was not suicide. How he went back to look at the body and realized that it had been hung using a belt. How Williams had caught him and been outraged, and how the doctor had slipped into a weird state of mind where he seemed to harbor a fascination for the barbaric treatment of patients. He left out the part about his own horrific trip down memory lane, and concluded by saying, "The doctor showed me a side of his personality that I felt was definitely creepy. The look in his eyes when he talked about the good old days of lobotomy was quite chilling. I think there is something wrong with the man."

"Yes. He is a strange one," Martha replied. "But are you sure he's not just a wacky psychiatrist? I know it's a bit of a cliché, but everyone in here is a little cuckoo."

"Yes, but there's something else, too," continued Mike. "When I was in his lab I saw the packaging for one of his electronic gadgets. I have seen a Styrofoam insert like that before. The day they brought in the big man called Ronnie for his sound therapy, Dr. Williams had given him an injection. An injection from a small vial that he had removed from a packing insert just like the one in the trash. So why was doctor Williams receiving shipments of an unknown drug that was disguised as electronic equipment from a company called 'Delta-Rhodes?'"

"Delta-Rhodes?" said Martha. "That name sounds familiar." There was a moment of silence. "Yes. When I worked for that outfit that shipped medications, I saw their name. I don't think we used to do business with them, but I've definitely heard of them. I bet I could makes some calls and find out something."

"That would be great," Mike said, "also, I know you mentioned that Jane worked in personnel, and had seen employee files. I was thinking that she might be able to shed some light on Williams' past, and even something on Barry Spires?"

"Don't you trust Barry either?"

"I don't trust anyone any more," Mike replied. "Well, maybe you," he smiled.

"OK, I'll talk to Jane and see what she remembers."

"Thank you. I really appreciate what you're doing."

Mike got up to leave.

"Oh," said Martha, suddenly remembering, "I have Arnie Fisher's file here. You might want to take it to keep with the others. That way they're all in one place."

"Sure," Mike said. "Thanks again."

Ever since he arrived at Farfield his mind had been a jumble of thoughts and conjecture spinning into a tight spiral that led nowhere. He desperately needed some downtime. Thinking the staff canteen in the administration building might be a good place to sit quietly or even meet some new people. He followed the gravel road that led there.

Under a tree to his left, a man sat on the ground, knees tight against his chest, arms wrapped around them, hands interlocked. He swayed back and forth mumbling something repeatedly, something about a baby that wouldn't stop crying. Several of the residents wandered aimlessly through their empty existence, soiled gray souls wrapped in soiled white gowns.

As he approached the Admin Building a black Mercedes, one of the big ones, pulled into the parking lot. Deputy Superintendent Jim Blake climbed out of black plush leather carrying a briefcase. Mike hadn't spent much time around the deputy, and so stepped over to greet him.

"How's it going, Mr Ratner? How's that audit coming along?" Blake said.

At that moment it occurred to Mike that the audit wasn't going at all. Since arriving at Farfield he had immediately been drawn into what was essentially his own private murder investigation. He had done little to verify procedures, but he realized that if he could uncover and understand some of the events surrounding his investigation the minutia of policy implementation would become evident. Detailing it would then become a simple matter. There was also the issue of severity. He wasn't as concerned with people's lack of accuracy in recording their working hours and taking too long to eat lunch as he was about someone covering up a murder or receiving mysterious drug shipments.

He reached out to shake hands with the deputy and noticed Blake's watch. A Rolex. The kind that divers wear. The chunky stainless-steel quality of the high end timepiece seemed a little out of the civil servant's price range. Mike looked at the Mercedes again, and felt another strand of Farfield's fabric begin to unravel. Where did Blake get his money from? It was true that some people are born with, or inherit wealth, but those people do not usually end up as administrators at a mental hospital.

Together, the two men walked into the Administration building.

"Deputy Blake," Mike asked, "I wonder if I might ask you some questions about the staff here?"

"Sure, let me drop this off in my office," he patted his brief case. "I'll be right back."

Mike sat down on the worn pale green chair in the lobby, the same chair he had used on the night he arrived. Worn cloth, faded green. Dated. The receptionist looked across and smiled politely. Mike smiled back. He picked up the Atlanta newspaper from the coffee table. It was two days old. The headline proclaimed more lay-offs at Atlantic Steel. He began to read the article, not because he cared but as something to distract him. He felt that he wasn't making any headway, and was getting tired. He wanted to get out of this place. To forget all about Farfield, and Williams and his own painful past. Mike wanted to go home. He wanted to go anywhere, to run and escape – like his father had.

"OK. All ready?" asked Deputy Blake.

Their first stop was the day-room in one of the dormitory blocks. They entered through a steel door that was propped open with a chair. Mike soon realized it was where most patients spent their lives. Sad, solitary figures of all ages, slumped in chairs or sitting on the floor. Most in silence. Some were seated at the large steel tables, halfheartedly engaged in a jigsaw or other simplistic pastimes. A few traded short sentences punctuated by too much silence, a ritualistic exchange that had spent its fuel of new subject matter, but continued anyway, as the participants existed through another endless day.

"Can nothing more be done for these people?" Mike asked.

"I know this sounds like a doctor's response but we are truly doing all we can. When you can't fix someone, you try to make them as comfortable as possible. We have most of them on sedatives like Methaqualone or Thorazine and we also use a lot of anti-depressants. But until something better comes along, well, this is about it."

"What about Dr. Williams' methods?" Mike thought this was a perfect opportunity to move into his line of questioning and hoped he might get an answer that included a personal opinion of Williams.

"All experimental at this point. Williams says he is seeing some improvement, but his system is not yet perfected and not in widespread use here – just isolated cases."

They sat at a steel table in the corner of the day-room and talked for a while, Mike picking over the deputy's answers as if trying to unravel strands of truth that might allow him to ascertain Blake's involvement in events. It was an uncomfortably surreal setting. Across the room someone began screaming as if trapped in their own private nightmare. A guard meandered slowly over to him. On the table next to them a middle-aged man with unseeing eyes, slowly began sliding sideways off his chair. No one seemed to notice.

Blake was one of the few people at Farfield that Mike found hard to read. It was difficult to form feelings about the man. Almost everyone he had met so far, he either liked or did not. They fell easily on one side or the other of a sharp line drawn through Mike's turbulent mind. But Deputy Blake was different. Like a skilled politician he was able to walk that line, with a careful, non-committal, balanced step. Mike wanted to eliminate the deputy from suspicion, but could not. On the face of it, Blake was just a civil servant, approaching retirement, biding his time in an organization whose evolution had outdistanced his. But like everyone else in this place, there were things about the Deputy that didn't make sense. He was careful to neither side with, nor criticize Williams. Yet he was the one who always delivered Williams' mysterious packages. And he had been in Arnie Fisher's cell with Williams when Mike had first arrived there. He had unrestricted access to this facility and practically no oversight. And he had too much money.

* * * *

Mike ate lunch in the staff canteen and walked back to his office. He followed the driveway that snaked through the hospital grounds, and just as his office building came into view he saw a green Chevrolet approaching. As it drew near he could see it was Martha driving. She slowed the vehicle to a stop and lowered the window.

"Hello again," Mike said, "leaving early huh?" he joked.

"Yes. My daughter, Janet, has a recital at her school. I try to get to see them all. Listen, I'm glad I saw you. I talked to Jane about Williams."

"And?"

"Well. It was exactly as I thought. Williams did hire Barry Spires and there was absolutely no background in the file. No employment history, records or references – odd for someone who was supposed to be in the military. Williams just signed off on the hire. It makes no sense."

"No. It doesn't," Mike said. "Did Williams know him from before?"

"Don't know," Martha replied, "but here is what I do know. Williams used to work for a drug company before he came here, and you'll never guess what the name of it was?"

"Delta-Rhodes?" said Mike.

Martha nodded, "I've called a friend of mine to find out what I can about the company. I waiting for them to call me back.

"Great." Mike said. And then "Hey, do you have any idea where Deputy Blake gets all his money?"

"Marriage," Martha said. "A lot of the staff here went to his wedding last year. Wife's family has money – lots of it. I didn't like her much. I don't think Deputy Blake does either, that's why he spends so much time here."

They said goodbye and the green Impala pulled away, loose gravel kicking up under it's tires. He watched her leave. She was the one person at Farfield that he felt he could trust.

Mike walked back to his office and spent the remainder of the afternoon studying the forms in the patient files. He wasn't really sure what to do next, feeling like all the lines of investigation he was following had converged onto a point with no results. No ideas. No solutions. He continued to sort through them without really knowing what he was looking for. If only he could identify the person who sent him the note it would be something. He walked down the hall to see if Barry was there, but there was no sign of the security chief and the note Mike had written to him that morning was still taped to his door. Had Barry Spires even been to work today? He hadn't seen him.

Mike looked out of the window again. The jagged tree line was contrasted against the orange glow of the disappearing sun. A cold beauty that Mike found surprisingly threatening. After only a few days it was becoming a most familiar landscape and Mike wondered what intimacy it might hold for those who had spent decades looking at it. He turned back to the drudgery of his case files – picking up the folded manila file with Arnie Fisher's name printed on the front. Martha had given it to him that morning and he had carried it all day, becoming surprised by the weight of the papers. At first he didn't want to open it. He didn't want a documented reminder of the fateful incident that had severed the painful strands of Arnie's unraveled life. And he did not care to revisit the tragedy that most of the staff at Farfield just considered business as usual. Mike's hand was shaking slightly as he opened the file. He didn't know why.

The file contained Arnie's admission form indicating that Arnie was admitted in July of 1972, being diagnosed as "slow," and "not mixing with others." Not something that should get anyone admitted to this place nowadays, but Arnie had entered the gates of Farfield at a different time. He was abandoned by society, and never left this place. There were also several incident forms dealing with any event that the hospital deemed necessary to record – accidents, altercations with others, behavioral anomalies – there were surprisingly few of these. Mike had seen other patient files crammed and overflowing with the old and yellowing forms, the faded writing barely visible, but Arnie didn't seen like a problem. There were several treatment forms consisting of the mandatory counseling every sixty days, and the occasional prescription for Diazepam as a sleeping aid. Nothing out of the ordinary. In a more enlightened world Arnie would have been released, but people in Arnie's situation often got lost in the system and forgotten. Perhaps now he would finally be free.

The last few forms in the file concerned Arnie's death. Williams' autopsy with the words "Suicide" printed in unfaltering hand, a security report signed by Barry Spires, and a statement by Junior Hollywell, the guard that found Arnie's body. Mike read it, hoping for a clue. There was none. Mike read the critical paragraph again, as if no other part of his statement mattered.

"I made my rounds on time and found Arnie hanging inside his locked cell."

Mike felt that there was something wrong with this sentence, but he couldn't put his finger on. The words made perfect sense, and matched what Mike remembered Junior saying when they were in the cell after finding Arnie. But it didn't feel right. Mike closed his eyes tightly and pressed his palms against his temples, but there was no headache, just a strained attempt to hear the still, silent voice, in the depths of his head, that yelled "No. Something's wrong!"

After a few seconds he gave up trying to understand why the sentence didn't feel right. He closed the file and left his office.

Outside it was dark. Mike hadn't realized the time slipping by. What was this place doing to him? The lost sense of time, the mistrust, the paranoia, too many things that didn't make sense. Could it be the the space occupied by this hospital had actually taken on the qualities of the insane, so that it was not possible to exist here without being contaminated by the madness, breathing the air of hopelessness, each footstep on frosted ground leaching confusion and despair into his bones?

It was only a short walk, but he found the prospect of the cold darkness uninviting. The moon was a small crescent sliver, barely illuminating the gravel road. The thought of walking alone through the lonely nightscape put a chill in his soul colder than the night air. He was sure all the patients would be in lock-down by now, but he still felt uneasy as he set off through the frigid blackness in the direction of his room. He walked on in silence, alone save for the sound of his footsteps on gravel...and something else.

Turning Mike looked into the unknowable night. Was something moving? He dismissed the notion as he realized that he had felt this way the previous night, when he had walked to the morgue. It was Farfield. It was this place. After the sun went down, it was his own imagination that teased his senses, showing him ghostly half forms in dim shadows, rustling footsteps, distant moans in the still night.

The form came at him with shocking suddenness. As Mike turned to see the gray shadow of a patient's canvas outfit, the figure rushed at him and started to scream. Mike had no time to react, he sensed, rather than saw, the fast arc of something swinging through the air, and before his mind could register what was happening, it caught him just below the left ear and he fell to the cold hard gravel road. He felt the impact from kicking, and heavy blows from something swung repeatedly at his upper body. The dreadful screaming didn't stop.

Mike rolled away from his assailant and started to rise, his arms guarding his face and head. The figure approached and swung the weapon again. It hit Mike's raised arm. It felt like rough wood. They were now close enough for Mike to gauge the distance and launch a well aimed kick, following it up by rushing at his crazed attacker. He rammed into the man's chest with his shoulder and at the same time grabbed the front of his uniform. It felt rough in his hands, the buttons digging into the palm of his tight grip. But the man began to flail wildly and was able to push Mike away, swinging his weapon again. Mike saw a flash of light when the club hit his head. He dropped to his knees and felt his world begin to slide out of existence. He was no longer sure who was the one screaming.

* * * *

Chapter 17

John stepped into the building's shadow and gazed at the small screen of the cellphone. He had been waiting for the virus to activate on Colin's stolen laptop.

"Well?" asked Brim.

"Someone has downloaded the fake email and opened it. I can see him right here."

Brim extended his hand to see for himself and John handed him the phone. Brim squinted at the image, then showed it to the two prison guards.

"Have either of you two ever seen this guy?" he asked.

The two men studied the phone. Roy had to put on a pair of reading glasses. They both shook their heads.

"OK." Brim said. "We'll catch up with you two later. Always a pleasure."

The two men returned to the bar and Brim and John walked back to the rental car. Inside, out of the sun, the image was easier to see. The face of a young man in his mid-twenties filled the screen. He had short but shaggy hair and glasses, his arms were in the foreground as he typed on the keyboard of Colin's stolen computer. The clicks of the keystrokes were the only sound. Behind him John could see the edge of a bookcase with a window over it, an unnecessarily large stereo speaker and a door. A security chain told John it was an outside door. Through the window they could see the wall of an apartment building, but it wasn't recognizable to either of them. There were no obvious landmarks that would provide a clue to the location.

"What do we do now?" John asked.

"All we can do is wait. We will either know something soon, or else he'll figure out the password and it will be too late to do anything about it," Brim replied.

It was starting to get dark. They propped the cellphone up on the dashboard of the car and, sipping the drinks they had brought with them from the bar, they watched the inactivity on the screen. After a few minutes the man at the keyboard began to hum a song, interrupting it to lean closer to the screen and curse, then he sat back and scratched his head. Through the hacker's window some lights came on in the adjacent apartment building.

"If the two killers, Taylor and Mills, delivered the laptop to this guy, then when did they do it?" asked Brim thoughtfully.

"Why is that important?" John wondered.

"Because if they were driving the Lexus, why didn't the tracker show them stopping at this guy's house?"

"Maybe it did," John said, "there's one address they visited that we didn't check out yet, the one in Sandy Springs."

"But I looked at that address on Google. It's an up market neighborhood. You can see through the window there that this is high density housing. The killers didn't stop here. So what does that tell us?"

John thought for a moment. "That they either gave it to him at one of the other locations..."

"...Or they may have delivered it to someone else who then took it to this hacker," said Brim.

"Mr "X," John said. Brim nodded.

On the screen the hacker took out his phone and dialed a number.

"Hello?"

There was a pause while someone on the other end of the call said something.

"Err...yes. I've got it powered up but the files you need are encrypted...Yes I'm running a program now to try and crack the password on the files...I'm not sure...OK. I'll let you know."

Brim and John looked at each other. It was painful to feel so helpless. To watch a situation unfold that they had no control over. After a brief conversation they were able to deduce that the hacker expected to crack the password to the encrypted files soon, at which point he would call the person back and something else would happen. It wasn't much to go on.

They watched in silence for several minutes. And tried, without success, to talk about sports and the weather. It wasn't long before the conversation returned to more relevant matters.

"So, do you think the person on the phone is Taylor or Mills?" asked John.

"Maybe one of them, or it could be Mr. 'X.' If there is such a person."

"How do we find that out?"

"We can't. Not until we make the connection between Taylor and Mills and whatever was going on at Farfield thirty years ago when they were barely out of short pants."

They sat quietly for several more endless minutes. The sight of young man on the screen suddenly raising his arms and cheering was something they really didn't want to see. The jubilant hacker immediately picked up the phone again.

"Yes...Err...Hello, again. I opened the files. OK... Yes... I'll be here waiting."

John and Brim looked at each other while they digested this new information. The hacker had figured out the password much more quickly than they expected and someone was on their way to the hacker's apartment to get the laptop and all the information on it. John didn't know if the hacker had copied the files before the virus activated, so it could be only be a matter of hours before Brim and John became potential targets.

John was hoping Brim would have a brilliant suggestion. But Brim just sat in silence staring at the cellphone.

"Celebration time," said the hacker giggling to himself out loud. Then he picked up his phone again and they got very, very lucky.

"Uhh..Yes. Hello. I'd like to order a large pizza. Yeah...the special, sixteen inch with extra cheese. Yes... OK... 1237 West View Terrace... Right... 30317... Yes... Apartment #232."

"That's only about five minutes away," said Brim, starting the car, "so let's see if we can get to West View Terrace before Mr. 'X' does."

Brim drove south, quickly through the residential neighborhoods, rolling through stop signs. Seven minutes later they entered a quiet neighborhood and cruised into West View Terrace.

Several identical low-rent apartment buildings lined the street, the front door of each unit opening onto a concrete walkway leading across the face of the buildings. The second building on the left was number 1237. The street was quiet and parking spaces were plentiful, so they were able to park close to the front of the building.

John and Brim exited the car and ascended the concrete steps to the second floor. Half way along the terrace, on the peeling paint of a front door, someone had affixed plastic self adhesive labels that read 2-3-2. John checked the phone again. Over the image of the hacker's right shoulder the front door was visible and John found it hard to believe that he and Brim were right on the other side of it. He showed the image to Brim.

"It's nice to see there are no surprises waiting for us," said Brim. "OK. Follow my lead."

Brim knocked sharply on the door.

"Yes?" came a voice from inside the apartment, and on the screen John saw the hacker get up from his desk and approach the door. "Who is it?"

"Pizza," shouted Brim.

"Wow. That was quick." They heard the rattle of the chain and then as the door began to open, Brim pushed it hard knocking the young man backwards on to the floor. They stepped inside and closed the door.

When the hacker saw Brim's gun stuck in his face he tried to escape, scrambling backwards across the floor until he was up against the desk. John could see that the hacker was much younger than he first thought, certainly no more than twenty. Brim reached out and grabbed the youth by the shirt front.

"Name?" demanded Brim.

"W...what?" The kid looked genuinely afraid.

"Name?" Brim pushed the barrel of the gun hard into the youthful face.

"Uhh...Brian. Brian Jenkins."

John walked over to the open laptop on the desk and closed it. He yanked the power-cord out of the wall and wrapped it around the computer. He looked around the desk, Three computer monitors displayed stuff that John didn't understand. The desktop was littered with computer equipment, cellphones and home made circuit boards strung together with multicolored wires. DVDs with hand written labels, and small tools were randomly strewn across the work area.

"Well now, Brian, how about you tell us who gave you the laptop?" said Brim.

"Uhh..A guy...a man. I...I don't know his name – who are you guys?" Brian looked from Brim to John and back again.

"I'm detective Mark O'Niel, and this is Special Investigator Stephen Jones." Brim showed his old badge.

"I didn't do nothing wrong."

"No?" Brim said, "how about trying to break into a secure government computer system."

"Look, I told you someone just delivered it to me."

"And he just showed up at your door? And you don't know his name." Brim sounded angry. John was pretty sure he wasn't that angry, but Brian's frightened features showed that he was convinced.

"Yes. I've never seen him before. He just showed up, gave me two hundred dollars and the laptop. Said when I open all the files he would give me another five hundred. He's on his way here now."

"Where does he live?" John demanded, trying to do his own scary face.

"I don't know. He just gave me a phone number to call when I was done."

"What's the number?"

"It's in my phone – the last number I dialed."

"Give me your phone," Brim said. Brian handed over his phone as instructed.

"We should probably get out of here," John said, "he could be here any minute."

"Yeah," said Brim, "time to go. Get on your feet, Brian, you're coming with us."

"Me? Why?" stammered Brian.

"I said, get up."

Brian struggled to his feet, and Brim helped him up by roughly grabbing him by the collar.

The sound of a knock at the door startled all of them. Brim leaned into the kid's ear and whispered, "Who is it?"

"Uh...Who is it?" shouted the youth.

"Pizza," came the reply, and they all relaxed.

"Answer it," said Brim, waving the gun at the youth, "and don't get clever or I'll shoot you and the fucking pizza guy."

"You're not cops," Brian said.

"Just answer the door." Brim waved the gun around again.

Brian opened the door. Brim stood behind him with the gun pressed into his back. Brian took the large flat box and paid the delivery man.

"Tip?" said Brim.

Brian reached into his still open wallet and removed two crumpled dollar bills.

"Two lousy dollars? Give him a ten, he's worked hard to bring you this meal."

Brian's hands were shaking as he handed over the ten dollar bill.

The three of them walked down stairs and over to the car. Brim looked at Brian's cellphone.

"Password?"

"6194," said the nervous hacker.

They all got into the car, John behind the wheel and Brim sitting in the back seat with Brian.

"Park out on the street, so we're not so obvious," Brim said. John started the car and moved it out onto the main road, coming to rest half a block away, between two evergreen camellia bushes where they had a good view of the road outside Brian's building.

"And now we wait again," said Brim, opening the pizza box and offering John a slice of the twelve inch special with extra cheese.

"Could I have a slice of that?" asked Brian, his voice had a slight tremble.

Brim ignored Brian. "How did you meet the guy with the laptop?"

"I told you, he just showed up at my door one day. And let me tell you – he is one scary dude."

"No," Brim said, "the universe is just not that random. You must know someone or maybe done work for someone who would recommend your computer services to a bad man like this." Brim took a slice of pizza from the box, folded it in half and took a bite. "Anchovies? Are you kidding me?" said an outraged Brim, "I ought to shoot you for spoiling a perfectly good pizza." Again, John suspected that Brim wasn't as angry as he appeared.

"Well?" continued Brim, "who might have recommended you?"

"Could have been anyone," Brian said. The shock of being apprehended at gunpoint was beginning to wear off and John could tell his confidence was returning.

"If you know that many bad guys, you need to come down to the station with us for an interview."

"Oh, you're still going with the 'cop thing,' huh?" Brian said.

"No," said Brim, "I'm still going with the gun thing." He jammed the Colt into Brian's neck to make sure the young hacker got the point. There was a long silence, during which John was able to reflect that they had just added kidnapping to their involvement in this case. Brian finally spoke.

"OK. Look, sometimes I reformat PC's and wipe phones for this guy – he's the only one I do work for that is a bit shady."

"Name?" said Brim pushing the gun further into Brian's neck

"I just know him as Willie."

"Willie Taylor?" said Brim trying to confirm if Willie might be the Willie Taylor of the murderous Taylor and Mills duo. "What did he look like?"

"Big man. Bald. Tattoos all over, big one of a spider's web on his neck. You guys better hope you don't meet him. He's bad news."

John and Brim exchanged a knowing glance. They sat and waited and watched, and ate Brian's pizza while they played with the hacker's phone. It wasn't long before an SUV pulled into West View Terrace. It parked under a streetlight outside Brian's building. Under the light John could see it was a dark green Range Rover.

Through the space between the camellia bushes they saw a man get out and walk toward the building. Then he disappeared from their sight-line.

"Is that him?" Brim's voice was serious. Brian nodded.

"Wait here, I'm going to get a closer look. John, If that boy pulls any shit, shoot him," Brim was still sounding serious.

"You can't shoot me – you're cops," said Brian losing a little of his confidence.

"Don't you watch the news?" said Brim, and got out of the car.

John saw Brim walk toward the corner. Once he turned into West View Terrace he slowed his pace and kept to the shadows. Then John lost sight of him. Although John couldn't see, he knew the stranger must be at the top of the stairs by now, probably close to the front door of Brian's apartment. He would probably knock and receive no answer. John didn't know what would happen after that. The gun in John's hand began to feel sweaty, he still wasn't comfortable holding a gun on someone and he hoped Brian didn't notice his nervousness.

Brian's phone rang. The young hacker jumped visibly in his seat.

John held up the ringing phone. "Is that him?"

"Yeah. I should answer it."

"No way."

"This guy's going to be be pissed off. Trust me. That's not good. That's not what you want." Brian was panicked, John could see it in his eyes.

"You've got bigger problems right now, Brian. Just sit tight."

But Brian didn't sit tight. When John glanced back at the phone, Brian quickly opened the door and tried to get out. John dropped the phone and leaned over to grab the escaping youth, gripping the cuff of his long sleeved "Falcons" shirt. But he wasn't fast enough and Brian fell out of the car into the road.

John cursed, and scrambled out of his door onto the sidewalk. Brian had stumbled when he exited the car but now he was up and running in the direction away from West View Terrace. John began running too, sprinting along the sidewalk. Ahead, across the roof line of parked cars he could see Brian already fifteen or twenty yards ahead. An oncoming car had to swerve to miss him. John was breathless now, running hard to catch up, but the youth, fueled with adrenaline, was fast, and started to outdistance John. The headlights and horn of another oncoming car made Brian angle across to the other side of the road and a blue Ford truck coming up behind him had to swerve, the white Mazda behind it braked hard and had to sound it's horn. The cars kept going.

John tried to reacquire his target but could not. He slowed to a walk, still breathing hard, and strained his eyes in the darkness. Then he saw Brian. The hacker was laying on the sidewalk between two parked cars. Brim walked softly across the road, still holding the gun. He approached the hacker. "Nice try kid, now get up."

But Brian didn't move.

"Come on. Quit fooling around." John kicked him in the ribs. The body shook from the impact, but Brian seemed unconscious.

Then John remembered the white car that almost rear-ended the blue Ford, it didn't have enough time to swerve, it must have clipped Brian. John sank to one knee and rolled the kid over. Brian's open eyes stared ahead, unblinking. Instinctively, John shook the kid. The Falcons shirt felt wet. Still no movement. He wondered what to do next. His hands were wet with sweat – no it was more than sweat. He turned back to the kid and lifted the front of his Falcons shirt. His flesh was covered with blood, that kept spilling out of two holes in his chest.

John stood up and looked around as if someone was about to walk up to them and help him deal with the situation. He looked at the gun. It was covered in blood. His mind scrambled to make sense of it all. A car cruised by slowing as it passed, the driver looking at the frozen tableaux of John, bloody hands, gun. Standing over a prone body. A dead body. The car accelerated. John knew it wouldn't take the driver long to call the police.

Not knowing what else to do, John headed back to the parked car. When he arrived there Brim was just approaching from the direction of West View Terrace.

"We have to go," Brim said, reaching for the car keys. "Mr. 'X' broke into Brian's apartment and – Holy shit! What happened to you?"

"Brian's dead."

"What did you shoot him for?"

"It wasn't me."

"This is getting worse by the minute," Brim said. "Get in the car."

They got in, and Brim started the engine.

"He ran. It was someone in a passing car – they shot him twice. Who would do that?" John was starting to feel his grip on reality slipping away.

"I don't know," said Brim, "but I bet it has something to do with the driver of that green Range Rover." He pointed up ahead and John saw the Range Rover pull out of West View Terrace and head north. They followed, keeping at least two cars behind.

The car ahead of them turned onto Memorial Drive and headed toward downtown. John soon realized that this was not the first time Brim had tailed a car, there were times when John couldn't even see the Range Rover, but somehow Brim always managed to keep track of it. As they passed Oakland Cemetery John noticed the target vehicle again. It turned left just before a cluster of popular restaurants.

"Where is he going now?" asked John, not really expecting that Brim would have an answer.

"To lead us into a trap," said Brim. "That's why we're not going to follow him."

"How do you know that?"

"Don't look round, but we're being followed by a blue Ford truck."

* * * *

Chapter 18

Mike opened his eyes and immediately became aware of a an intense headache – a white hot pain behind his eyes. He turned his head from side to side and groaned. He was lying in a small room containing four beds. One other bed was occupied. The room was clean, painted white, quiet. A hospital or clinic.

What had happened?

He tried to sit up. There was a sharp pain in his neck that made him wince. He began to explore the damage. He could move his limbs. Nothing seemed broken, although his left arm felt like someone had slammed it in a door.

He remembered being attacked.

His jaw hurt, his ribs hurt, and his right thigh felt tender to the touch.

Who had attacked him?

He could now see that the other occupant was strapped to the steel frame of their bed. Perhaps thirty years old, head on one side looking at Mike but not seeing him. Unfocused eyes, mouth open. Mike didn't know who he was. He wondered if the man was alive.

Mike closed his eyes and sank into the mattress. He awoke some time later to a noise in the corridor outside. His head still ached, though not as badly.

The door opened and a nurse came in, tidy in her crisp white uniform. She walked over, looked in Mike's eyes and took his pulse and blood pressure.

"What...happened?" asked Mike. His voice sounded thin and cracked. He wasn't used to hearing it like this.

"We were hoping you could tell us that," replied the nurse. "The guards brought you in here last night. You were a mess."

"I still feel like I am," Mike said.

"You'll be fine," she said. "A few scrapes and bruises, but nothing serious."

The door opened and Barry walked in.

"Hey there, tough guy. What happened to you?" he said cheerfully.

"No idea," Mike said. "I was walking back to my room last night when someone attacked me."

"Who was it?" Barry asked.

"Don't know, It was dark and it happened suddenly."

"What time was this?"

"Maybe 9.30 or 10.00," said Mike.

"There shouldn't have been anyone on the grounds at that time of night." Barry picked up the clipboard hanging on the foot of Mike's bed and studied it. "Apparently two guards heard some screaming and came to your rescue. Whoever attacked you was long gone, but you were unconscious and bleeding pretty good from that head wound." Barry tapped his finger on his own head, as if Mike didn't know where his wound was. "The on-call doctor dug some wood splinters out of your head and patched you up."

Mike raised his hand to tentatively explored his scalp. Part of his hair had been shaved off and Mike could feel a line of knotted thread, hardened with dried blood. He could also see for the first time that he had a bandage on his left elbow.

A doctor came in. Mike recognized him as Dr. Marty Helms, who he had breakfast with on his first morning at Farfield. It seemed so long ago. Barry excused himself and left, telling Mike to stop laying around and meet him for lunch. Mike managed a weak laugh.

"Well, now," said the doctor, smiling and wagging his finger theatrically, as if to scold him, "didn't I tell you not to go sticking your nose into things around here?"

"I should have listened to you," Mike said.

The doctor examined Mike and gave him some more pain killers. Then he signed his clipboard and said Mike was free to get up and leave – just to take it easy for a couple of days.

Everyone left. Mike was alone in the clinic with his catatonic room mate. What had the doctor said? "Didn't I tell you not to go sticking your nose into things?" It was obviously meant as a joke, but could there be some truth to it? Was Mike's attack the direct result of him asking too many questions? If so, then his assailant was somehow connected with the murders. In the dim darkness it looked like a patient, but could it have been someone else? In Mike's estimation the most capable man in this facility to solve the mystery would be Barry, but Mike still did not trust him. He liked Barry, but the questions about his past and possibly close relationship with Williams were worrisome, and certainly cause for suspicion. And, after all, Barry was the head of security but had done nothing to raise concerns about multiple deaths occurring under his nose. It didn't make sense – unless Barry was the murderer.

Mike climbed slowly out of bed and went into the bathroom. He stared at his own face in the mirror, tilting his head downwards to get a better view of the stitches in his head. He rubbed his sore neck and carefully massaged his elbow. There was a cut on his right forearm that he could see in the mirror. A short cut, straight – or at least, almost straight. Mike kept looking at it. Why did it remind him of something? What would make a cut this shape? Something so familiar. What was it? What had hit him?

Mike dressed and took a couple of the painkillers. He actually felt better than he expected to. Stepping out into the corridor he walked to the end and then down the stairs. A young doctor approached, pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair. Mike asked her how far it was to the Administration block. She took him by the arm, as if he were an invalid, and pointed through a window. Mike recognized the building and at the same time was able to orient himself on the hospital map that he kept in his head.

Mike thought he would feel more nervous walking alone through the grounds of Farfield, after his attack, but he soon realized the the painkillers he was taking brought with them a smooth lack of concern for all things real.

When Mike wandered into the lunch room he spotted Barry sitting with the hospital superintendent, Peter Gregson. He walked over, and as he arrived Peter Gregson rose to his feet.

"Please, excuse me," said the doctor. "I'm already late for a meeting."

Mike took no offense at Gregson's sudden departure. He didn't know if it was intentional or not, but right now he didn't much care. He sat in the recently vacated chair.

"How ya feeling?" Barry asked.

"OK, considering I've been attacked with a log-wielding raving maniac," Mike said.

Barry pointed at the stitched up gash in Mike's head. "Looks like you fit right in here now. All you need is a straight-jacket."

"If I don't get out of here soon. I'll probably need one," Mike replied. "So, do we have any idea who attacked me?"

"Not yet," Barry said.

"It doesn't seem like it should be be too difficult. I mean...the guy is already locked up. We don't have to look far."

"I have some of my senior staff investigating now. Everyone should have been locked down for the night. We just have to find out who wasn't."

Mike needed someone else on his team. He needed to tell Barry about Williams and the disguised drug shipment, and about the anonymous note and his suspicions. He needed someone to bounce ideas off and was sure Barry would be able to help him sort it all out. After a moment he decided that he had to take a chance.

"Barry," he began, "let's be honest. I know you have a tendency to keep your head down and not make waves..."

Barry began to protest his innocence.

"...It's OK," continued Mike. "I understand. Honestly. I do." And he genuinely did. If Barry Spires had some questionable history before Farfield, he would want to keep a low profile here. Mike continued, choosing his words carefully. "But do you think there could be any foul play here, with regard to all the deaths?"

Barry looked directly at Mike. "I'm really not convinced that there is. It's a mental hospital. Things like this happen. Listen, you are an auditor, it's your job to find a pattern to events where there may be no pattern."

"Yes," replied Mike, "but Arnie didn't have any previous record that would suggest he was capable of this, and maybe the other patients who died didn't either."

"There always has to be a first time," Barry said, taking a long swig of his coffee.

Mike looked around the cafeteria. It was already beginning to empty out following the lunch hour.

"How well do you know Williams?" Mike asked, lowering his voice.

"Not that well. I've known him a long time but never very well. He keeps himself to himself and stays immersed in his work. He's not really a people person – you've probably noticed that."

Mike said he had, and to form a stronger connection, he told Barry about getting caught in Williams' lab.

Barry laughed. "I bet he went ape-shit crazy. He's kind of protective of that area."

"Yes," Mike said, thinking that the protectiveness was about avoiding the discovery of his secret drug stash. Then he thought he would push a little further. "What did you think when you first met him?".

"Much the same as I do now. Quirky, awkward and dedicated."

Mike nodded.

"In fact," continued Barry, "it was Williams who got me this job, and I have to be grateful for that."

Mike wasn't surprised by this news, he had already learned it from Martha Hill and her friend Jane. But he was surprised that Barry would openly admit it. Mike toyed with the idea of mentioning the secret drug shipments, but before reaching a conclusion a uniformed guard approached the table.

"What's up, Henry?" asked Barry.

"We've just found a patient with the front of his shirt ripped and bloodstains on the front of it."

"Who is it?" asked Barry, swilling down the last of his coffee.

"Norman Watkins," said the guard.

"The blond haired kid?" Mike asked.

"That's the one."

"Wait a minute," said Mike. "Norman? Non-violent Norman? The peaceful one?"

For the first time, Barry looked a little taken aback, "Like I said. There's always a first time."

* * * *

Back in his office, Mike tried to make sense of the recent events, but through the hazy fog of the pain-killers it was difficult. Arnie Fisher's death was still very fresh in his mind, and now he had been attacked. By Norman.

Mike recalled how the young kid had accosted him the previous morning pointing at him and yelling about the stick man and the devil's music. Was the stick man some kind of reference to himself with a stick, the stick he used to attack Mike?

Neither Arnie or Norman had any medical history that would suggest them capable of suicide and violence, and how did Norman get out of his room after lock-down? The questions just kept piling up.

An efficient double rap on the open door of his office dragged him out of his daydream.

"How's the invalid doing?" It was Martha.

"Oh, hi there," answered Mike. "Probably better than I look."

She walked over and examined the cut on his head. She made a pained expression.

"Williams just came to my office and told me. So it was Norman who did it?" Martha's voice betrayed disbelief.

"Apparently," Mike said. As the word escaped his lips he realized that he found it as hard to believe as she did. Everyone had said the kid was harmless. Why had Williams gone out of his way to tell her it was Norman? Even if it were true, Williams just wasn't the kind of person to volunteer information unless it served his purpose. Was it in his interest for everyone to believe it was Norman? Peaceful Norman? Wouldn't hurt a fly Norman?

Having satisfied herself that Mike was OK, her demeanor shifted from concern to excitement.

"So anyway, I got a call this morning from my friend who works in the pharmaceutical industry. Delta-Rhodes is a small manufacturer that specialize in some of the low volume specialty drugs, but they are one of the few manufacturers of 'Merck.'"

"Of what?" asked Mike.

"Merck. Pharmaceutical cocaine. It was first made in the 1800's by a company called Merck in Germany, and after that the name just stuck. This stuff is not in any way comparable to the street drug that comes from South America. It's made in a lab. Extremely pure and extremely powerful."

"What's it used for?" asked Mike.

"Mostly for ear, nose and throat surgery as an anesthetic."

"And how many of those procedures are done at Farfield?"

"None," Martha said.

Mike put his elbows on the desk and rested his aching head in his hands. His fingers couldn't help exploring the line of stitches across his scalp. He looked up, "So... if Williams is receiving secret shipments of coke...then what is it for?"

Martha shrugged.

Mike continued, "And people say that Superintendent Gregson has a coke habit."

"And Gregson brought Williams in," Martha added.

"And Williams brought Barry Spires in," Mike added, "the man with no past." While Mike was very willing to accept that Williams might be a drug dealer and even a murderer, he did not want to think that Barry was involved. Barry was in many ways uncooperative, and yes, he did have a suspicious past, but Mike liked him and felt more and more that he was essentially trustworthy.

After Martha left, Mike walked down the corridor to the bathroom. Inside the white tiled, brightly-lit room, he splashed water on his face to try and regain some alertness. Looking in the mirror through his wet fingers he noticed the cut on his arm again. That strange shape that haunted him. A short straight cut with an odd twist at the bottom. What was it about the shape that fascinated him?

And then he realized why the shape was so important.

Mike hurried back to his office and opened his desk draw. He removed the note that he had received. It had said, "NOT SUICIDE." The shape of the I's was almost identical to the the shape of the cut on his arm. But what was the connection?

Mike slowly opened Arnie Fisher's file. He turned to the page containing the guard's report and read it again.

"I made my rounds on time and found Arnie hanging inside his locked cell."

Every 'I' was formed with a short little tail. Exactly like the anonymous note.

The note was written by Junior Hollywell, the guard that found Arnie's body.

* * * *

Chapter 19

John leaned forward in his seat to get a better look in the side mirror at the car following them.

"It's two cars behind," said Brim, anticipating John's question. John couldn't make out if one of the cars following them was a blue Ford, but by now he trusted Brim's judgment.

"Is it a truck?"

"Yes, why?"

"Because it was most probably the driver of a blue Ford truck that shot Brian. At first I thought it was the white car behind, but it must have been the Ford – which means they probably want to kill us."

They were now approaching the interstate bridge. Over to the right, the floodlit gold dome of the capital building told John they were entering the downtown area.

"How are we going to shake these guys off?" John's mouth was dry, he could hear the stress cracks in his own voice.

"You seem a little nervous," said the ever unshakable Brim.

"Well, we did just kidnap someone, then they were shot in front of me, making it the third murder in the last week, then a passing motorist saw me standing over the body with a gun, and now we're being followed by two deranged killers. So yeah, I am a little bit nervous."

"But we did get the laptop back," said Brim. "And, if I'm not mistaken, we'll soon lose this tail." Brim cut over to Washington Avenue and turned right. City Hall was on the left and after they passed the State Capitol, Brim turned right onto MLK, and drove past the Fulton County Courthouse.

John looked behind, there was no sign of the blue Ford.

"Where did they go?" John asked. Amazed at how accurately Brim had been able to predict that they would lose the tail.

"We are driving through the heart of Atlanta's government district. Since 9/11 all government facilities have gone overboard with security and surveillance. We have probably just been in the range of about a thousand cameras. Those guys don't want that kind of publicity, That's why they were trying to lead us over to Grant Park – somewhere quiet."

"What if they hadn't backed off?"

"I would have pulled into Fulton Police Department up here. They wouldn't have followed me in there."

"What would we have said to the police?"

"We? You would have stayed in the car. You can't walk into a police station looking like Jack the Ripper." John looked down at his hands, still covered in blood, still holding the gun.

They circled back and picked up I-85 going north. John's hands finally stopped shaking.

* * * *

The next morning John woke early and made some breakfast and coffee. He was standing over an omelet pan when Brim walked into the kitchen. They had spent a good deal of the previous evening drinking and talking, with Brim finally passing out on the couch. Apparently at some point in the night Brim had decided that returning to his house in Inman Park still wasn't safe, and so he had decided to abandon his temporary lodging at the Marriott, and move into John's spare room.

"All settled in?" John asked.

"Bed's a bit uncomfortable," complained Brim.

"OK, Well, how about I reduce the rent for you?" John said, with mock concern.

"You ought to pay me to sleep on that lumpy mattress."

John was pleased that humor had returned to his life, he still felt very apprehensive about the situation, but having Brim's light-hearted confidence in the room eased his concern a little.

The cheese he had liberally sprinkled onto the omelet had finally melted and John served up two plates. Brim served himself some coffee and they carried the breakfast downstairs to the command center in the basement.

Last night they had fired up Colin's laptop and poured through his notes. They had both hoped there would be more information that was useful. The Farfield file had been deleted by the virus, but some information remained on the desktop. Colin had managed to track down several ex-employees of Farfield but it had clearly been a difficult task after so long. Most of the leads were either dead or very old, some in retirement homes, some senile, a few lucid but unwilling to revisit that time in their lives. There had been a collection of nurses and guards that he had contacted, but it had revealed nothing.

Jake Williams, the consulting physician was dead. Colin had written a note that said, "Car crash / death certificate verified." He had also found a number for Jim Blake, the deputy superintendent but when he called it, he was told it was a wrong number. John had followed the same trail with the same results.

"So. Jim Blake is not at that number," said John, walking over to the whiteboard and writing "missing" next to Jim Blake's name. Brim walked over, and with his thumb, he erased "missing" and wrote "suspect."

Brim explained,"...Or, he is at that number and pretending not to be because he is responsible for some or all the Farfield deaths."

"He was in a senior position, not much supervision. He could have done it," added John.

"And, when he realized someone was investigating Farfield, he hired Willie Taylor and Ben Mills to get Colin's laptop."

"How would he find Colin?"

"By setting up a meet," said Brim.

"But there is nothing in Colin's notes to indicate he was following up with Blake. Only the note that said 'wrong number.'"

Brim nodded, "Good point."

Barry Spire, the security Chief could not be found. Colin's comment was "Unknown. Possibly moved away or dead." A similar note was written for Peter Gregson – the hospital superintendent. Colin had visited his last known address. The new owners, a young couple who had been there less than a year, said he didn't know where he moved to, but added that he was very sick.

"That's too bad about Gregson," Brim said. "I bet he could shed some light on what happened."

"What if Gregson was the killer?"

Brim scratched his head, and drew a box at the top of the whiteboard. He wrote the words "Range Rover" in it. He drew a line down from it and drew two more boxes for Willie Taylor and Ben Mills, then a dotted line sideways to another box where he wrote Jerome Spencer, the owner of the white Lexus. Then a box next to Range Rover that said Brian Jenkins / hacker.

"Right now it looks like Range Rover's driver is our best lead," said Brim.

"But what's his connection with Farfield?"

"And what is he protecting and why would he kill to stop an investigation?"

"So we need to connect him to Farfield," said John.

"Yep. But first, take the clothes that you were wearing when that motorist saw you with the dead hacker and burn them." Brim pointed through the french doors to a fire-pit on the stone patio outside.

John followed Brim's suggestion, dousing the blood soaked shirt with barbeque starter and lighting them into an orange fire. Brim went to try and clean the blood off the rental car.

* * * *

The kid at the car rental counter listened with fake interest while Brim told him about the dreadful noise coming from the front wheel, and the vibration whenever he turned left. He filled out a new contract for a black Impala, and the two men drove south and into the mid-morning traffic.

It wasn't long before they were rolling through a residential Sandy Springs neighborhood just south of the Chattahoochee River. John knew that up ahead would be Wayland Drive, the last address indicated by the GPS tracker that he had attached to the now incinerated white Lexus. They were about two blocks from the turning, when they saw the green Range Rover turn left heading straight for them.

"Shit!" said John.

"Relax," Brim reassured him. "We have a different car, and he doesn't know what we look like."

As welcome as Brim's reality check was, John still pretended to look in the glove box as the Range Rover passed them. Brim slowed. The SUV was out of sight by the time they made their turning onto Wayland Drive, cruising slowly along the street, they checked the numbers on the mailboxes, soon finding what they were looking for.

"This is it," Brim said. He jumped out of the car and walked quickly over to the mailbox. He opened it and sorted through the letters. Returning to the car he drove on to the end of the street and turned around before parking.

"Now, look," he said to John, "this is what you want. Not some useless power bill. This is the holy grail of stolen mail." Brim said it as if he were reciting a poem. John looked at the recognizable logo on the envelope. An American Express bill.

"You can learn a lot from a man's credit card statement," said Brim, and ripped open the white envelope.

John's phone rang.

"Hello?" he said, and then spoke only occasionally and briefly to say "Yes," or "OK." Eventually he hung up.

"Debt collector?"

"Janet Hill," John said."

"Ah, the daughter of the records lady. Martha?"

"Yes," said John.

"Your girlfriend," said Brim.

"No," said John.

"What did she want?"

"Well, a long story short, she's seemed to develop something of a fascination for the story. Said her mother won't talk about it except to say that Farfield was a pretty messed up place, She says that Gregson – the guy who ran the whole hospital – was on coke, and there were a lot of people working there who should never have been hired."

"Like who?"

"She didn't say, but she thinks her mother is hiding a terrible secret, and says she believes that it's really destroyed her life."

"Add her to the list," Brim said.

"Yeah, anyway you remember she had said 'we were in terrible danger' if we continued to investigate the story?"

"She turned out to be pretty much right about that."

"Well, Janet told her we were not backing off and her mother said that she would speak to us – if only to get us to stop digging around in Farfield's history."

"When?"

"Janet's going to set something up."

"OK," said Brim, changing the subject. He had been studying the billing statement. "Look at this credit card bill. What does it tell us?"

John looked at it, "subject's name is Micheal J. Hobson."

"And?"

"And he shops at Home Depot? I don't know. What am I looking for here?"

"More than that." Brim said, snatching the paper out of John's hand. "First, there is everything on here from groceries to car oil-changes and doctor's bills, so he probably uses this card for everything – which means it should give us a pretty good picture of his life. Does he travel much? Probably not out of Altanta since all the charges are local, his gasoline bill is so low, and there are no airline tickets or car rentals on here. We know which grocery store he uses, where his doctor is, where and how often he washes his car, which Target, Home Depot and Costco he goes to." Brim handed the bill back to John. "Is he married?"

John looked at the statement carefully and after a while said, "No department stores, beauty salons or shoe shops. I'd say probably not."

"Unless his wife or girlfriend uses a different card. But look at the restaurants – fast food places under ten dollars, and when he does go to a better class of eating establishment, the charge amount looks like it's for one person not two. So my guess is he lives alone."

"Well, you're quite the Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"

"But wait, there's more. Look at this, every Tuesday like clockwork, he goes to the same place, looks like some kind of food services establishment. Fortunately, the billing line also has a phone number. Let's see who it is." Brim dialed it.

"Hi there," he said into the phone, "Is the food good there?..."He nodded and winked at John. "...Well, do I need a reservation? No. OK. And where are you located?" Brim hung up the phone and scribbled something in his notebook. "OK. I thought I recognized the place, just so happens I know exactly where it is."

Brim was in a good mood. John could see that he enjoyed being back in the middle of the action. Even it meant personal danger, Brim preferred this to sitting in cold cars drinking cold coffee spying on some cheating husband, or chasing down some low-life who had skipped on his bond. He finished writing in his notebook and summarized his thoughts.

"So, we could either break into Range Rover's house while he's away – which I wouldn't recommend since even from here I can see a security camera over his front door..."

"And let us not forget that he is known to associate with killers," added John.

"Or, we could just go to this eatery and see what is so important that Micheal J. Hobson has to be there every Tuesday?"

"Let's do that one," John said.

Before they left Brim used his pay as you go phone to call the fire department and report a fire at the residence of Micheal J. Hobson.

"Let's give him a bit of attention, shall we?" he said.

They took 400 South into the city, exiting the interstate at MLK and heading east. It wasn't long before they were passing the red brick wall of Oakland Cemetery on the left.

"This is where we were last night," said John.

"Yeah. He probably has contacts or business associates in this area," replied Brim.

"Now, this place should be along here on the right." John looked and saw a raw bar, bearing the name "Six Feet Under" in bold black letters. Brim drove on past and made a right onto Wood St. Some cars were parked on a vacant lot, and John noticed the green Range Rover. He took a picture of the license plate.

"Looks like he's there," John said.

"Yeah," Brim said circling around the block. "Let's make one more pass and see if we can see anything. They turned back onto Memorial and drove past the front of the bar again, but there was nothing much to see, so they turned off the main road and drove to the parking lot for the cemetery.

Brim had thought to throw his aluminum brief case into the trunk of the rental car and he now retrieved it. When Brim opened the trunk, John noticed a bullet proof vest in there.

"Don't you want to wear that?" John asked.

"No, It makes me look fat." Brim opened the black foam layered case and removed a small pair of binoculars and a camera with a zoom lens. "Let's take a walk." He said.

Together, the two men walked through the Victorian brick archway and down the narrow paved walkways, laid down at a time when all they had to accommodate were horses. The neatly trimmed foliage and the rambling walkways took them past mausoleums and monuments as they strolled through the city of the dead. Oakland was one of Atlanta's odd tourist attractions – one of the few areas of the city to remain unchanged since before the Civil War – a garden of stone, a solid and immovable testament to a time which memory had forsaken.

It was a beautiful autumn day. The spectacle of the Atlanta downtown skyline flaunted it's youth over the ancient rows of granite monoliths. It was not an uncommon sight to see people walking amid the history to research or remember, to document or discover, and John and Brim fit right in. Every so often John would point to a particular tombstone and Brim would take a picture of it. And then they would move on, getting ever closer to the area across the road from "Six Feet Under."

Several fake photographs later, they arrived at a wooden bench and sat. The seat crested a natural incline and had a clear view down a walkway to a gate directly opposite the raw bar. They waited and watched.

"Do you think we're wasting our time here?" John asked.

"You got anything better to do?"

In the distance behind them a MARTA train pulled out of MLK Station. A small group of tourists wandered by. Out-of-towners, thought John. He looked through the binoculars. He could clearly see the front windows of the bar. The reflected sunlight prevented him from seeing inside. Two men walked out of the bar and chatted for a moment before going their separate ways. He felt restless and knew that Brim sensed it.

"Just relax. This it what this job is like most of the time. Watching and waiting. And try not to be so obvious with those binos."

John rested the field glasses in his lap. "So, we plan on photographing this Micheal J. Hobson, right?"

"Yep, I'm thinking that it's a good start."

"How do we plan on recognizing him? We've seen him once at night, off in the distance when Jerome Spencer was shot, and this morning very quickly through the window of his Range Rover. I don't really know what he looks like, do you?"

"No. But sooner or later he has to leave and go to his car. Then we'll be able to I.D. him. Anyway, we may not know what he looks like, but he doesn't know what we look like either. The two killers, Willie Taylor and Ben Mills, saw me briefly when they killed Colin, and they may have seen photographs of me when they broke into my house. They might have seen you standing over Jerome Spencer's dead body – but it was dark and happened quickly – so maybe not. But Hobson, he has no idea who we are. We could follow him all day and he would never know it."

The voice right behind them made John jump.

"Don't move, gentlemen. Keep very still – or get very dead. Your choice."

* * * *

Chapter 20

With the discovery that Junior Hollywell had written the note claiming that Arnie Fisher's death was not suicide, Mike felt that he had gotten a real breakthrough. The next step would be to interview Junior Hollywell to find out what he knows.

Mike walked to Barry's office but the chief wasn't there. He walked back to the guard at the top of the stairs. It was the granite-faced man who had relieved Charlie Lyons the day Charlie had taken him to the therapy building for the first time. Jerry Biggs was his name. Biggs smiled at him.

"Hi, there," Mike said.

"Hello there, Mr. Ratner. How are you feeling today?"

"As well as can be expected," Mike answered.

"Do you have any idea where Barry is?"

Granite face grabbed the radio off his belt and spoke into it. Several seconds later there was a garbled, static-filled reply which Mike didn't understand.

"He's over in Building 5. Observation area," said the stone faced man.

"You understood that reply?" Mike asked.

"Yes, of course," said the guard, surprised that Mike didn't. Mike thought that one of the questions on the guard's job application must have been "Do you speak radio?" It would have been in the "other languages" section. He thought about asking the guard if this were the case, but instead said, "How do I get to Building 5?"

The guard explained that it was the building on the right before the therapy building, and pressed the door buzzer to let Mike out.

Mike was lucky enough to find a guard driving a golf cart just outside who agreed to take him to Building 5. The minimal shelter of the golf cart's canvas top was welcome as it had started to rain – a cold drizzling that mingled with the fog and seemed to leech a dampness into his clothes. The driver asked him about his attack. News traveled fast in this closed and isolated community, and apparently the assault on their visiting auditor was the talk of the hospital. The driver said that he was surprised it was Norman.

"So is everyone," replied Mike.

Building 5 looked like most of the other structures on the hospital grounds. Unimaginatively square, imposing red brick, barred windows. A slate gray roof, which this morning was shining slippery with the opaque morning sun on rain soaked tile. Mike thanked his driver and walked through the heavy re-enforced front doors and into a small lobby. A doctor sat at the reception desk working on some reports.

"Excuse me, do you know where Barry Spires is?" Mike asked.

The doctor looked up from his paperwork and simply pointed to a door. A blue sign above the door said "Observation."

Mike walked over, opened it, and descended a spiral staircase. At the bottom of the stairs he stepped into a small square room not unlike the room outside Williams' morgue. A steel door was open and Mike peered inside. At the end of a corridor was a table with three men sitting round it. Barry Spires, Jim Blake and Jake Williams. Mike walked toward them, and immediately understood why this place was called the observation area.

The corridor was lined by gray steel doors, eight in all. Hinged metal panels covering a viewing port on each door. A door on the right was open and Mike couldn't help looking in. The rooms were padded. Canvas or some kind of heavy material that had once been white covered the entire surface of the room. No window. No bed. Without intending to, Mike imagined an unfortunate patient, mad with suffering, thrashing around to spend his unforgiving anger against the soft forgiving walls. He shuddered at this most horrible of places.

He approached the three men. He had no desire to spend any time with Williams, but Williams was unavoidably present.

"Ah, Mike," Barry said, "we've got your attacker here." He pointed at the steel door at the end of the walkway.

Mike peered in through the observation flap in the door. The room was padded, just like the other one. In the corner of the cell, clad in a canvas straightjacket, Norman was curled up in a ball, arms wrapped around his legs, hugging his knees. Mike was glad he couldn't see the boy's face.

"It must be a relief to know that it wasn't me who attacked you," Williams concluded his statement with a slight, almost inaudible chuckle. Mike turned to see the other two men sharing the joke. Again he realized that there was something dreadfully wrong with Williams. He also noted, by the reaction of the others, that Williams had no doubt shared the story of Mike's suspicion of the doctor, an opinion that obviously none of them shared.

"Doctor, I'm sure if it had been you, you would have used a bigger stick," Mike tried to mix humor with the truth. It worked, everyone laughed. They laughed a little too much, like there was a tension borne of the the knowledge that Mike and Williams didn't see eye-to-eye.

"How is he?" Mike asked no one in particular, probably to avoid addressing Williams directly. But it was Williams who answered.

"I have him sedated at the moment. He's pretty harmless now."

"Everyone said he was pretty harmless before," stated Mike.

No one said anything for a moment.

"Where was he when you found him?" Mike asked.

"In his bed," Blake said.

"How did he get out?"

It was Barry who answered. "The door to his room wasn't locked. Norman was a minimum security risk. We're still trying to find out how he got through an exterior door. Best theory at the moment is that a guard forgot to lock it."

"That's reassuring," Mike said. "It seems to me like you should have a procedure to ensure the buildings are secure at night. I must remember that for my report." The criticism was leveled at all three men who fell silent and serious. This was the exact type of thing that Mike was sent here to check on. This would reflect badly on the hospital administration. Mike enjoyed the moment. He felt like this was the first time that they really recognized his authority. He continued. "On the subject of reports, I need to interview Junior Hollywell – the guard who found Arnie Fisher's body."

"What for?" asked Blake.

"Just routine questions. Why?"

"Well, we've had to let Hollywell go, he's no longer employed by the hospital," It was Barry who delivered this surprise.

"On what grounds?" asked Mike.

"We had a meeting yesterday evening to review the facts of the case," Williams said.

"And by 'case' you mean the tragic death of a young man who was placed in your care," Mike said.

Williams ignored his comment. "It was determined that a principle factor in his suicide was the delayed inspection schedule. Junior Hollywell was thirty-five minutes late on his rounds."

Mike took a moment to process this. When he had talked to the guard outside the morgue, Jerry Biggs, he had been told that Junior's rounds were "like clockwork."

"Strange. I was told that Junior Hollywell was one of the few guards who were always on time."

"Who told you that?" asked Blake.

"I don't remember who it was," Mike lied, "but it doesn't match what you guys are saying."

"All I can tell you is that the night Fisher died, Hollywell was late on his rounds. He admitted it. There is even a letter in his file to that effect, and he signed it."

"Who's idea was it to fire Hollywell?" asked Mike.

"Gregson's," Barry said.

"Mike," said Blake, "the night you arrived we sat in the lobby of the Administration building and I told you that when problems occur, we investigate thoroughly and react immediately to prevent any further problems."

As if there were nothing more to say on the subject of Arnie Fisher's suspicious death, the three men then began talking about football. Mike left.

Mike felt good that he had faced Williams head on, trading punches without losing ground, but he was also angry. Angry that Junior Hollywell had been fired. Angry that Arnie was dead. Angry that the three unconcerned men in the observation room seemed to be covering something up. He didn't believe for one minute that Junior was late checking on Arnie. He didn't believe that Junior signed that letter – at least not willingly, and he was starting to wonder if it really was Norman who attacked him. If this was the way that Farfield dealt with the reports of violence and death, it was no wonder that nothing ever came of the investigations. They would just find a scapegoat and explain it away. No follow up, no suspicion, no accountability.

Instead of walking back to his office, Mike headed for the therapy building. He entered the warmth of the lobby, exchanged pleasantries with Jane, and ascended the stairs.

"Hello, Mike."

"How are you, Martha?"

Martha stopped reading a file and got up from her desk to close the door. Then, when she spoke is was in a noticeably lower volume, "Did you hear about Junior Hollywell? They are saying that Arnie's death was his fault."

"I know, I don't believe it. That's why I'm here. I need to speak to him."

"He's not here, they sent him home, no two weeks notice or anything." Martha was obviously as surprised as Mike.

"Do you have his address?" asked Mike.

"Yes, I have it in my files, Are you going to go to his house?"

"Yes. Unless you know of another way I can talk to him."

Mike's car, an old Buick, which had not been moved since his arrival and had endured a series of frozen nights, required several attempts before it started. It was raining more heavily now, a frozen precipitation, or what the TV weather men liked to call a wintery mix. As the car pulled forward, Mike felt the wheels spin for a moment before finding traction.

At the fence a uniformed guard recognized him and waved as he opened the rolling chain link gate. As Mike passed, the watchman held out his hand for the car to stop. Mike rolled down his window a few inches and the guard told him to be sure and come back by nine – before building lock-down. Mike nodded as the guard quickly retreated to the weatherproof protection of his shack.

Mike turned out of the hospital and drove south to pick up the main road that would take him across to the Buford Highway. The bad weather had slowed traffic into an unbroken stream of tail-lights, as the Buick crawled along.

He thought of Norman, alone and frighted in his padded seclusion. For some reason he couldn't feel anger toward the boy, or blame him any more than he could feel anger for a small child whose actions were the result of not knowing better. But was that really it? Or did he doubt that it was Norman who actually attacked him? If was certainly uncharacteristic behavior, but there again, it did happen in a mental hospital. But if it wasn't Norman, then who? Williams? The staff at Farfield had found Norman based on the blood traces on his ripped jacket. If Norman wasn't Mike's attacker, then the boy was framed and it was another cover up. The real attacker walked free and Norman, poor isolated Norman, was alone in soundproofed captivity with the "Stick-man" over his shoulder and the "devil's music" in his head.

The rain cut down on his visibility and Mike found himself hunched over the steering wheel, his eyes watering from concentration. It was then that he noticed the headlights of the car behind. How long had it been there? Too long? It seemed to have been with him most of the trip, or was it a different car? Mike was dimly aware that that his paranoia was steadily growing ever since his arrival at Farfield. Why was that? Was it just that the hospital, with the help of Williams, dredged up dormant recollections of a time in his past when his visit to a place like Farfield, could have had a very different outcome than the way it did? On a different day, with a different doctor, could he have ended up like one of the hopeless inhabitants, sedated into submission and terminally tranquilized?

But like an old friend of his used to say, "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not following you." And the car was still there. Mike told himself that it was just an innocent car – someone on their way home, using his Buick's tail lights to aid in it's rain soaked navigation, but he could not shake off the idea that it was not that at all. It was someone following him. Mike was approaching the street where he had to turn to get to Junior Hollywell's house, but he drove past it and slowed down in hopes that the car would pass him. It didn't. Mike steadied his nervousness by listing all the people who knew he was leaving the hospital grounds. Martha. That was it. Perhaps Jane, if Martha had mentioned it to her. No one else knew. No, he thought, they all knew. Mike had announced his intention to interview Junior Hollywell when he was speaking to Barry, Blake, and Williams. They all knew. And the car was still following him.

Two blocks further down Buford Highway, Mike saw a gas station. He left it until the last possible moment and deliberately avoiding the use of his turn-signal, then suddenly made a hard turn into the gas station. The car following him drove right by, and it looked to have a single occupant. Mike watched it until it disappeared in sheets of rain. He waited a few minutes for it to reappear but it didn't.

Mike turned on the dome light above him. Looking at a map he reasoned that he could reach Junior's house via the side streets. It would be harder for anyone to follow him there. He pulled back into traffic. A few minutes later, Mike came to a stop outside Junior's house. The name "Hollywell" painted neatly in white letters on the mailbox.

The neighborhood was clearly poor but Junior's house was well kept. A light burned above the front door, and illuminated a porch with a swing seat, a small table and a rocking chair. Even through the rain, Mike could see that the paintwork was neat and fresh, unlike many of the other houses on the street. A tidy garden in the front had gone into its winter dormancy. Mike sensed that this was the home of someone who was meticulous. Someone who would be punctual, not late for their rounds.

Mike got quickly out of his car and buttoning his coat and turning his collar up, he jogged to the front of the house, climbed the wooden steps onto the porch and knocked on the door. The sound of some activity in the house preceded the opening door.

"Yes?" a woman said. Mike presumed it must be Junior Hollywell's wife – she was about the same age. In the glow from the porch light, her ebony skin looked prematurely aged and her eyes seemed older and wiser than her years. Mike had seen those eyes a lot in the South. A patient sadness that would probably have to continue enduring the ignorance of inhumanity for many years to come. Now, over fifteen years since the country enacted sweeping civil rights legislation, there were new laws. Laws that scrubbed clean the conscience of the old white South, but the promise of the new dawn of equality had yet to shed its light on Junior Hollywell and so many families like his.

"Hi there," Mike said, "could I speak with Junior please?" He had to raise his voice slightly over the white noise of rainfall.

"What about?" she frowned. Her suspicion was understandable. What would a white man be doing in this neighborhood, at this time of night, knocking on her door. It couldn't be good.

"Oh, I'm from Farfield – well, not really, but I'm doing an investigation there. I wondered if I could talk to Junior about what happened yesterday?"

The woman craned her head back into the house without taking her eyes off Mike, "Junior?" she called out.

The woman stood guard until Junior appeared at the door, a large man who seemed to eclipse the glow from the hall. Mike recognized him immediately, remembering him from the scene in Arnie's cell.

"Yeah?" Junior Hollywell thrust his chin upwards, inquisitively.

"Hi, Mr. Hollywell. My name is Mike..."

"...Mike Ratner, I know who you are," Junior finished the sentence.

"Mr. Hollywell, I was wondering if I could talk to you about Farfield."

"Well, maybe you didn't hear, but I don't work there any more."

Mike was surprised that Junior had said, "anymore." He had expected "no more." He felt momentarily ashamed of his own prejudice. Junior carried himself with confidence and pride, his accent revealed study and education. Mike envisioned that this was a man who had sought hard to improve his station in life only to find his ascent of the ladder booby-trapped with grease and barbed wire.

"Yes," Mike said, "that's why I want to talk to you. You no longer have anything to conceal."

"I don't know about that." The two men looked at each other in the wet darkness. Mike took it as his signal to proceed.

"Mr. Hollywell, I wanted to follow up on the reason for your dismissal."

"I was late with my rounds."

"Yes. I heard that. It surprised everyone. Lots of people told me you were known for your punctuality."

Junior shrugged. That was as much as Mike got for an answer. He continued. "I was reading Arnie Fisher's file. There was a report where you stated that..." Mike consulted his notes, holding them up to the porch light to read. "...'I made my round on time and found Arnie hanging inside his locked cell'... You see it said 'on time.' There was no mention of you being late. Almost like it was an afterthought."

"They missed that, didn't they?" said Junior, a sly smile slowly crossed his face. "You should hold on to that note – it might become a bit of a collector's item, one day." He motioned Mike inside and they sat at the kitchen table. Junior introduced his sister, the woman who had answered the door. She brought them each a cup of coffee.

"I signed their letter saying I was late, and they gave me a good reference and a severance package. They said if I didn't do it, I would be fired anyway, and there would be an investigation. They said that they just wanted to deal with it quietly. Mr. Ratner, I plan on working again. If I hadn't signed that letter it would have made things very difficult for me."

Mike nodded. He understood. It must have been hard for a proud man like Junior to sign their letter making him a scapegoat, but he had commitments and responsibilities he couldn't abandon.

"What happened to your head?" Junior asked, pointing to the patch of pink skin bisected by the jagged black line of stitches that adorned the side of Mike's scalp.

"I was attacked," Mike said, "walking back to my room at night. They told me it was Norman Watkins."

"That doesn't seem likely," said Junior, in an almost disinterested monotone. This was going to be harder than Mike thought.

"Well, Barry Spires' men found evidence, so they're pretty sure it was him. Only thing is, how did he get out?"

"They'll probably say a guard left the door open, fire him, and close the file," said Junior. He took a cigarette from the paper pack, and tapped the end against the table.

"So how do you think he got out?"

"It does happen," Junior lit his cigarette. "More often than you think. Doors do get left unlocked – even by doctors. Patients steal or even make keys."

"Make keys?" Mike asked.

"They're crazy, not stupid," Junior said, "That's the trouble, people underestimate them. Treat them like something less than human."

"So there are escapes?"

"More than you think."

"Are they ever caught?"

Junior shook his head.

"So there could be more deaths, then."

Junior didn't answer. There was a long pause while they drank coffee and listened to the rain. In another room some children watched cartoons on TV. Finally Mike spoke.

"If it wasn't Norman then who might it have been?"

Another long pause. Mike thought Junior wouldn't answer him, and then, quite suddenly Junior spat out a small strand of tobacco, and fixing Mike with a serious stare, he said. "These days, Mr. Ratner, nothing surprises me. In the last few months I've seen too many strange things."

"Strange like Arnie not committing suicide?" said Mike, removing the "NOT SUICIDE" note and sliding it across the table toward Junior.

"I don't know. I wrote that when I was angry, it was obvious they were going to blame me." He inhaled smoke deeply, and took his time, tipping his head back and blowing it out almost vertically. "I was never late, but even if I was – it doesn't explain how a peaceful kid like Arnie could do it."

"He was hung using a belt that I don't believe he owned," said Mike.

Junior shrugged, "I know. I saw it. But he could have gotten it from another patient – it could have happened."

The children in the other room were fighting about what TV show to watch. Mike heard the woman shout at them to keep quiet.

"What kind of strange things?" asked Mike.

"What do you mean?"

"You said, 'I've seen too many strange things.' What did you mean?"

Junior paused again. Mike suspected he was considering how much to say.

"That place has been going downhill for over a year now."

"Could it be because of Gregson and his coke habit?"

Junior shook his finger, as if he had caught Mike trying to trap him. "I don't know anything about that and I don't want to."

Mike was starting to feel desperate, "Come on, Junior, help me here. Give me somewhere to look. You know the inside of that place as well as anyone."

Junior looked down and fidgeted with the remainder of his cigarette before grinding it into an ashtray.

"OK," he finally said. "This is not on the record. I will not repeat this to anyone and I will deny ever saying it if I am questioned. Is that clear?"

Mike nodded.

"In the last year and a half or so, I have seen a change in some of the patients. Patients that were typically gentle and meek, would suddenly become violent and aggressive."

Mike thought about Arnie. He thought about Norman.

"How could this happen?" Mike asked.

"I don't know, but just going by what I saw, It think they are the patients that Doctor Williams is experimenting on with his sound therapy."

Mike was stunned. Could this really be the cause of the problems at Farfield, and if they were, could Williams be charged with a crime? It would certainly explain why there appeared to be no common thread between the murders, no unique evidence that connected them all together. But there was a problem with this idea. Mike had read Norman's file and Norman wasn't in the sound therapy program. But then he remembered Norman's odd outburst, when he had pointed at Mike and shouted about the stick-man. There had been someone else behind Mike, the two guards on their way to the Administration building. Mike remembered when he had first seen one of the guards, it was the first day he met Williams, when they had brought in the big struggling man, the violent man, and strapped him to the chair ready for Williams special sound therapy. The guard had been the man with the cattle-prod. The man with the electric stick. The "stick man." Norman might have been in Williams sound therapy program after all.

Like the soaking rain outside, an idea began to seep into Mike's reasoning, the idea of the headphones and the taped sounds and, like a lightning bolt from the storm outside, Mike instantly knew what the devil's music was. Which meant he also knew who the devil was.

* * * *

Chapter 21

John had never felt a gun barrel pressed into the back of his neck before, but he was pretty sure that's what it was.

"Now, very carefully and quietly, hand me your guns," said the stranger. He was calm, as if this was no more unusual to him than buying a newspaper. Despite John's limbs resisting the commands of his brain, he managed to pull the Walther out of his waistband and hold it over his left shoulder. A hand quickly grabbed it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Brim do the same with his big nickle-plated Colt.

"OK, let's all stand up and make like we're old friends, shall we. Just out for a stroll in the park."

They stood up. And turned to see the speaker. For some reason, probably his position of helplessness, John expected to see a big man, someone like Brim, but this man looked completely average, medium build, shock of brown hair, the type of person you wouldn't even look twice at in the street – unless he was pointing a pistol at you, the way he was now. With an almost imperceptible sideways jerk of the gun barrel he signaled them to begin walking. Then he put the gun in his pocket to be less conspicuous.

"What's this about?" Brim asked, "who are you and what do you want with us?"

"No, no. Mr. William Brimage III, we both know what this is about," he looked at John. "And we'll find out just who you are in a minute." The gunman looked around the cemetery and apparently found what he was looking for. "Let's go over there where we can be a little more private, shall we?" He pointed to a large granite mausoleum beside a weeping willow tree.

They walked toward the stone block, it's wrought iron gates open to the darkness inside.

"It seems you have been asking "lots" of questions about the wrong people."

"What people would that be?" Brim asked. The gunman ignored his question. John was amazed that Brim could be so bold, while all John was able to do was shake and feel sick. They arrived at the narrow path that led to the tomb, and the gunman had them walk in front of him. "Just go on inside," he said, "We're going to have a little chat."

Brim went in first and John followed. They turned around and stood with their back to the wall. With his fingertips John could feel the engraved printing of a cold smooth headstone he was leaning against. It was dark and damp in the tomb, and took a few moments for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom.

"Now, just sit yourselves down against the wall there."

While they had been walking up the path, the gunman had attached a silencer to the pistol. John froze at the sight of it, almost finding it more menacing than the gun itself. He knew this was going to be more than a "little chat," and his mind grappled with the panic that these could be his last moments alive.

"So, tell me your story," said the gunman, squatting down so they were eye to eye.

"Look, we don't know anything," Brim said. "I went to meet a friend for a drink and he was shot. Then my house was broken into. Everything's gone downhill from there. You've just got the wrong people here. We haven't done anything."

"No. That snoop that got killed was working for you two. He was asking questions about my employer." The man with the gun was becoming more impatient. He pointed the gun at John and demanded. "Let me see your drivers license. Slowly."

John fumbled in his back pocket and retrieved his wallet. He opened it and held it out in front of him. His hand was shaking.

The man glanced from Brim to John's wallet, and then it happened.

In an instant Brim fired the camera, its flash searing the damp air with an instantaneous flood of blinding white lite. John was rendered almost sightless, but could just make out the image of Brim, springing off the back wall to smash the camera into the gunman's face. Then using a handful of the gunman's brown hair, he hammered the man's head into the granite wall three or four times.

John could see Brim was already in action, retrieving the guns.

"Let's go," Brim said, already out the door into the bright sunlight.

"Shouldn't we get his wallet or something?"

"He won't be carrying one. Let's just get to the car and get out of here."

They walked briskly back through the tombstones toward the main gate and the parking lot.

"How did they figure out we were watching them?" John asked.

"They are obviously better at this than we thought." Replied Brim.

From the edge of his peripheral vision, John saw the small corner of a gravestone explode into dust. At first his mind didn't realize he was seeing the effects of gunfire. Brim, reacting more quickly, grabbed the sleeve of John's jacket and dragged him sideways, the two men stumbling behind a large stone monument. Another puff of dust from the statue, closer this time.

In a running crouch John took off after Brim as they hurried along a line of gravestones. It occurred to John very quickly that although he could see the bullet's impact, he couldn't hear the gunshots, so they must be using silenced weapons. Also, since they had confiscated the pistol of the gunman in the tomb, it must be another person shooting at them. They sprinted, in a low crouch to take shelter against the back wall of a tomb and caught their breath. The shooting had stopped. Had the shooters lost track of them? Maybe – the gravestones provided excellent cover. But if they moved again, would they be spotted?

"Come on," Brim said, making the decision for them, and they ran toward the wall of the cemetery that bordered the parking lot. John's heart was pounding as he tried to run low and fast. Brim was already at the wall and scrambled over it. John threw himself at the wall, a bullet hitting the red bricks less than a foot from his hand. He heaved his weight up on to the wall, and just as he rolled over, he felt a sharp burning impact across his upper left arm. Tumbling over onto the ground, he instinctively reached for his wound, but Brim had already grabbed him for support and was guiding John's stumbling form to the rental car.

The driver's side window of the car had been shattered. Brim's box of tricks had been dumped out on the back seat and the glove box and center console were open.

Brim helped John into the car and then dashed round to the driver's side. In moments they were speeding off across the parking lot next to the cemetery, kicking up dirt and dust. With a loud popping sound the back window shattered followed by the sound of two bangs of something hitting the car's bodywork. John put his head in his lap. Brim gunned the engine hard and the car slid sideways before he got it under control to jump the curbstones and break through a thin chain at the edge of the parking area. They were soon lost in the backstreets, as John cradled his wounded arm, a stream of blood oozing between his fingers.

* * * *

Four hours later, John emerged from the emergency room with his arm in a sling and his bloodstream full of Percocet. Fortunately he had been admitted quickly and it was a relief to discover that he hadn't been shot after all. The doctor had diagnosed him with a laceration of the upper arm, caused by flying masonry. John had claimed that it happened opposite the construction site on Lucky St. Brim had spent the time reading magazines in the waiting room, and was obviously anxious to get out of there.

They had been careful not to speak in the car in case it had been bugged, and now had much to catch up on. They were obviously dealing with professionals and had clearly lost this round. Hobson had ample resources at his disposal, resources that had been deployed against John and Brim without them ever knowing it. They were lucky to be alive. They had no idea who the man in the cemetery was. They had hoped that Brim's camera would have snapped a picture of him from when he fired the flash in the mausoleum, even if it was out of focus and over-exposed – it would have been something, but the camera was broken as a result of Brim using it for a weapon. This also meant that they didn't have a picture of the Range Rover's license plate. They still didn't know what Hobson looked like or who he met at the raw bar, or what any of this had to do with the Farfield deaths. They had to assume that the bad guys now knew what they looked like, which was a sobering thought.

They headed north out of the city. Brim made a call to one of his contacts and gave him Hobson's name and address, and then John's phone rang. It was a short call, he listened more than he spoke.

"That was Janet Hill," John said.

"And?"

"She said to come by the house. She thinks her mother is ready to talk to us."

"OK, but let's swap out this rental car first."

"Again?" said John. Brim nodded.

"They're not going to like us bringing back their car with broken windows, bullet holes, and bloodstains in it."

"That's why you get the extra insurance," said Brim.

* * * *

Janet Hill met them at the door of her modest Dunwoody ranch house. John introduced her to Brim and they all went inside.

"Please sit down, guys. Mom's in the garden puttering around with her plants. She'll be in shortly."

The two men sank into the plush upholstery in Janet Hill's family room. Through the window they could see an elderly lady watering some shrubbery. The house was an interesting blend of styles, clearly Janet's mother was the owner, a decor of memories tending toward clutter.

"I was just making coffee, would you like some?" Janet asked.

They sat in silence, the sound of teaspoons and coffee cups drifting in from the kitchen. The television was turned on with the sound muted. John tried to make sense of the silent moving images, but could not. Janet came into the room carrying a tray. She sat and poured the coffee.

"Janet," John began, "I must tell you that this case has become considerably more dangerous than we first thought. Someone else has been killed." As he spoke he was thinking about the hacker, Brian Jenkins, who was trying to decipher the data in Colin's laptop, but he also realized that Jerome Spencer, the owner of the white Lexus had been shot. He didn't elaborate.

"I understand. I saw it on the news. But mother and I are not connected in any way. All we are doing is chatting with you." Janet Hill seemed excited at the prospect of being on the edge of an investigation, yet in the middle of intrigue. John could see that she felt safe and yet alive at the idea of being involved.

John could tell that Brim wanted to warn her off, tell her and her mother to stay low and quiet, but Janet's mother might hold critical information that would allow them to move forward. He looked away, staring at the TV while he sipped his coffee.

"Mom likes to keep the TV on. She never listens to it, but says it keeps her distracted." She looked out of the window where her mother watered a small flowering shrub. Janet put down her cup, leaned forward and lowered he voice. "Mom and I have always had a...strained, relationship. Growing up I always felt she was over protective of me, frightened for me, but it was more than that – almost as if she blamed me for something. As a child, I remember her always being suspicious of strangers around me – I know all parents are careful of strangers around their children – but it wasn't like that. I always felt that something had happened in her past, something horrible, as if she was keeping a terrible secret, and it has slowly built a wall between us. I had resigned myself to the fact that that's the way it was going to be, and that I would never understand what was in her past, but after you called asking about Farfield, she changed. I could almost see the struggle she was going through, like an old wound had been opened up, but also like she thought something was happening that would free her from the past. For the first time in my life I saw something in her like..." she paused and searched, "...hope."

"But you don't have any idea what the secret is?" asked Brim.

"No. Until now all she would say was that the ones who ran the hospital were dreadful people, and she said there were a lot of people on drugs there, as well as people she said should never have been hired. But yesterday we were chatting, and I was trying to get more out of her, and she said that something happened there that she can never tell anyone. I said you were still investigating it, and she said again that you were in great danger and she would talk to you, if only to get you to stop your investigation."

Janet stopped talking at the sound of a door closing in the kitchen, and Janet's mother, Martha came into the family room. Janet performed the introductions. Brim and John greeted the woman.

"My daughter has been telling me about your foolishness."

"Well, it didn't start out that way, Mrs. Hill. But we seem to have stumbled onto something that is much bigger than we first thought."

"And, much more dangerous," said Mrs. Hill.

"Yes," Brim said, joining the conversation. "We were puzzled as to how you knew it would be so dangerous."

"Because I worked there," she said. "The place has secrets. It has horrors. It has things that no one should drag up. It's best to forget it."

"Believe me," John said, "if we could, we would. But walking away is no longer an option for us. Whatever was happening at Farfield thirty years ago, is still very much alive today, and if we don't see this through to the end, we are going to be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives."

"Which may not be that long," Martha Hill added. She had a dry wit and a directness about her that John liked.

"Mrs. Hill," John tried, "is there anything you can tell us that might help us solve this quickly with a minimum amount of danger?"

"Farfield was run by people who had no business in that line of work. They were dangerous people. There were people on drugs. There were people hired with no background checks or references. You should abandon your quest – it will only lead you into danger."

All well and good thought John, but this was not news.

"Do you remember anything about the killings that occurred in the winter of 1980?" Brim asked, ignoring Mrs. Hill's urging for them to stop their investigation.

"Only that they were investigated and all explained, and that they stopped as mysteriously as they started."

"And you don't know anything more about them?" John asked.

"No."

John and Brim exchanged a glance. Martha Hill's answer was not believable. Brim tried a different approach.

"Mrs. Hill. Do you think that if there was some foul play, something that someone could still be covering it up?"

Martha Hill looked from Brim to John and back to Brim again. After a long pause she answered.

"Didn't you say your friend was killed? That should answer your question."

John decided to take a different approach, "How well did you know the other staff there?"

"Quite well, some better than others. Just like any place you work," she replied.

"Do you remember anyone called Micheal J. Hobson? He would have been about thirty at the time?"

"No."

Brim asked about Willie Taylor and Ben Mills, without success. Although John felt sure the two killers would have been too young to have crossed paths with anyone at Farfield. Brim pulled out his notebook. "How about Barry Spires?"

"Barry? I didn't know him well. But I wouldn't trust him. I don't think he was very involved with his job."

"Any idea where he is now?" Brim asked. She shook her head.

"How about Jake Williams?" John asked. Martha Hill stiffened in her chair. John glanced at Brim. He saw it too.

"Williams was there for a couple of years. He was the one who hired Barry Spires, and without any references or work history. I always wondered about that. Anyway, Williams worked as a contractor developing some kind of sound therapy treatment which no one really understood. He was a disagreeable man, very abrasive. There were theories that he was the cocaine supplier for Peter Gregson, but I don't really know if that's true."

"What happened to him?" John asked. Again Martha Hill reacted to the question as if it found an old wound in her.

"I don't know. He left very quickly, the rumor was that the funding for his research ran out." John sensed that she knew more about Williams than she was letting on. He also knew that they probably wouldn't get it out of her today.

"How about Peter Gregson, the superintendent at Farfield?" Brim asked, "what can you tell us about him?"

"Oh, he's very old, probably even dead by now. A friend of mine, Jane Mason– she used to work in the same building as his – she saw him a couple of months ago."

"What?" John was shocked. Until now, they had believed that Peter Gregson was dead.

"Yes," continued Martha. "Jane was visiting Creekside Park, of all places. That's where Farfield was, you know."

Both men nodded.

"I don't know how she can stand to go there, but anyway, there she was and she saw a hospice nurse pushing Dr. Gregson in a wheelchair. They spoke briefly. I don't think Dr. Gregson was a bad man, he just trusted the wrong people."

"Do you know what was said?" Brim asked.

"No, only that he didn't have long left, and felt like he needed to visit Creekside or Farfield one last time."

"So Gregson could still be alive," John said, looking at Brim. But Brim was focused on the muted TV, where a shot from a helicopter of Oakland Cemetery filled the screen.

"Could we listen to this, please?" Brim asked.

Janet reached for a remote control and pointed it at the TV. A series of green bars crept along the bottom of the screen as the voice of a news announcer was speaking.

"...of a man was found shot today in Oakland Cemetery. The man seems to have been a tourist at the famous Atlanta landmark and police think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. No motive for the killing has been proposed as yet. Police do have a suspect, but they are not releasing the name at this time." The feed cut back to the studio where they moved onto some sports news.

"Don't tell me that was you guys as well?" Martha said.

John and Brim looked at each other, both wondering who the suspect was. This could be a good lead.

The silence was shattered by the sound of Brim's cell phone ringing. He answered and listened, finally agreeing to something and hanging up.

"That was Richardson," Brim said.

"The detective that's been hounding you?" asked John.

"Yes. They just found my credit card under the dead body in Oakland Cemetery. I'm the suspect."

* * * *

Chapter 22

Mike had a troubled night of restless turmoil where he hurried through the foggy rain soaked forests of Farfield and was followed by shadowy figures carrying headphones and cattle-prods. The smell of wet paint hung in the woodland mist.

The cold woke him. At some point in the night the building's heating had failed, and through the hazy first light from the winter sun, he could see his own ghostly clouds of breath hanging in the silence of his room. He wrapped the blankets around him for warmth, they were cold on his skin.

Thought seeped into his brain like the indelible cold that soaked his bones.

What if Junior had been right and that Williams and his unusual sound therapy was causing the patients under his care to become violent? Could the strange audio signals cause Arnie Fisher to transform from a calm and easy going patient to a rage-filled maniac that would take his own life? And Norman, the one who everyone called peaceful Norman, was Williams' strange treatment, "the devil's music," responsible for causing Norman's violent attack?

Williams had denied that Norman was in his program, a statement that now appeared to be a lie, but why would Williams lie? Did it have something to do with the mysterious drug shipments from Delta-Rhodes – Williams' old employer – and were those drugs the "Merck cocaine" that Delta-Rhodes produced? If so what was the coke used for? Was he giving it to patients, using it himself, or supplying Gregson, and anyone else?

Mike's head was not just aching from the gash caused in his attack, but swimming in confusion. If, as Junior Hollywell had supposed, the patients were becoming violent as a result of Williams' experiments, could that explain the multiple deaths? Could it be that several – who knows how many – of the patients under Williams care had become so unstable and crazed that they were killing each other and themselves? This would explain why there seemed to be no pattern between all the people who had died. Why no one had been suspected of a crime, why even the GBI failed to find any correlation or suspicion?

Mike dressed and walked over to the Administration building for breakfast. In the lobby area he stopped at the outgoing mail basket on the receptionist's desk to deposit the envelope containing his daily report to Satellite 19. His letters back to the head office were gradually beginning to connect some dots. The latest contained his detailed concerns that Williams' sound experiments might have some undesirable effects on the population of Farfield. He also pulled no punches about his suspicions that there was a drug abuse problem at the hospital that possibly included Superintendent Gregson with Williams as the possible supplier. Mike expected that by now he would have received a call from his boss, but it looked as if everyone just wanted to play politics and keep their head down. Under the newly elected President Reagan, there were concerns that trickle down budget cuts to social programs and welfare operations could potentially result in early retirement for some. No one wanted any bad press right now.

At breakfast Mike caught sight of Barry sipping coffee with Jim Blake and one of the guards that Mike hadn't met yet. Mike took the fourth chair and was introduced to the guard, Pete Simms. A tall burly man who Mike might have mistaken for a boxer had it not been for his gray uniform. The men exchanged polite greetings.

"Try the eggs today," said Blake, "they're good. They lack the usual tint of diesel fuel and asbestos dust."

"And the coffee is in clean cups for a change," added Barry with a twisted smile.

They talked about the crappy weather and sports and the new plans for the Copenhill district downtown that was being demolished to build the new Jimmy Carter Center. Everyone stayed away from talk of murder, or suicides, or badly run mental hospitals. It made for an awkward conversation, and Mike was uncomfortable. Eventually, Pete Simms pushed his large bulk away from the table and said he had to call personnel about scheduling some time off. Mike used his reference to the phone call to jump into the conversation again.

"Oh, that reminds me, Barry. Did you ever find that phone number for me?" Mike didn't mention the GBI, but was sure Barry would understand the reference.

"You know what?" Barry replied, with a look of recognition in his eyes. "Yes I did." He reached into his jacket pocket and handed Mike a folded piece of paper. "Steadman is the guy's name."

Mike was pleased. He was starting to think that Barry was avoiding his requests for the GBI investigator – now it looked as though he had actually followed through with his commitment.

"Ah well, catastrophe calls," Jim Blake said, rising slowly out of his chair. He followed Pete Simms out of the room, leaving Mike and Barry alone at the table. Barry threw back the remains of his coffee and also began to get up, but Mike interrupted his exit.

"Barry?" he began, "there is something I've been meaning to ask you."

Barry sat back down. "Fire away," he said.

"Well, as part of my routine audit here I've made some investigations into the employee records." Mike stared at Barry, but the the security chief showed no signs of surprise. Mike continued. "You had mentioned that it was Williams who got you this job, but there was nothing in the file about your background."

Barry leaned back in his chair and looked around the cafeteria. "Let's take a walk," he said.

The two men stepped outside onto the frosty ground. They walked a short distance from the building and Barry looked around. For the first time he exhibited the faintest sign of nervousness.

"OK, Mike,"he finally said, "I'm going to level with you. I'm not proud of my past and there are things I wish I had done differently. The problem is that my position here is very precarious, and if the wrong things become known, it could be the end of my job. I'm going to be truthful with you because I think you're a good guy and you can be fair, but I beg you, try to keep me out of wherever your investigation leads."

"I can't promise anything until I know what it is you're talking about – but I will promise to treat you fairly," Mike said.

Barry took a deep breath and stared off into the distance. Then after a long silence, "You know, kids don't know very much."

Mike waited, not sure of the point but certain there was more to come.

"The thing is, when you're young you don't have the faintest idea that what you are doing might have consequences. You cruise through life making it up as you go along, and ignoring all the people who know better and try to tell you things that will help you."

Barry could never have known just how much his words resonated with Mike. Mike knew very well the dangers of youthful ignorance. He shuddered as the thought of his own mistakes, what might have been his own alternative future, washed over the present – two time lines converging on places with barred windows and padded rooms, stainless steel, and the smell of fresh paint.

"I had been working at a security company. Just got promoted to the youngest Area Manager the company had ever had. To celebrate I went out drinking with some friends. I drank way too much and should never have gotten behind the wheel of a car." He stopped talking and looked down to kick a small rock from the sidewalk, eventually gathering his thoughts. "I was the lucky one – I walked away." Another pause, this time to study the unbroken gray expanse of sky. "I shouldn't have been in prison at that age, but I got an unlucky break with an overly strict judge who wanted to make an example of me. Anyway, I didn't serve long but when I got out my life was in shambles and any thought I might have of a productive future was in jeopardy."

"And Williams gave you a chance?"

Barry nodded. "He was the only one who believed in me."

"Does that mean that you would protect him if he was doing something wrong?" asked Mike.

"No. I'm just thankful of the break he gave me, and because of that I would give him the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, what do you mean? What do you think he's done?"

"Well, surely you must have heard the rumors about illegal drug use at Farfield?"

"Rumors," he said, "this place thrives on them – but I can't deny I've heard stuff about coke – but that gossip is mostly about Gregson."

"Are they true?" Mike asked.

"Who knows? Maybe, but with my background I can't join in those rumors, I have too much to lose."

"What about Williams' experiments?" Mike interjected.

"What about them?"

"I heard a rumor that a lot of the troubles here might be related to those experiments."

"Like what troubles?"

"The deaths, the suicides, the attacks."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Doesn't matter," Mike still wasn't sure how much to trust Barry. He had his suspicions, but Barry had come clean about the conditions of his hire and did confess to a spell in prison.

"No. I don't think so," continued Barry. "You seem to keep forgetting where you are. This is a mental hospital. These things are going to happen."

"So, from your position as head of security, you don't think there is any correlation between the troubles and Williams' experiments?"

"No. It's true that Williams can be tough to get along with, and because of that people have a tendency to misjudge him. But I've known him longer than anyone else here, and I can tell you that deep down inside he really cares about people. Hell – what do you think his experiments are for? To help people. Listen – he helped me. You know where I met him? He used to volunteer at a half-way house I lived at after I got out of jail."

"I didn't know that," admitted Mike.

"Yes," Barry said. "Williams is a kind of mad genius and doesn't have much in the way of people skills, but remember, even the GBI completed an investigation here and would have surely found any problems with Williams. Just call that number for Steadman – he'll tell you."

"Yes. I will. Thanks. But even if Williams is a good guy at heart, you have to admit that he seems to have a lot of authority here, possibly too much. He's certainly got Gregson's ear."

"OK," Barry said, "this is the rumor. Farfield is under funded. Williams' sound experiments are extremely well financed with research grants. People say that some of that money is used to keep this place afloat financially."

"Thanks for your honesty, Barry." Mike shook his hand.

They parted on better terms. Mike's trust in Barry was growing and if the time came when he needed an ally, he felt he could approach Barry.

As he walked back to his office Mike reviewed the mystery in which he found himself tangled. With regard to the multiple, and in his opinion, mysterious deaths, he had little to go on. No suspects, no motive, no pattern. But he did have the strange allegation from Junior Hollywell that Williams' sound therapy experiments were somehow involved – and although it sounded as crazy as everything else in this place, Mike had to admit that anything was possible. But that didn't explain why there seemed to be a coverup and a general disinclination from the staff to help with the investigation. Then there were the poorly administrated staffing practices, people with no background checks, and a consulting physician that seemed to have way too much power in the running of the hospital.

Another frayed thread now unraveling was cocaine. The rumors that Superintendent Gregson and perhaps other staff members were "users," and the evidence that Williams was receiving disguised packages containing vials of what was probably high grade pharmaceutical cocaine, manufactured by the company he used to work for. The only common element that ran through the puzzle was Williams. Williams was in charge of the sound therapy – possibly implicated in the deaths, he was at the heart of the bad hiring practices, and he was receiving mysterious shipments from Delta-Rhodes. None of it made any sense. Mike didn't know where to go next. What was he missing?

Mike had reached his office and collapsing into his chair, he placed his head in his hands and exhaled slowly. He couldn't wait to get out of this place.

"Tough day?"

Mike looked up from the seclusion of his palms to see that Martha had entered his office.

"Just like all the other days," he said.

"Listen, I wanted to let you know I have found out some more about Delta-Rhodes. My friend was correct, they do produce the Merck cocaine. It's labeled as Cocaine Hydrochloride and comes as either large flakes or something called small fluffy crystals, but what I thought was odd is that there is no mention of the liquid vials that you saw in Williams' lab. So I'm not sure we're talking about the same thing."

Mike was stunned. Then the realization crept over him. The package to Williams had been delivered to the front desk in the Administration building. It had not been delivered by one of the major carriers like UPS or Fed-Ex, but by a private courier. The telephone switchboard operator had signed for it and then Deputy Jim Blake had hand carried it to Williams. When it was signed for, the receptionist received a copy of the shipping document. If Mike could get a look at the paper, it could reveal something useful.

* * * *

Mike approached the front desk in the lobby of the Administration building and introduced himself to a young woman he had not seen before.

"Hello, Mr. Ratner, my name is Susan Reed – call me Susan, please." It surprised Mike that even though he had not met this woman before, she knew his name. He realized that his presence here must have added another piece of gossip that flourished at Farfield.

"Hi, Susan," Mike said. "Actually I'm just finishing up a procedure report concerning receipt of shipments, and I understand some are delivered here."

"Yes," Susan said, "the larger stuff goes to the receiving dock behind Building 5, but most of the mail and small packages are delivered here."

"Are there many?"

"Usually something every day. Documents and papers for Dr. Gregson and the staff, supplies for the doctors, and packages for Dr. Williams."

"And you keep records of all shipments?"

"Yes," she said, turning to a row of filing cabinets behind her. "I keep them all here. Would you like to see?"

Mike said that he would and Susan opened one of the drawers. "Here, help yourself – they're arranged alphabetically."

Mike peered into the drawer. He saw a series of green hanging folders each bearing the name of a staff member, and each containing paper delivery slips. The thickest folder was the one with Gregson's name on it, just as Mike would have expected, and Deputy Superintendent Jim Blake's folder ran a close second. Both of them showed receipts mostly for documents. Mike walked his fingers across the tops of the files, pausing on the "S" for Spires and noted that he didn't receive much in the way of deliveries.

"Not much here for Mr. Spires?" he wondered aloud.

"No," answered Susan. "Most of his stuff is large or heavy and delivered to the general storage dock."

Mike continued on to the "W's." Williams. He pulled out the entire folder on its wire frame.

"Do you mind If I take this over there?" he asked pointing the the thread-bare green seating area in the corner.

"No, not at all."

Mike walked over and sat, opening the Williams folder on his knees. There wasn't much in it, but it was filed in a very orderly manner, arranged by vendor. First there were some old receipts for office equipment and some papers pertaining to basic medical supplies – a stethoscope, blood-pressure machine, some bandages. These were all delivered via UPS. The remaining papers, all pink copies, were from Delta-Rhodes.

"How far back do these papers go?" Mike asked Susan.

"I archive them every six months, and I am due to do it again in..." she checked a calendar on the wall, "two months. So there is about four months history there."

Mike studied the delivery slips. Every three weeks Dr. Jake Williams received a package from Delta-Rhodes labeled "Electronic parts." Every package was less than 1 lb. in weight. The most recent was a few days ago when Mike and Jim Blake delivered it to Williams. Except Mike knew that it wasn't "Electronic parts." The problem was that after speaking to Martha Hill, he wasn't sure it was cocaine either. Mike continued to explore Williams' Delta-Rhodes file.

"Have you found your killer yet, Mr. Ratner?" Williams' voice echoed in the foyer.

Mike casually closed the file on his knees. Williams hadn't seen him checking it.

"No, Dr. Williams, I haven't." Despite Barry's obvious fondness for Williams, Mike couldn't bring himself to warm to the man.

"Have you considered that he might have climbed over the fence, committed his foul deed and then climbed back? Oh, but wait, maybe he dug a tunnel?" Williams said with a smirk.

"Thank you for the suggestion, Dr. Williams."

"Well, I wish you luck," Williams made a fake salute as a farewell gesture. Mike thought it was somehow uncharacteristic, and again was reminded that Williams seemed to possess parts to his character that just didn't fit – like a jigsaw that had been randomly created from different puzzles. Williams turned and walked away, heading for the cafeteria down the hall. He stopped.

"A helicopter – that's how they got in." He laughed aloud and walked away.

Mike turned his attention back to the green folder and the additional shipment forms. Every month, usually during the first week, there was another shipment from Delta-Rhodes. It weighed 21 oz exactly, and was labeled as "Plaster of Paris / Casting materials." Mike was just about to ask Susan how often people break bones at Farfield when he realized Plaster of Paris was a white powder.

Mike sat there stunned as the reality flooded in to his mind. If this was coke, there was a lot of it. It was not just a few lines to feed Gregson's habit, but enough to supply half of Atlanta.

But there was another half to this mystery. If the Plaster of Paris shipment was Williams' coke supply, then what was the miss-marked drug in the glass vials?

* * * *

Chapter 23

The next day John and Brim ate breakfast out on John's deck. There was a freshness in the air that only an Atlanta fall morning seemed to be able to deliver. The story of the murder at Oakland was all over the news, and the shock that Brim was a suspect in a death added yet one more problem to their lives. Brim said it wasn't as bad as it seemed, but he was always optimistic, even in the face of danger.

Someone, an innocent tourist, had been shot at the famous cemetery. The gunman had been rendered unconscious by a heavy blow from Brim's Nikon, and Brim had taken his gun, so it was doubtful that the mysterious stranger had shot the tourist. That left another person – perhaps the one who broke into their rental car. Perhaps even Hobson himself. In any event it did not seem like the killing was random, since a credit card belonging to Brim had been found under the body.

"How do you suppose your credit card got under that dead tourist?" John asked.

"Whoever killed him put it there to frame me," Brim said.

"But how did they get it, could they have gotten it when they broke into the rental?"

"No, It's more likely that they took it from my house when they broke in, just in case they needed it for something like this. Anyway, I told Detective Richardson that it had been stolen."

"Did he believe you?"

"No."

More disturbing, perhaps, was that Richardson had mentioned that the witness who had placed the white Lexus at the scene of Colin's murder, reported seeing two men in it. Word had reached the cop that Brim and another man were at the scene of the torched Lexus, and the cop had figured that it might have been the same two men. But the cop had a history with Brim, and while he doubted that Brim and his unnamed sidekick were the killers, he had to admit that it looked suspicious. The call had ended with Richardson saying that he had to follow every lead, and that if Brim and his unnamed assistant did not come into the station and make a statement soon, he would have to put the word out to have them brought in. Brim had told him that they would both get down to the police station soon.

But what gave them new hope was the story from Martha Hill that her friend had seen Peter Gregson. She had said that he was with a Hospice nurse, which meant that if he was still alive he was in a hospice care facility. They spent the morning calling several in the area, eventually locating him at Golden Care Rest Home in Alpharetta.

* * * *

Half way up State Rd. 400 Brim's phone received a message. Brim glanced at it quickly. "Ah, this is what we were waiting for." He handed the phone to John. The message read:

"Micheal J. Hobson, born April 12th 1952, age 63. Born Nashville TN, Owner of a number of self service laundromats and car washes, un-married, no children, current address Wayland Drive, Sandy Springs, No social media accounts, good credit rating..." John read on, but there was little of value. "Looks like he moved here about twenty years ago – long after Farfield closed. Not much on him before then."

"That's disappointing," said Brim. "I was hoping it would say...murderer, and head-honcho of all things nefarious at Farfield."

"And leader of the Blue Triangle drug empire in Fulton County Jail," John added.

The phone rang again and John handed it back to Brim.

"Yeah...Great...OK...We'll try and make it later today."

"Richardson again, trying to arrest us?" John asked, almost serious.

"No. That was Roy and Mark, the corrections guys. We're going to meet Mark's dad later. He has some memory about the Blue Triangle drug gang."

They drove in silence for a while. John was staring out of the window, trying to connect the dots. "What I don't understand is how so many bad people all ended up all working at Farfield?"

"The Stanford Prison Experiment," Brim said.

"What?" said John.

"The Stanford Prison Experiment. In the early seventies, an experiment conducted at Stanford University simulated prison conditions, assigning students the role of either prisoners or guards. What they found was that the guards became more and more authoritarian, to the point where they began to subject the fake prisoners to psychological torture, and the prisoners began to accept their roles so convincingly that they accepted the brutality and mistreatment without question. That happened after only six days. They had to stop the experiment because it was getting way out of hand. Now imagine Farfield. The management was probably negligent, the guards, well, not exactly honor students, and little oversight from the outside. If you think about it, it could very well have resulted in cruelty and abuse that caused death. But while this started out as a investigation into possible murder, I think we are now into something else entirely."

"But what?" John asked.

"Well, obviously drugs at the moment, but was it the same thing back then. That's what we're missing. A connection between Hobson, the drugs, the killings, and Farfield."

They pulled into the long gravel driveway of the Golden Care Rest Home and walked up the path to the main doors. Several patients were motionless in wheelchairs shaded by a line of oak trees in front of the building. Inside a receptionist smiled at them politely.

"Hello," Brim said, "we are here to see Peter Gregson." The receptionist checked their ID and wrote something in a large hardbound book.

"He's out on the porch," said the receptionist, pointing through double wide french doors leading out to a shaded patio, and a man sitting in a wheelchair. "He tends to drift off, he might not make much sense."

John and Brim went outside.

Peter Gregson had not fared well. He sat motionless, his skin like wrinkled leather, a few wisps of white hair remaining on his liver spotted scalp. He looked worn out, the life having evaporated from eyes that had retreated back into hollow sockets.

"Dr. Gregson?" John said.

The old man slowly turned his head to look at John and Brim. He managed a weak nod.

"Dr. Gregson, my name is John Mars, this is a friend of mine, William Brimage."

The old man nodded again. From a green tank on the side of his wheelchair, a thin transparent hose followed his sleeve and ended up beneath his nose.

"Dr. Gregson," John said. "My friend and I are doing some research on a place that you used to work at, and we were wondering if you could help us with some details?"

"What?" Gregson's breathing was labored, not much helped by the oxygen feed. He was dying before their eyes.

"It's about Farfield," said John. He and Brim sat on two available rocking chairs and looked at the old man.

Gregson looked away and down at the ground. He managed to shake his head.

"Doctor, we know that in the 1980's Farfield had its share of problems, but it looks like those problems are still very much alive today, and people are in danger if we can't discover what went on there." Despite John's pleading tone, Gregson didn't move. He could have been asleep. John tried again. "We're sorry to bother you, doctor, but there really is no one else we can talk to."

"It was a bad place," mumbled Gregson. His voice was weak and hollow, empty of emotion. "I don't want to go back there." John didn't know what he meant about going back there. Was it remembering or was he losing his grasp on reality?

"We don't either sir, but we have no choice."

Gregson looked at the ground again. The three men sat in frozen stillness. Eventually John and Brim looked at each other with resignation. Gregson either wouldn't or couldn't answer their questions. They got up to leave and were about to start walking when Gregson suddenly said.

"That's where it all went wrong for me."

The two men returned to their seats, and studied the old man. They said nothing, both of them sensing that he was about to continue.

"I had worked hard to get the job at Farfield."

They waited for the old man's words to form.

"You should have seen the place before. It was like something...a bad place. Bad leadership, people just didn't care. Didn't even work full days."

John though he wasn't making much sense. "What was it like back then, Doctor?"

Gregson labored for breath. "Patients kept chained up in their own filth, abuse, and punishment for something..., sad cases, confinement and beatings. I changed all that." He paused, "I changed all that." It was almost a murmur the second time he said it. Gregson spoke slowly and sometimes seemed quite able to express himself, but John noticed that he would drift off and at times make no sense at all.

"I just wanted to improve things. I wanted to make things better for them. I changed all that...I changed all that. I wanted to make a name for myself, too. But never saw the stage or the spotlights.

He stopped talking and stared at the floor. "The nice suits and shiny shoes. I opened the place up you know. Gave them fresh air and clean bedding, better drugs. They loved the music. Some of them would dance."

"We know you did good work there, Dr. Gregson," Brim said.

"Not everyone was happy about it," Gregson continued. "It was a lot of extra work to look after the patients, they had to be watched more closely...cared for, cleaned. They loved the music. Some of them would dance. There were those who didn't take kindly to the extra work. Don't know what happened to them. Some were on the bus. It was no good." Gregson was rambling again. "So I had to replace a lot of staff. Got new ones. Not always the best people. That's how I met Williams." Gregson sighed and looked at the floor again.

"Jake Williams?" John said. He knew it was but felt like he needed to prompt Gregson along.

"Yes. He was quite a brilliant man. He doesn't want to go back there either. Sound therapy and emotional conditioning, set up a lab in the therapy building." Gregson stopped talking and took several deep slow breaths, as if trying to suck all the oxygen from the plastic tube, "...and he shared a lot of my ideas. He helped with setting up the security after we began to let some of the patients walk around the grounds. Some of them would dance .Some got away, some died, but Williams, he gave them all the drugs."

John decided to take a chance, "Did he provide drugs to you as well, Dr. Gregson?"

Gregson looked at the floor again. When the old doctor turned back there was resignation in his eyes.

"You can't imagine how much pressure there is running Farfield, how much responsibility. I had dabbled with coke a little bit, but found that I was using more of it as Farfield became more of a handful to deal with. So many problems, Not always the best people, the people, the...bad decisions. In the eighties it was a very common drug. Everyone was using it – politicians, film stars, even doctors. We thought of it almost like cigarettes. For Christ's sake we expected it would become legal. But we were wrong, and that stuff has velvet claws, you don't know you have slipped until you're on your knees."

"And Williams used to supply it to you?"

"Yes. He had the contacts – I don't know who they were. The coke he used to get was..." he shook his head and exhaled loudly, "once you had Williams' stuff you didn't want anything else. Then he has you. Like the drug has you."

"What do you mean 'he has you,'" Brim asked.

"Williams began to get more hungry. He started running the hospital, and I went along with it. I was so weak...so weak. Don't want to go back there. So many problems."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"More and more of the hospital budget for Williams' projects."

"Projects?" asked Brim.

"Williams always wanted the hospital involved in testing new drugs. I didn't want to. Too many problems. Williams had some corporate friends who wanted him to do it, but it was mostly about the money. If he could run some tests under the table, he stood to make a lot of money."

"That sounds very illegal," John said.

"Unlike supplying cocaine to a hospital administrator," Brim said.

"So," continued Gregson, "once he was supplying me with coke I was very much at his mercy. It was me who signed off on his drug trial programs – it was a bad place, don't want to go back there – Something I will be ashamed of for the rest of my short life." John saw his focus soften, and although the old man's reactions were hard to read, he saw genuine regret.

"What drug was it?" Brim had his notebook out now.

"Oh, it was just some garden variety anti-spazmodic, I don't think it ever got approved."

"What about the deaths that occurred in nineteen-eighty?" John asked.

"It was nothing," said Gregson, "in the end... nothing." Gregson's eyes had glazed over again and he began to ramble. "No serial killer, no conspiracy, nothing other than too many patients... not enough money to look after them. bad place, won't go back there. Never saw the stage or the spotlights."

But for John, Gregson's answer didn't ring true. His defense came almost too urgently – out of character – if there was such a thing for Dr. Gregson.

"Was that an opinion shared by all the staff?" John asked.

"Yes, most of the formalities were handled by Williams, Blake, and Spires. Big fence. They walked around. Some of them would dance."

"Is this Barry Spires?" said John, showing Gregson the photograph of the four of them outside Farfield's main gate. Gregson just looked at the photograph, drawn back through time, lost in a moment long ago.

"Yes," said Gregson, the word was drawn out and seemed to last for several syllables. "How time changes a man. If only I had known. So many problems. Bad place, won't go back there."

Gregson's eyes began to tear up. He seemed to be slipping away. Another mind had taken over, one full of regret and shame. It was impossible to know what was going through his head, but there was definitely a shift that had taken place.

"Dr. Gregson, if you could change one thing about your time at Farfield, what would it be?"

The doctor looked at them both in turn. For the first time John felt that he was not just speaking, but talking to them.

"I would have never covered up his drug testing."

"Why not?" it was Brim who asked.

"Because what if it was that? What if that caused the problems? What if those drugs didn't work the way they were supposed to?"

"What do you mean, Doctor?" John leaned forward. "Do you mean the deaths?"

"What if it had been different?" said Gregson, and a tear fell from his bony cheek. "It was a bad place – don't want to go back there – never saw the stage or the spotlights."

"Dr. Gregson. What did the drugs do?" asked Brim urgently. But Gregson was just looking at the ground shaking his head. They sat there, not really knowing what they should do. John suggested calling a nurse, but Brim wanted to wait and see what would happen. See if Dr. Gregson would give anything else away.

"The shame of it all, what sadness," Gregson mumbled. "You know Williams started out as a really nice guy. I think he just got greedy." A shift had taken place again and Gregson seemed to be lucid once more.

"You mean a shame about the drug testing. Doctor?" asked Brim.

"Oh yes, that and all the other things we got wrong, all the people we failed." He paused. "Yes, a nice guy, Williams. You know he used to do social work before he came to Farfield. He used to really care for others."

"Where did he do the social work?" Brim was taking notes again, but he stopped when Gregson answered his question.

"He was the volunteer prison doctor at Fulton County Correctional Institution," said Dr. Gregson.

* * * *

Chapter 24

Mike walked over to the therapy building hoping the cold air would clear his head, but by the time he arrived his head was buzzing even more from the realization that there were shipments arriving at Farfield, addressed to Dr. Williams, that were highly suspect. This considerably expanded the scope of his investigation. Up to this point, Mike believed that Doctor Williams was receiving small batches of cocaine from Delta-Rhodes, and distributing them to the hospital's Superintendent, Dr. Gregson. It now appeared that other, much larger packages were arriving that originated from the same drug company. These larger packages were labeled as Plaster of Paris, a substance consisting of white powder, and according to Mike's suspicions, probably didn't contain casting materials.

Martha had just returned from a late lunch and was working her way through an overflowing in-box. At this point, Mike felt comfortable enough with Martha to sit without being invited. She looked up from her work.

"How's it going?" he asked.

"Oh, crazy," she said, "my car is in the shop and I just heard it won't be ready today. I have to get the bus home."

"I can give you a ride," offered Mike. "It will be good to get out of here for a while."

"That bad, huh?" she asked.

"So I arrived here to perform a routine procedural audit," Mike began, "then it quickly began to look like there was some foul play behind multiple deaths – which no one had bothered to tell me about, and it still remains a mystery. I hear constant rumors that the hospital superintendent is a cocaine addict and the head of security is an ex-jailbird. Then I run into a crazy psycho doctor, experimenting on the patients with techniques no one else at the hospital seems to have any understanding of. This same doctor is receiving undocumented drug shipments disguised as electronic parts, and now it looks like Farfield is the center of a major drug distribution racket. Did I miss anything?"

"Wait," Martha said, "you're going way too fast for me. Barry was in jail?"

"Yes, I asked him about his past and he came clean. Had some kind of DUI problem and someone died. I didn't press him for the details, but I was grateful for his honesty. It sort of explains why he wasn't too cooperative when I first came here. He just wanted to keep a low profile and not make waves."

"So do you trust him now?"

"More than I trust most of the people here," Mike said.

"And what's all this about drug distribution?"

"I went and checked the package receipt slips in reception. I was just looking for more information about his mysterious shipment of those glass vials, but it turns out that he is also getting regular shipments of Plaster of Paris – allegedly for casting broken bones – from the same Delta-Rhodes company. So I'm thinking if Delta-Rhodes is incorrectly packaging the glass vial shipment, they might also be incorrectly packaging white powder."

"Yes, that doesn't sound right at all," Martha agreed. "Delta-Rhodes is a drug manufacturer, they wouldn't be producing general medical supplies like casting plaster."

"And even if they were, why would they send it by private courier instead of a regular carrier like UPS."

They sat in thoughtful silence. Martha sipping her coffee and Mike staring out of the window.

"You know," Martha said, breaking the stillness in the room, "Deputy Jim Blake always hand delivers Williams' packages from the reception area."

"Jim Blake, with the nice car and all the money?" Mike asked.

"Yes. That one."

Mike was about ready to make that call to the GBI, but he wanted something that carried a little more weight. It might be hard for Mike to make the case for Williams performing dangerous experimental techniques with sound, and it would be difficult to get anyone to launch an investigation into the hospital's hiring decisions. But the fact that a doctor at Farfield was receiving misidentified packages from a cocaine manufacturer, was definitely suspect. But that's all it was – suspect.

"If only I could prove it," Mike said aloud. "After all, if the GBI came in with guns blazing only to find actual Plaster of Paris, the GBI would walk away laughing, Williams would be tipped off and cover his tracks, and I would be in an unemployment line."

After a few more seconds, Martha look up from her desk. "I think there is a way to prove it."

"How?" asked Mike.

"There may be another avenue of investigation open to you. You were sent to Farfield to perform a procedural audit, which includes an accounting overview. All you have to do is, check the financial records for payments to Delta-Rhodes, that should indicate who is paying for the drug shipments. If the shipment is legitimate it should be paid for by Farfield, but what if it isn't?"

Mike nodded. "Follow the money."

* * * *

The accounting department at Farfield was located on the second floor of the Administration building, along the corridor from Gregson's office. Mike introduced himself to a woman named Wanda, and explained that as part of his audit he needed to check the records for accounts receivables.

"I can assure you that everything is in order," Wanda said, handing Mike a large ledger.

"I'm sure it is," Mike said, as he scanned a column of ball-point entries. "Would it be easy for me to locate expenses associated with a particular staff member?" he asked.

"Yes. This column here," Wanda said, pointing to a list of three digit numbers. "Each staff member has a code number."

"So, if I wanted to find all purchases by ...Oh, lets say...Security Chief Spires...?"

"You would just look up his code number, which is 034, and find in that column." Wanda handed Mike a laminated sheet with a list of staff members and a three digit number assigned to each. Mike searched the ledger for 034 and found several entries. From these he was able to find an invoice number that matched a document stored in a file cabinet. Most of Barry's purchases were for hardware to fix fencing and lighting. But Mike also saw evidence of uniform repairs and radio equipment. He checked the laminated sheet again for Williams' number. It was 027. He performed the same test again but found very few purchases for Williams. There was a new office chair and some desk supplies. But nothing recent and nothing that would match the strange drug shipment disguised as the "Type three, Audio Sine-wave Signal Generator," that Williams had received earlier in the week.

Mike checked the accounts for the pharmacy, and the medical treatment rooms, but found no record of Williams' shipment. In the end he concluded that either no one paid for the package, or someone paid in a manner that did not show up on Farfield's accounts.

It was time to call the G.B.I.

Mike walked back to his office. He had become used to walking alone through the grounds, but still felt uneasy. Today more so than ever. Although since arriving at the hospital, his life had seemed underpinned with hopelessness and even paranoia – he was growing accustomed to the despair. Now as he felt the possibility of a solution, his anxiety gripped him like an icy cold wind.

Despite the cold, several of Farfield's patients wandered the grounds, vacant stares reflecting endless days with no future. At a picnic table a young man missing patches of his hair, examined a dead bird using a twig. Mike shuddered and quickened his pace.

Mike reached the building that housed his office. The granite faced guard was on duty. Recognizing Mike, he buzzed the gate open.

Twilight had already cast it's long shadows over Farfield, and Mike could see the light had been turned on in Barry's office. Mike felt that given more time he could become good friends with Barry. They shared a similar unspoken trauma in their past, one that had defined their youth, and Mike appreciated the honesty with which the security chief had opened up. He felt, not only the need to confide his suspicions in someone else and use the security chief as a sounding board, but also felt an obligation to help Barry navigate whatever turmoil Mike's investigations might unleash. And it was unlikely that the ex-convict would side with drug dealers and/or murderers. He simply had too much to lose. Mike walked into Barry's office and sat down, waiting for Barry to finish talking to one of his men on the crackling radio.

"What's up?" Barry said cheerfully.

"Barry," Mike began, "we have to talk."

"Oh no," said the security chief, slapping a palm to his forehead in mock dismay, "not the 'We have to talk' speech. But we've only been dating a few days."

"No, I'm serious, Barry. This concerns your friend Williams."

"Hey, like I've said. I owe the crazy doctor a debt of gratitude, but that's as far as it goes. It's true I wouldn't feel good about helping you burn him, but I won't get in your way if you suspect him of something."

"Williams is receiving mysterious packages."

"What kind of packages?"

"I think they contain drugs."

"You know this is a hospital, right?"

Mike just rolled his eyes – he wasn't in the mood for humor.

"These packages are from a drug company called Delta-Rhodes. Ever heard of it?"

Barry shook his head. "No. But I don't find anything particularly mysterious about it. Just a doctor receiving a shipment of drugs."

"But these drugs are marked as electronic parts and surgical supplies. Why would that be?"

Barry looked stunned. He frowned, "Are you sure?"

"Certain."

"So what do you think is in them?"

"I think its cocaine. Lots of it. At least a pound. Every month."

Barry frowned again, then shook his head, "No. That's not possible. Look everyone here has heard the rumors about some staff members being a little too fond of the nose candy, but if there was that much coming into this hospital, them most of it is going out again."

"Meaning there is a big dealer here at Farfield." Mike drew the obvious conclusion. "Barry, I have to ask this question. Do you know anyone who might be involved in this, a rumor, a suspicion, anything?"

"Hell, no," Barry said. "But if it is going on, the last person they would be likely to tell would be me. I'm the next best thing to a cop around here."

"Yes," Mike said, "I suppose that makes sense."

"Do you have a suspect list?" asked Barry.

"Not really. The packages come by private courier and are addressed to Williams. The only other person that comes into contact with them is Deputy Superintendent Blake."

"Jim? I can't see him being involved."

"Nor I, but he always makes a point of hand delivering them to Williams in the therapy building."

"He's probably doing it just to get some exercise," Barry said. I don't think it means anything. Anyway Jim is old school, he's just not a drug user."

"But he could be selling it for Williams," added Mike.

"Why? For the money? He's already got plenty."

"Yes, but where did he get it?"

"He married it. I went to the wedding. Most of the staff were there."

"But if he already had money, say from some drug dealing venture, and then married some more, no one would notice or question where it came from. Anyway, where did he meet his rich wife?"

"I don't know," said Barry. "I can see why a jury might think Jim is involved, but I'm not so sure."

"What about Williams?" asked Mike.

"If you have proof that Williams is receiving these packages, and you know, or even suspect, that they contain illegal drugs, then this is big. It's huge. You have to call Steadman at the G.B.I. But listen, I'm clean, I beg you to keep me out of anything."

"If you're not involved, then I won't involve you. That's the most I can promise."

"Fair enough," replied Barry.

* * * *

Back at his office, Mike wanted to wait for everyone to leave before using the phone in the break room to call the G.B.I. He killed time by writing his progress report to Satellite 19. It was the most elaborate and detailed document that he had created since his arrival. It contained all of his findings and suspicions, including additional notes about Williams and Jim Blake. He sealed it in an envelope and put it in his inside jacket pocket. He wouldn't mail it from the hospital, instead he would give it to Martha to mail, and also get a copy to the G.B.I.

When the last straggler left, Mike walked along the corridor to the break room and dialed the number on the piece of paper given to him by Barry. On the third ring, a gravely middle-aged voice answered, "Agent Steadman, G.B.I."

"Agent Steadman, my name is Mike Ratner. I work for the Department of Human Services and I was sent to audit Farfield hospital. I believe you know of the place?"

"Yes, we were involved in an investigation out there," said the GBI agent. His response came with a slight delay and Mike suspected he was taking notes.

"Sir," began Mike. "I have been digging into the operations here as part of a procedural audit, and I have reached the conclusion that there are a number of irregularities that might require you to come out here again."

"What kind of irregularities?"

"Well, initially there were the deaths, I believe several more have occurred since you were here."

"Yes. The place is over crowded and doesn't have enough staff. We did a full investigation and although we did find some odd facts, we concluded that there was nothing untoward going on."

"Yes, but there has been a suspicious suicide recently."

"All suicides are suspicious, but less so when they happen in a psychiatric hospital, You realize that those places are known for people with serious problems, right?"

Mike sensed a condescending tone in the agent's voice. Probably because he resented anyone second guessing the results of his investigation, or he didn't like that someone was trying to re-open a case he had closed.

"Agent Steadman, did your investigation turn up anything strange about Dr. Jake Williams?"

"Not really," replied the agent. "Williams had some kind of altercation with every agent who talked to him. He's an odd fellow who's passionate about that music-healing thing he does, but we found nothing that would warrant further investigation."

"Someone who used to work here thinks differently, They said that they thought Williams' sound experiments were having an adverse effect on some of the patients and that might be causing the deaths."

"Was this informant an employee or a patient?"

There was the condescension again. Steadman wasn't taking Mike seriously, and Mike was starting to see why Steadman's investigation may have been uneventful. There was a pause on the other end of the phone which gave Mike a moment to reflect on just how crazy he must have sounded to the G.B.I. Investigator.

"Agent Steadman, while you were out here, did you hear any rumors about illegal drug use?"

There was another pause, this one so long that Mike wondered if the line had gone dead.

"What kind of rumors?"

"Dr. Williams has been receiving suspicious packages. Packages that are identified as something else on the shipping documents. These are coming directly to Williams, not to the hospital."

"So, he's in a book of the month club, or something. This doesn't mean anything."

"But there's more to it than that. At first I found evidence of some kind of drug shipped to him in small glass vials labeled as electronic parts. Later I founder paperwork confirming that he was also getting monthly shipments of something labeled as casting plaster from a company called Delta-Rhodes, who are manufacturers of high grade pharmaceutical cocaine."

"Delta-Rhodes?" Steadman asked, as if he recognized the name.

"Yes."

"How big are the packages?" Steadman now had an urgency in his voice.

"At least a pound, shipped in the first week of every month," said Mike. "And, there is no record of any order or payment by the hospital."

"And you know this for a fact," asked Steadman.

"Absolutely," Mike said.

More silence. When Steadman finally began speaking again, his voice was deliberate and slow.

"Do you have a pencil?"

"Yes."

"Write this down." Steadman gave Mike the address of a building downtown, just off Marietta Street.

"Got it," Mike said.

"OK. Now listen carefully. Get your things. Get in your car, and leave now. Drive directly to the address I gave you and meet me there. Tell no one where you are going. Tell no one you're leaving. Hang up the phone right now and get out."

* * * *

Chapter 25

John and Brim were driving back from the hospice where Gregson was staying.

"So Williams was the doctor at the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary?" John said.

Gregson had painted a grim picture of the mental hospital, including lack of hygiene, abuse, blackmail, and drug abuse, but the most startling news was that Dr. Jake Williams, the drug dealing blackmailer, the one conducting illegal drug trials, had been the doctor at the prison where the Blue Triangle drug gang operated.

"Looks like it," Brim said. "If you believe that crazy old man – and you know what? I think I do."

"Well, if he's right, It's a connection between Farfield hospital, the jail, and the drugs."

"And explains why we keep running into such unsavory characters at every corner."

"But here's what I don't get," pondered John. "I can see how Williams is the connection between both worlds, Farfield and the drugs, but Williams is dead now."

"Maybe so," Brim said, "but my guess is that the drug empire is still going strong and for some reason trying to protect whatever secrets are locked up in the memories of Farfield."

"Do you think they're trying to cover up information about the drugs or the murders?"

Brim said nothing. He checked his rear view mirror, something John had noticed him doing more frequently since they were shot at in Oakland Cemetery. Eventually he spoke. "We still can't be sure the the deaths at Farfield were murder. I mean we have yet to find any evidence that there was a crazed killer roaming the grounds of Farfield. But yeah, I suppose they could be related."

"But we do know that Williams supplied coke to Gregson, and that Williams was in a position to supply coke to the jail," said John.

"Where, during that same time, the Blue Triangle gang, including Colin's killers, Taylor and Mills, were incarcerated."

"And when we started poking around and asking questions about Williams, he sent Taylor and Mills to shut us up."

"But Williams is dead now. How would they know we were asking about him?" said Brim. After a moment of thought he continued, "Unless it was all triggered by someone else that Colin started investigating? I wish we could go through Colin's laptop and find out, but that virus wiped it."

The two men drove in silence. There was still a piece of this puzzle missing. Even if the Blue Triangle was still active, and they had somehow heard about Colin's investigations, what secret thirty years old would they still kill to protect?

"What about this Micheal J. Hobson guy. The one in the green Range Rover," John asked.

"You mean the one who tried to kill us at the cemetery?"

"Yes. That one."

"My best guess is that he is something to do with the Blue Triangle gang."

"Should we tell the cops about him?"

"We have no evidence. And like I've said before he probably has connections inside the police department – Oh, that reminds me, that pain in the ass Detective Richardson called me again."

"What does he want this time?" John asked.

"Same thing. I keep popping up on his radar and he thinks I can help with his investigation. I'll go over and see him in the morning. You don't need to come – you should stay out of it."

Brim's phone beeped. He looked at it, but rather than study it while he drove, he handed it to John.

"It's from your sleuth buddy, it's about Barry Spires, the Deputy Superintendent of Security at Farfield."

"Oh, Good. I've been waiting for that. What does it say?"

"Not much," John replied. "Looks like he fell off the map shortly after Farfield closed in the early eighties, and nothing before the late seventies."

"Hmm," mused Brim, "it's not uncommon for records to be sketchy before our lives were digitized and stored online. He probably has a past, it just exists on crumbling paper buried in an old file cabinet somewhere. If he had a police record or a history of legal action, we would probably find his footprints."

"What about recent stuff? There isn't any."

"He was a security guy. Inherently paranoid. Maybe it's a deliberate attempt not to be found. He would probably know how to do that. Especially if he wanted another job but didn't want his time at Farfield to blemish his work history. Multiple deaths don't look good on a security chief's resume. Reply back for me. Tell him to keep looking – there has to be more on this guy."

John leaned his head back in the car seat and closed his eyes. They now knew that the senior administration at Farfield, Gregson and Williams, were both crooked and involved in drugs. He wondered about the others that worked there. He posed the question to Brim.

"Yeah, but it's hard to believe that there was such evil running the show over there and no one else knew anything about it. The problem is that right now the only people who really had eyes on the situation are a crazy old half-dead coke-head, and your girlfriend's mom."

"Not my girlfriend," John acknowledged Brim's jibe and then added, "...And Brian Hempel, who's convinced his brother was murdered there. He wasn't inside the place from day to day, but he might have some insight. See if you can go see him while I meet with Richardson tomorrow."

"Your not worried that they might arrest you?"

"They won't. They just want to rattle me. Richardson doesn't think I'm guilty, but he does think I know something about his case. He most likely just wants to pump me for information that he can take credit for discovering."

John dialed Brian Hempel's number and spoke for a few minutes before hanging up.

"Hempel seems thrilled to have found someone he can share his obsession with. He's anxious to meet. Says he has files on a lot of the people there – including many of the staff and doctors. I'm going to see him tomorrow."

* * * *

The afternoon sun hung low over the Atlanta skyline, when John and Brim parked outside O'Mally's pub in the East Village. Since they were last here they had re-acquired Colin's stolen laptop, kidnapped a hacker, witnessed said hacker's murder, been in a car chase, been shot at and almost murdered in Oakland Cemetery, become suspects in that same murder incident and learned of the drug trade in Farfield hospital. "All in a days work," John said.

"Two days." Brim corrected him.

In the gloomy interior of the bar, they ordered two beers and sat at one of the small round tables to wait for Roy and Mark, and hopefully Mark's father. The bar was quiet. An hour from now the hard core booze hounds would begin to wander in and start their excursion out of hum-drum existence and into more elevated moods. John started to feel nervous that Brim's contacts had not yet shown up. Brim told him not to worry, and that John's first lesson as a private detective should be to learn patience. A few minutes later Roy and Mark, along with an elderly man that John judged to be Mark's father, walked into the bar.

The three men walked over to the oak paneled bar and ordered drinks. Mark turned, and catching Brim's eye, nodded his head slightly toward the back door. John and Brim followed them outside into the small courtyard.

"Welcome to my office," said Roy, who along with Mark, had taken a seat on the hood of the rusting, abandoned car, while the older man leaned on its roof. "This is Charlie, Mark's dad."

"So, did anyone else die?" Charlie asked.

"What do you mean?" Brim said.

"Mark told me Jerome Spencer got himself killed."

"Oh yes, he's the only one so far," Brim said, referring to the owner of the white Lexus and not mentioning the death of Brian Jenkins, the pizza loving hacker, or the unnamed man who was shot in Oakland Cemetery. "We're thinking that it was either Willie Taylor and Ben Mills that shot him."

"Willie Taylor and Ben Mills, huh? Well, that takes me back a bit," Charlie placed his glass on the roof of the car and turned around to lean against the door as he lit a cigarette.

"Roy said you might know those guys from your time at the jail. Something about the Blue Triangle."

"Yes," Charlie said. "I remember those two. Not very nice people to be involved with. What's your connection to them?"

"We were working a drug case that goes back several decades. All of a sudden it looks like these two are in play, maybe trying to wipe out some witnesses." Brim provided a very sketchy explanation, deliberately short on details.

"That's not so good," Charlie said. "You better hope they're not after you because, trust me, it's better if these guys don't even know you exist."

"Well, we're kind of past that point now," said Brim, "but anything you can tell us about the Blue Triangle might help."

Charlie took another drag from his cigarette and tilted his head back to blow the smoke upwards. "It started sometime in the seventies, no one knows how. Some think it started when Jimmy Burk was transferred in."

"Wasn't he the guy from 'Goodfellas?'" Roy asked.

"He was Ray Liotta's buddy in the film, yes. Supposed to have masterminded that big heist at JFK," said Charlie. "Vincent Papa was there. Same crime family. He was the guy from the French Connection, but he was killed inside in seventy six or seventy seven."

"So you've been rubbing elbows with the crooked and famous, huh?" John said.

"Oh, they've been lots of famous criminals at Atlanta. Al Capone was here in the thirties – of course that was a bit before my time."

"Not that much before," Roy said.

"Whitey Bulger, Mickey Cohen, a lot of mobsters," continued Charlie.

"What about Taylor and Mills?" said John.

"They were the muscle, the enforcers, they've been in and out of Atlanta for as long as I worked there. Career criminals. They worked for a guy named Basset. Harry Basset. We were pretty sure he was the top dog who ran the Blue Triangle. When Basset got released in seventy eight, Taylor and Mills took over the operation."

"Where did they get their supply from?" Brim asked.

"No one ever figured it out, but I'm not sure how hard they tried to. A lot of people thought a few of the guards were bringing it in. Others thought the Chaplain was the courier."

"What was his name?" Brim asked. He had taken out the collection of notes he kept in a leather folder and was scribbling to keep up with Charlie's story.

"Richard something...Richard...Cartwright, I think it was."

"Did you suspect him?"

Charlie shook his head. "No. I always thought it was the doctor. He wasn't full time but would show up a couple of times a month or so for counseling. He was some kind of shrink."

John and Brim looked at each other. "What was his name," asked John.

"Williams. Something Williams," said Charlie frowning as he tried to recall.

"Jake Williams?"

"Yes that's him." Charlie ground out his cigarette under foot.

Brim sorted through the papers in his folder and pulled out the newspaper photograph, "Do you see him in this picture?" he asked.

Charlie studied the image. "Where was this taken?" he asked.

"Farfield Mental Hospital," said Brim.

"Yeah, that's him. That's Williams," said Charlie. Then he paused and looked at the other figures in the picture. He frowned again, "and look there. Look at that son-of-a-bitch. I thought if I ever saw him again he wouldn't be outside a mental hospital, he'd be locked up inside one."

* * * *

Chapter 26

Mike had been surprised by Steadman's response. He had expected mild curiosity or, at best, a renewed interest in opening the case, but clearly Mike had stumbled upon something that touched a nerve in the GBI investigator. It was when Mike mentioned Delta-Rhodes that Steadman became very concerned and urged Mike to get out of Farfield immediately, there was imminent danger if Mike stayed where he was. How could Steadman know this unless he was involved in other ongoing investigations, perhaps with the drug company Delta-Rhodes? In any event, Mike didn't have time to sit around and think about it.

Mike hurriedly threw his belongings into his suitcase. Packing to leave was so much faster than when he left his home in Dawsonville a week ago. He picked up the sealed envelope from the desk; it contained the most recent case report and would surely be interesting to Steadman. Then he turned off the light, closed the door, and left the anonymous dorm room for the last time.

Descending the stairs Mike's head was still in a state of confusion. Who was he in danger from? Williams? Blake? Someone else? If that were true, they could be watching him. But if they knew he was a danger to them why had they not done anything to stop him? Or were they planning it and that's why it was so important for him to leave? Were they watching him now?

Mike kicked open the security door at the bottom of the stairs and rushed out into the cold air, the first freezing deep breath hurt his lungs. He reached for his car keys and clenched them in his fist, the serrated steel edges protruding through his fingers, If anyone was waiting for him he wanted to have some kind of a weapon.

It was almost nine by the time Mike reached his frost covered Buick. The parking lot was deserted and dark, darker than usual – had someone turned out the lights? His memory contained images of high poles topped with large yellow floodlights sporadically placed in the parking lot, but now he could see there were none. Was it just his mind playing tricks? He could make out the faint outline of the Administration building, a pale glow from the main doors. Mike opened his car door – it took a firm yank to break the frozen seal and open it.

The car groaned as the engine turned over, but the Buick didn't start. He tried again with the same result. Was it just cold? Had he left the lights on after returning from his visit with Junior Hollywell? No. If that were the case the car would be completely dead.

What if they had disabled his car to prevent him from leaving?

He tried the starter again. More groaning, the whine of spinning engine parts, and the welcome sound of a low rumble as the engine started. He revved the car, wasting a few precious seconds while it warmed up. Mike looked at his watch. It was 8.56 PM. The main security gate was only staffed until nine – then the hospital would be locked down for the night.

Mike put the car in drive and took off toward the main entrance, the wheels of the car sliding on the icy parking lot. There was more traction on the gravel road that ran to the main gate, and he was able to increase his speed. As he rounded the last corner he could see the outline of the guard shack but there were no lights coming from inside. So the gate was probably locked. He put the car's lights on high beam for a better view, and it was then that he saw a sign of hope.

Walking along the grass, hands thrust deep into his pockets, collar turned up against the frigid wind, was the guard. Mike slowed the car and wound down the window as he pulled up next to him.

"Hi there," Mike said, trying to sound cheerful.

The guard, the same man that had greeted Mike upon his arrival, leaned forward for a better view of the occupant.

"Mr. Ratner? What are you doing out on a night like this?"

Mike had to think fast. He couldn't say that the GBI just told him to get out as fast as he could. He didn't even know if he could trust the guard.

"I have an urgent meeting, and I need to get through the gate. Is there any way you can let me out?"

The guard looked at his watch. "I'm afraid we're locked down for the night."

"Yes, I'm sorry for leaving it so late," said Mike, "I was working on a report with Superintendent Gregson earlier and he just called and asked me to meet him."

The guard sighed and looked back up the gravel road toward the security checkpoint. "And you have to do this tonight?"

"I don't know," said the guard, "I have my orders from Mr. Spires. Absolute lock down by nine PM. Every night."

"Barry knows about this. You can call him and check."

"No. can't do that. He just left a few minutes ago."

There was a moment of silence between the men. It started raining again, a fine mist of icy droplets, illuminated by the car headlights as they swirled in the breeze.

"Come on. Help me out here," Mike pleaded. "I'll give you a lift. Hell, I'll even put a good word in for you with Gregson."

The man looked at the sky again and shrugged. Then he nodded and got into the Buick.

Mike pulled up to the security gate, and without a word the guard got out. He walked over to the shack and unlocked the door. Mike waited for the metallic rumble of the chain driven security gate, but no movement came from the steel barrier.

Through the condensation covered glass, Mike saw the blurred image of the guard pick up the phone and dial. Who was he calling? Barry at home? Gregson to check on Mike's story? Williams? Someone else? The guard was speaking now and turned to look at Mike. What was he saying?

The guard put down the phone's receiver and raised a hand to Mike. The gate rumbled open.

The Buick turned out of the driveway and into the darkness of the main road. The rain picked up as Mike drove toward Atlanta. The slick roads and poor visibility made for a slow journey.

Mike made a cursory check of his rear view mirror. Something didn't feel right. Was someone following him again? When he went to visit Junior Hollywell, he had the distinct feeling that he was being followed, now he had that same feeling again. The car visible through the rain soaked rear window had been there for some time, but Mike couldn't say how long for sure.

Mike slowed the Buick. The car behind him also slowed. Who was it? In the darkness he couldn't see any recognizable face. Could they see his face, his eyes, his fear? Was it someone from Farfield? If so, how did they follow him with the gate locked? Could it be Williams or Blake? They left Farfield earlier than he did.

Why didn't the car pass him? He was now driving at less than 30 mph, and the car was still behind him. Should he find a busy spot to pull off – a corner convenience store, a restaurant? Could he speed away and lose the tail? These roads were dangerous, wet, icy. A car chase probably wasn't the best option. Then the car began to speed up, closing the distance between them. Mike wondered if he should brace for an impact, but at the last second the car turned on its turn signal and pulled out to pass Mike. It moved on past as Mike tried to appear casual, glancing across at the driver. He didn't recognize him. Right now Mike couldn't wait to meet Steadman and hand over all the information along with all his fear and apprehension, and get out.

As Mike got close to downtown, he pulled into a gas station and checked his map. The address that Steadman had given him was not far from the new CNN center. He was looking for a Denny's restaurant, but this really didn't look like the kind of place where he would find one. The streets were quiet. An area like this would normally have its share of homeless people, huddled under bridges or sheltering in doorways.

Mike drove on cautiously until he noticed a building with the name Danny's above the doorway in blue neon, a red cocktail glass tilted over at an angle was half lit. Mike realized that he must have misheard Denny's instead of Danny's.

Mike parked in the vacant lot next door to the bar. It was a shabby, mid-century aging establishment that time had passed by. A few scattered patrons drinking in silence, too much smoke. Mike walked up to the bar. The barman came over to him.

"Let me have a beer, please,"

"Mr. Ratner?"

Mike turned to see a man, about his height, younger than he expected, short cropped hair, metal framed glasses.

"Mr. Steadman?"

The man briefly held a finger to his lips indicating silence, and took Mike by the elbow. "Let me buy you a drink. You grab us a seat over at that booth."

Mike walked to the empty booth and sat watching as Steadman bought two beers. Mike gulped about half of his and settled back into his seat. Mike watched as no one seemed to take any notice of them. He liked that. The anonymity of not being at Farfield, not being under a spotlight. He could already feel the confusion and paranoia of the last few days beginning to evaporate. He felt like Steadman was about to open a door to a room full of answers, and he sat back and closed his eyes, feeling as if it would be the easiest thing in the world to drop off the edge of consciousness and fall into a deep sleep.

"So, Mr. Ratner," Steadman's voice snapped him back to alertness, "I'm sorry for this location. I'm actually off duty at the moment but I didn't want this to wait. I don't live far away and often come here to decompress after work."

"I understand," Mike said. "I'm just glad to be out of that place."

"Yes. It kind of gets to you after a while, doesn't it?" Steadman slid a brown bottle over the worn Formica tabletop and both men took a long swallow.

Steadman exhaled and leaned back. "So how did you come to be mixed up in Farfield's drug business?"

"You knew about that?" Mike asked.

"We suspected it. We were called out to investigate some allegations of abuse and some suspicious deaths but soon found a lot of things that didn't add up."

"Yeah, its a mad house," quipped Mike, starting to relax for the first time in days.

Steadman raised his bottle and continued, "Yes. It's a mad house, all right. But it just might also be the distribution point for a supply of the purest cocaine ever to hit the southeastern U.S."

"Yes, I discovered how it's getting in. Coming to Williams, you know him."

Steadman nodded. Mike continued.

"I'm not sure who is responsible for selling it but I think it might be a man named Blake. Jim Blake. I have all my findings in this report." Mike removed the envelope from inside his jacket and handed it to Steadman.

Steadman took the letter and opened it. He looked at his watch.

"Actually, I have asked my boss, Agent Wilmott, to join us. He should be here by now. This case has suddenly become much bigger then we thought, so this report is good," he began to read Mike's notes, nodding as he did so.

Mike sipped his beer and looked around enjoying the silence while Steadman studied the report. The subdued ambiance of the room washed over him in a soothing wave. He started to feel the tension falling away and he experienced a huge relief to be away from Williams, Blake and Gregson and all the other crazy people at Farfield. At last he was safe.

"Where is that guy?" Steadman's impatient words seemed to wake Mike, although he knew he hadn't been asleep.

"Let me go and call him, see if he's left yet." Steadman put the documents inside his jacket and stood up. He fished in his pocket for some loose change.

"There's a payphone just outside. I'll be right back."

Mike watched the agent walk toward the door. He swilled the rest of his beer and closed his eyes. The music from the jukebox drifted through the room. A soothing blend of mellow relaxing sound rolled over him and he found himself drifting off.

The sound of someone scraping a chair across the floor brought him back to the image of the barroom, his focus sharpened into stark clarity and Mike realized he had just woken up. Or had he? No. He hadn't fallen asleep, but he seemed to have been gone somewhere. Where was Steadman? He seemed to have been gone a long time, but he was unsure exactly how long. Mike's head felt dull and sluggish. Hard to think. He needed to get some fresh air.

Mike rose to his feet, feeling a little unsteady. Was the beer really that strong? He should have probably eaten something. Mike took a few unsteady steps, his balance was off. He bumped into a chair but felt nothing. He needed to get outside. He should call Martha, let her know he was safe. Yes. Call Martha. Payphone outside by the door. Call Martha and then eat something. Eat something before Steadman's boss arrived.

Mike made his way unsteadily to the front door and stepped outside into the cold air. It hit him like an ice hammer and he felt his world begin to spin causing him to clutch at the door frame for support. To his left was a the payphone. Must call Martha. Supporting himself with one hand against the brick wall, he stumbled over to the phone. Where was Steadman? He should be using the phone. Mike fumbled in his pocket. Were was the paper? He found it, the corner folded over, the roughly torn edge. Martha's home phone number.

Mike tried to read the digits. Where there six or seven numbers? He dropped some change into the slot and dialed. His movement felt blurred. The dial pad was out of focus. He lifted the receiver.

The phone began to ring. His legs felt heavy, solid, without feeling – like the dead plastic telephone handset that hung limply in his weak grip. Time stopped.

"Hello?"

"Martha?" Mike felt nauseous. "It's Mike."

"No. Sorry. This is the babysitter. Can I take a message?"

"Martha? Is that you?"

"Hello?" said the voice.

Mike sank to the floor and sat on the concrete platform supporting the public phone.

"Martha? I think I've been drugged." Mikes vision was blurring again, bright car headlights washing out his mind. Erasing his thoughts.

"At some bar...downtown...Steadman's gone...get out now...danger."

"Hello, sir, who's this? You're not making any sense."

Mike heard a sharp click. Then the steady buzz of a dial tone. His head fell to one side, his unfocused gaze straining to focus on a hand that now reached down and took the receiver and replaced it on the phone. A hand. The gray sleeve of an overcoat. The turned up collar. The face. That familiar face. What was he doing here? How was this possible?

"You really should have stayed away, Mike," said Barry Spires.

* * * *

Chapter 27

The next morning, John and Brim ate breakfast in their command center where they were redesigning the white board. It had been redrawn into two columns. The Farfield names were in the right hand column and the people who were currently trying to eliminate John and Brim were on the left. Brim called this left column the Blue Triangle, since it now seemed that they were the most likely suspects. The first thing Brim did was fill in the information they had received from Mark's father, the retired prison guard who had provided the name of the Blue Triangle's jailhouse leader, Harry Basset. More importantly, he had identified Basset in the photo taken outside Farfield in the late seventies. Except in in the photograph he was called Barry Spires.

Brim drew a line that crossed the white-board's thirty year divider and connected the Farfield Security deputy, Barry Spires, to the Blue Triangle leader, Harry Basset.

"So how does a criminal get a job working in the security business?" John shook his head in disbelief.

"Not just that, but head of security," corrected Brim. "We know from the Hill lady that Williams, the drug dealing blackmailer, hired Barry. Or should I say Harry Basset? He probably met him during his stint as prison doctor, and when Williams moved on to Farfield he wanted another criminal that he could trust to help him run the operation. By that time Basset had been released and I'm sure it wasn't difficult, given the shady company he kept, to change his identity to Barry Spires. By then Gregson was already under Williams' thumb and went along with it. Hell, he might not have even known about Spire's criminal past."

Then he updated the names of the two killers Willie Taylor and Ben Mills, and drew a line to a new name, Jerome Spencer, the owner of the white Lexus, who was shot by the two killers.

"So Spencer was a known accomplice of Taylor and Mills, but I'm guessing that's as far as it goes. No other involvement. Anyway he's dead." Brim was thinking aloud as he wrote. He drew a circle around Taylor and Mills and labeled it "The Blue Triangle." He then drew a vertical line between Basset-Spires and the Blue Triangle.

"So what are the chances that Williams was supplying Basset-Spires with the coke for the Blue Triangle?" John asked.

"I would say pretty good," replied Brim.

Next, Brim wrote "Green Range Rover - Micheal J. Hobson" at the top of the board.

"OK. So this Hobson guy was visited by Taylor and Mills, after they shot Colin, and when we tried to follow him, someone tried to kill us in Oakland Cemetery."

"But it wasn't Taylor or Mills."

"No, just some contractor. He was a soldier, not a general. Hobson is more important, and because of his Taylor and Mills connection, and his desire to be rid of us, it looks like he is also a player in the Blue Triangle. My guess is that at one point Hobson and Basset-Spires have crossed paths. In any event we need to keep an eye on Hobson."

"What about Spires?" John asked, trying to connect all the dots.

"Right. We don't have much on him. My guy couldn't find anything on him before Farfield, which makes sense now that we know he didn't exist before Farfield, and it looks like he might have moved away after Farfield closed."

"I don't blame him," John said.

"Anyway, Hempel might be able to give you a bit more on him. When are you going to see him?"

"Right after breakfast. How about you? You're going to see your cop buddy, Richardson?"

"Yes. I don't think I can avoid it any longer."

John had known Brim long enough to sense when something was bothering him. He had been putting off dealing with Richardson ever since the detective has started poking around in their case. John didn't know why. Brim seemed more comfortable going about his business waiting to be shot by drug dealers than visiting with the Atlanta Police Department.

"You don't seem to be very enthusiastic about this," said John, hoping to get an insight into Brim's reluctance.

"I'm not."

"What are you going to tell him?"

"As little as I can."

"But we know a lot more about the case now. Maybe we should involve the police. We know that Hobson tried to kill us."

"Do we? Can you prove it?"

"But someone shot at us."

"Who? The man with my credit card under his dead body?"

"We could tell them about the drugs and the Blue Triangle."

"Telling the cops that we have information on a notorious jail house drug gang will not make us look innocent. Richardson already has me about this far from being a suspect," Brim held his thumb and forefinger close together. "My biggest concern is that once we start talking to APD, we are in full view, no more hiding. People are going to be able to find us. We'll probably pop up on a lot or radar."

"You really think the Blue Triangle has people inside the police department?"

"An operation like this, going on for thirty years? Yes. I think they have people inside the police department."

"Are you going to meet Richardson at the station?"

"No way. Somewhere crowded with a lot of exits. We've arranged to meet at the food court in the Lenox Mall."

* * * *

John knocked sharply on the glossy black finish of the front door, he had already called ahead to let Brian Hempel know he was on his way. The door was answered quickly.

"Hello, Mr. Mars. I've been expecting you," the man shuffled his aging frame as he dragged the door open for John.

They walked along the hallway to Hempel's family room. John sat in one of two leather recliners, and bathed in the morning sunlight that streamed in through full length windows. Brian went to the kitchen for a pitcher of lemonade. John could see all of the dining room. He noticed that there was a cardboard bankers box on one of the chairs and its contents were all over the dining room table.

"Are you any closer to solving the murders, Mr. Mars?" Brian Hempel had returned with a tray containing a glass jug and two glasses full of ice.

"No, but we have uncovered some interesting facts about Farfield."

"What kind of interesting facts?" Brian poured the lemonade into two glasses and handed one to John.

"Well, our investigations are currently focused on the staff there."

Brian sank into a brown leather recliner and nodded. "I looked at the staff pretty closely. They seemed as odd as many of the patients, but in most cases I don't think they are responsible, unless their negligence contributed to the problem."

"Most cases?" John asked.

"There were at least ten people who...died, Yes?"

John nodded.

"If you read between the lines of the GBI reports," Hempel said, "it is obvious that there was extensive abuse there. Some of the deaths were certainly the result of poor patient care practices or mistreatment – although the GBI stay politically safe and don't exactly admit that."

John interrupted him. "Wait. You have read the GBI case files?" John had requested copies of from the GBI office from the Decatur office, but with all the confusion in his life lately he had forgotten about it.

"Yes, they're in there on the table," Brian pointed to the dining room. "Anyway. The other casualties showed signs of so much violence and anger that they could not have been caused by a badly trained orderly kicking or punching a patient. There was an element of insanity to many of the attacks. Remember, my brother, Daniel, had eleven stab wounds on his body. I think if that had been a staff member, the GBI would have caught him."

"And as I recall the GBI said he fell on the knife."

"Yes."

"What did the GBI say about the other violent deaths?"

"That's just the problem, they only investigated the first three. My brother was the third. They only launched their investigation because I insisted on it. Maybe the other unfortunate victims didn't have anyone to speak up for them, or demand action."

"Why do you think the deaths suddenly stopped?" John asked.

"I think the staff found the person who was doing it and threw him in a deep dark hole. Or fried his brain with electricity – that was pretty common there, too."

John looked out the window. Brian had a point. If the murders had been caused by a staff member, there would be some kind of paper trail. Doctors and staff had to write reports, fill in logs and time sheets.

John had almost forgotten that this was how his journey started. The trail of mysterious deaths in the cold climate of a decaying mental hospital. But this trail seemed to have been derailed as soon as it became obvious that he and Brim were being hunted. Was it because the Blue Triangle were concerned that he and Brim would discover a vital piece of information that would bring down the drug empire, or were the murders linked to the drugs? Were patients being killed because of something they knew or something they saw? Or was it, as Brian thought, that some crazed maniac had escaped or found a way to get out and was on a killing spree?

"Do you mind if I look through those files?" John said, pointing to the table.

"No. Be my guest. That's why I brought them out."

John walked over to the dining room table where a thick layer of papers, news clippings, handwritten notes, photographs and official looking forms covered the polished wood. He sat in one of the high backed chairs and picked up a folder. It contained a collection of press cuttings dealing with the design and construction of the hospital including blueprints of some buildings and photographs taken during the construction. The next folder, dusty, and sealed with a thick elastic band, was a multi-page list of the comings and goings of various Farfield employees, mostly low level guards and administrative personnel. Brian had invested an obsessively large amount of time tracking these people. Each entry had the date, time, description of vehicle, along with a license plate and description of the subject along with a name. Some of the names had question marks by them.

John sorted through the files and found one labeled "G.B.I. Reports." Nested inside were three other folders, each named with a patient. The first patients to die.

The first dog-eared folder had the name James Agra across the front in neat black print. A young man found drowned in the retaining pond, supposedly an accidental death. The file contained interviews with staff, autopsy reports, a cover letter from the investigating officer, a man named Steadman, and various other pieces of the necessary official support documentation that a case like this generated. Also in the folder were hand written notes, presumably from Brian Hempel, where he had been able to talk to several staff members, presumably off the record. The comments questioned what the dead boy could possibly have been doing in that area of the hospital, and mentioned unconfirmed reports of bruises on the body.

Dorothy Mansfield was the next to die. Under forty years old, but nevertheless, a heart attack victim. More handwritten notes corroborated by two separate sources saying that Dorothy Mansfield exhibited erratic and violent moods just prior to her death.

Daniel Hempel's file was next. Clearly the most suspicious. Ruled a suicide, but with no explanation of the multiple stab-wounds or explanation of how he got hold of the knife. This file contained the most handwritten content, but John was only able to read about half of it. Almost as if he was intruding into Brian Hempel's private world of grief, absorbing the pain of his loss. He turned the page. In the back of the folder were multiple files of Brian's own creation documenting the other deaths.

Ron Marriot – a problem with his medication, Pam Harrison – sliced her wrists on the barbed wire of the security fence during an escape attempt. Willy Madigan, Frank Hilbert, Lenny Lorano. The list went on, tragic details, hand written suspicions, unanswered questions. There seemed no pattern, a completely random selection of deaths. No consistency in cause of death, age of patient, locations, time of death. Nothing that would point to a single killer.

"How are you getting on?" John hadn't heard Brian Hempel enter the dining room.

"Stunned," answered John, honestly. "I have to agree with you that there is a high level of suspicion surrounding the deaths, but I can't find a pattern that would point to a single killer or even a common pattern in the crimes.

"No. I can't either, and I have been trying for thirty years. That's why I think a patient is responsible. An insanely violent, completely random killer."

John didn't know what to make of it.

"There was a doctor there," said John. "His name was Jake Williams. His name appears on all the death certificates."

"Yes. Williams was a strange one. He had written some medical papers on the use of sound to cure some of the more disturbed patients. I've read them, but I don't fully understand them."

"Do you think it works?"

"No. I think if it did, hospitals would be using it today. But from what I can determine Williams had a lot of power at the hospital."

"Yes, I think that power had something to do with drugs," John said, "I talked to to the hospital Superintendent, Gregson, and he admitted that Williams was supplying him with cocaine."

"I'm surprised Gregson is still alive. He moved to another hospital back in eighty-three. Got fired for malpractice. I was under the impression he was dead."

"Almost," John said.

"Most of the old Farfield staff are dead now," Brian said. "Williams burned to death in a car crash. The deputy, a man named Blake, got sick and died a few years ago. Not many left."

"What about Barry Spires?" John asked.

"He moved away after the hospital closed. Arizona if I remember correctly. I think he just wanted a fresh start, Farfield didn't have the best reputation." Brian began rummaging in the piles of papers. Finding what he was looking for, he picked up a worn manila file and opened it. He removed a handwritten paper and held it up to the light. "Yes, here it is. It was hard to track him down, he changed his name to Hobson."

"Hobson?" asked John, "are you sure?"

"Yes," replied Brian, "Micheal J. Hobson."

John immediately pulled out his cell phone and dialed Brim.

There was a knock at the door, and Brian put down the paper and shuffled off down the corridor.

After a few rings, the familiar voice of Brim came on the line. "William Brimage III, you know the drill, here's the beep."

"Brim. It's John. I'm at Brian Hempel's house. Micheal J. Hobson, the guy in the Range Rover, and Harry Basset or Barry Spires or whatever his real name is, are all the same person. I'm heading over to the house."

So Micheal J. Hobson wasn't in Arizona any more. He was back in Atlanta, and apparently still involved in the Blue Triangle drug business. John picked up the folder that Brian had thrown on the table before he left the room. On top of the collection of notes about Hobson was a newspaper clipping from a Phoenix newspaper from nineteen-eighty-three. There was a picture of Hobson with what looked like some business men. The caption read "Micheal J. Hobson donates $5,000 for new building fund. John guessed that in the photograph, Spires (or Hobson) would be in his mid-forties. Thick framed glasses, beard and mustache. John compared it to the mental image he had of the Farfield picture, where Spires and Williams were outside the hospital's main gate. Spires had no glasses or facial hair, and his shoulder length locks had been replaced with a buzz cut. But yes, it was the same man. Then John's gaze strayed to the other people in the picture, but they meant nothing to him. He started to read the faded news copy under the picture, but by the time he got to the third line, he had dropped into one of the dining room chairs in shock. Hobson was donating money to the new headquarters of the Phoenix Police Department. He was still trying to digest the information when Brian came back into the room, "Mr. Mars? I think it's time you leveled with me."

"What do you mean?" asked John.

"The two men at the door were police officers. They showed me pictures of you and another man. They said they were looking for you in connection with a murder."

This made no sense. Brim was meeting with the police. Why would they come here? How would they even know he was here? John quickly deduced the inevitable.

"Did they show you any I.D.?" he asked Brian.

"No."

"Did you see them arrive in a police car?"

"No."

"Can you describe the men?"

"Both large men, one with short beard the other bald."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing," replied the older man,with a defiant air. "You don't get to my ripe old age without learning something about people, and for some reason you seem like your telling me the truth. They didn't. I said I had no idea who you were."

John needed to bring Brian up to date.

"The other man they were asking about is William Brimage, my partner and a private detective helping me with the Farfield case. The men at the door were Willie Taylor and Ben Mills, two ex-cons and drug dealers that work for Hobson, who used to be Barry Spires and before that he was Harry Basset, drug dealer and guest of Atlanta Penitentiary. Now he's moved back to Atlanta. Trust me, the only murder they are interested in is the one where Brim and I are the victims. A bigger problem for me right now is that when Hobson was in Arizona, he managed to endear himself to the Phoenix Police Department. If he has done that here with APD, my partner is in real danger."

John didn't wait for Brian's reply. He took out his phone and called Brim again.

"Brim. Call me as soon as you get this message. Basset – Spires – Hobson managed to get in tight with the Arizona cops. He's likely done the same with APD. If so, you were right about Blue Triangle having someone on the inside. You are probably in a lot of danger."

* * * *

Chapter 28

Mike struggled to make sense of the situation. He was slumped against the payphone. He couldn't move and his eyes wouldn't focus, but he was aware that Barry Spires had crouched down next to his motionless form.

"It's too bad that things had to get to this, Mike. I kinda liked you." Barry leaned forward to peer into Mikes eyes. "Hey. You in there?" he slapped Mike's face hard to ensure his words were being heard. Mike should have felt the stinging in the cold air, but he didn't. "Did you really think I was going to give you Steadman's real phone number?"

Mike's thoughts were beginning to clear. The fog that that flooded his awareness was thinning. The reality of his predicament now became frighteningly real. How could he have been so stupid? Why didn't he just call the GBI directly?

The answer to his question came as he felt more hands grabbing him and lifting, tugging at his frame pulling him upright. How many hands were there? More than two. His head hung limp, eyes staring at blurry feet, four...five...six feet. The middle two must be his. His feet dragging over a sidewalk's cracked concrete. Where were they going? His peripheral vision detected a presence approaching – someone else nearby. Two more feet came into view. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but had no sensation in his face. His brain screamed but he heard nothing.

"Look's like he's had enough."

Mike heard the voice and knew it was from the approaching stranger. He tried to lift his head, but couldn't. He wanted to throw up

"Yeah. Some people just don't know when to stop. We'll get him some fresh air." It was Barry's voice answering the stranger, explaining away Mike's tranquilized form as that of a Friday-night drunk being helped home by two friends.

Mike saw hands move and heard a dull click as the trunk of a black ford opened in slow motion. He was now in the trunk of the black car staring up at the two men. One was definitely Barry, the other was the man he had met in the bar and assumed to be Steadman. Maybe it was Steadman? He heard disconnected voices.

"Wow, he looks out of it. Are you sure we didn't give him too much?"

"No. That's pretty much what I expected. He's going to drift in and out for the next couple of hours."

"So, do you have something for me or what?"

Mike felt his body being rolled over. He struggled to open his eyes and saw Barry leaning over him pulling a canvas carryall from beneath Mike's motionless body. He set the bag down on Mike's chest and opened it. The other man reached into the bag and removed a parcel wrapped in black plastic.

"OK, and this is for you my friend."

The man handed a brown leather bag to Barry, and Barry threw it into the trunk next to Mike.

"Not going to count it, huh?"

"Taylor, I don't think you're going to short change me after all we've been through."

Barry slammed the trunk closed, and Mike felt everything he ever was begin to devolve into darkness.

* * * *

Mike became conscious again. It was dark, still and quiet. He knew he wasn't in the trunk of the black car any more but couldn't tell where he was. Was that something moving in the darkness? He couldn't move. Tied up? Paralyzed? He didn't know. What was Barry going to do with him? He obviously knew too much about what was going on in Farfield and Barry wasn't shy about letting him watch the drug deal. Barry was most likely going to kill him.

Mike felt his eyelids flutter, there was some sensation in his face now. He opened his eyes slightly. The lights were dim, but he wasn't in total darkness. He was on his back, a grid of ceiling tiles above him, pale colored walls. Mike explored with his finger tips, a soft surface, a bed. He tried to move his arms, but his wrists were restrained. He tried to move his head and found he was able to roll his neck slowly to one side. Something there in the darkness. A familiar shape. A profile. A face? There was someone lying next to him. He seemed to know the face. So familiar. But it didn't make sense.

With a faint buzz the lights flickered their stark brilliance and bathed the room in white. The face's silhouette burst into clarity. It was Norman, the blond headed kid who had attacked him in the grounds at Farfield. Mike tried to scream, but could barely manage a groan.

Mike tried to move his head again but was too weak. In the room's bright lights he could now see that Norman had what looked like a burn mark on the side of his head between eye and his ear. Mike tried to scream again.

Then he heard a voice from behind him.

"Well, Mr. Ratner. We meet again, but this time under somewhat different circumstances," said Dr. Jake Williams.

Why was he here? Where was Barry? Was he safe?

He heard Williams' echoing footsteps on the tile floor and then the doctor grabbed Mike's hair and twisted his head around to within inches of the doctor's cold gaze.

"Still groggy, are we?" Williams said, smiling his thin hollow smile. "One of the good things about working here is the easy availability of sedatives."

Mike tried to move again but could not. Leather straps bound his limbs to the steel table in Williams' morgue. The doctor patted his shoulder, almost affectionately.

"It was in the beer that Barry's associate handed you at the bar."

Mike turned his head away, only to be confronted by Norman again. Gentle Norman. A shiver of fear ran through his body – the first sign that feeling was retuning.

"Oh yes. Norman," Williams said. "That's called getting rid of the evidence. We will probably bury you both in the same grave, out in the back with the others."

Mike didn't understand why the doctor would refer to Norman as evidence. Was he just crazy?

"You...won't... get away..." Mike tried to talk, without much success, tried to argue for his life. "My office...knows...everything."

"No, Mr. Ratner. We've been ahead of you every step of the way, thanks to all those detailed reports you placed in the outgoing mail tray every night. Barry and I found them most informative." Williams leaned close to Mike again. "Those reports never arrived at your office."

"But...my office knows...I'm here." Mike felt his voice and motor skills returning.

"No," Williams said. "Your office knows that you arrived, failed to file any reports, and then left abruptly with no explanation. The guard will remember you leaving. And now you've disappeared, Mr. Ratner. Your car will never be found and neither will you."

"So you murdered all those people...and now you're going to kill...me too," Mike was desperate.

"I didn't murder those people," Williams laughed. "Some were accidental deaths, but most were either suicides or were killed by other inmates."

"But...why so many...and all of a sudden?" asked Mike, "it's your sound therapy program...Isn't it?"

"No, Mr. Ratner. Not even close. Those suicides and murders resulted from a reaction to medication." Williams laughed again, then looked at Mike seriously. "No. Really. That's exactly what it was – a reaction to medication."

"But your sound therapy had an adverse effect on the subjects," Mike said. He faculties were returning now and he tried to talk fast to somehow save himself.

"No. Once again, you couldn't be more wrong. My sound therapy program did absolutely nothing at all, good or bad."

Williams pulled up a chair and sat next to Mike. There was a long pause while Williams just stared at Mike, as if he was trying to see into Mike's soul.

"Mike. May I call you Mike?" Williams' politeness was completely out of place. It hung insanely in the air. Mike just nodded. He felt sick again. Williams leaned close again. "Mike, do you know anything about testing new medications?" The doctor didn't wait for an answer, he just waved his hand dismissively as if to acknowledge the stupidity of his question, or his audience.

"Do you know how hard it is? There are endless tests, independently monitored test subjects, mountains of paperwork and reports, and so much time to get anything done."

Mike remembered the mysterious package from Delta-Rhodes, the one labeled as some obscure audio signal generator. he remembered finding the Styrofoam insert in Williams' trash. He realized that he had stumbled upon a shipment of the unapproved trial drugs that Williams just mentioned.

"You've been illegally involved in drug testing," Mike said.

"Well, let's just say I'm helping them with some..." Williams bobbed his head from side to side as if he were looking for the perfect word, "...shortcuts," he finally said.

"And they paid you in pharmaceutical grade cocaine which Barry Spires distributes for you." Mike was painfully aware that at some point Williams would kill him. It didn't matter what he said now.

"Well done, Mr. Ratner." Williams sat back in his chair and clapped his hands with mock excitement, or was it genuine. Mike couldn't tell. "You're a lot smarter than I thought. Yes, Barry helped me because he had the criminal contacts, I met him in Jail, you know, but I'm the brains of the operation, as I'm sure you realize."

"And your sound therapy?What was that about?"

"It was just music in headphones, that's all. A cover story for the drug trial. A reason that makes my presence here look legitimate. I just give the subjects a healthy shot of benzodiazapine to sedate them, throw somw headphones on them for the sake of appearance, and while they are out I administer the test drug."

"And you did this to people who were already suffering? People in a mental hospital?" Mike spit the words out in anger.

"Oh, but you see, that's the beauty of it all. What better place to test them? They are under constant observation by trained professionals, and if something does go wrong, nobody calls the authorities. It's just another crazy person having an episode. You know if this were being done on the outside and someone had an..." Williams looked for the right word again, "...adverse reaction, this is exactly the sort of place they would bring them."

"And you would perform your own investigation right here, and could reach whatever conclusions you wanted to."

"Exactly. Now you're beginning to understand the brilliance of it." Williams seemed almost gleeful.

"What did you give those poor people?"

"Oh it's just a mood altering drug, designed to bind to the gamma-aninobutyrate receptors. We've been testing for almost a year now but, honestly, it's not going very well."

"The same amount of time that the deaths have been occurring," added Mike.

"Yes. That is the unfortunate part. The drug isn't working quite the way we expected, the results are a bit unpredictable, but each batch gets a little better. I think were getting close now."

"And Norman was given the drug?" Mike was sickened by what Williams was telling him.

"Yes, yes. Shortly before he attacked you as a matter of fact. Norman became uncontrollably violent. There was no saving him."

"So you burned out his brain with electricity," Mike said.

"Yes. I gave him a rather large dose of E.C.T. Sort of like erasing the old videotape before you throw it away."

"Why continue with the program? If the drug's performance is so unpredictable, it'll never get approved. Who wants a drug that sometimes fails and turns people into raving maniacs?"

Williams seemed taken aback by Mike's question. He paused and leaned back in the chair. Then a look of understanding slowly washed over his eyes, and he began to laugh. A loud hollow laugh that echoed off the cold stainless room.

"You still don't understand, do you?" The condescending tone was back, as Williams continued with his explanation. "While it is true that sometimes the drug's reaction is not what we want, the problem isn't that sometimes it makes the subject violent. The problem is that sometimes it doesn't."

Was Williams really that crazy? What was he talking about? A drug that was designed to intentionally make people violent?

"Why?" was all Mike could manage.

"Who do you think is involved here, Mr. Ratner? Why do you think no one seems interested in your investigation? Why do you think even the GBI are happy to leave this alone? Why am I able to employ ex-convicts and deal large amounts of very pure cocaine with impunity?"

Mike couldn't make any sense of Williams' explanation. The doctor settled back in the chair.

"Now, I'm just speculating here," continued the doctor, "but imagine if we could perfect this drug and control the outcome of its use. Now imagine if one of our agents could slip it into the punch bowl at the Kremlin's Christmas party, or give some to Fidel Castro's personal bodyguard. Are you starting to see the vision here, Mr. Ratner? Just who do you think would want a drug like that?"

Mike was in way over his head. Was Williams saying that the military, or some government group was responsible for the drug's development? If so, Mike was sure the story would never come out. He was also sure that he would not be allowed to live.

"So, now you're going to kill me," Mike's brain was unable to connect to the voice, to the reality that his life would soon be over.

"Yes. But first we need to erase the videotape," Williams turned to the countertop and moved a leather bag, the same leather bag that the young man named Taylor had given to Barry. What was in it? Williams opened the wooden cabinet on the wall.

No. Not this.

Williams removed the cream colored steel box and uncoiled the black rubber cables.

"Why do this, if you're only going to kill me after. Why not just kill me?" Mike was panicking now, pleading, his body beginning a violent tremble despite the remains of the sedative in his system.

"Well, it's really sort of a hobby of mine," said the doctor. "There is a look in someones eyes after they have been shocked, a kind of peace. It's most intriguing."

Mike began to struggle, trying desperately to break free from the leather straps. Williams kept talking.

"Of course, that's with the new equipment. This is an old classic. Unregulated. Much more powerful. When I shocked poor Norman I swear I could almost hear sizzling coming from inside his head. Like someone frying an egg." Williams chuckled as he plugged the device into the electrical socket.

"No. Please don't do this."

Williams leaned over the box and adjusted a large round black Bakelite dial. "Let's just set this to maximum, shall we?" He looked at Mike and smiled, nodding his head enthusiastically.

"No," Mike said. "Please."

"Now this might feel a little cold," Williams opened a glass jar. Mike smelled the fumes of alcohol, sterile and clean. With two fingers Williams scooped out some of the contents and tried to smear the clear gel onto Mikes temple, but Mike twisted his head around to avoid contact. The doctor grabbed his hair viciously and held him still while he applied the clear paste.

"Now, Mr. Ratner, you really shouldn't struggle, you don't want to make it worse for yourself. You're a bad boy. No anesthetic for you." Williams wagged his finger in Mike's face, and then reached behind Mike's head and buckled another leather strap over his forehead. Mike wanted to thrash around, flail his limbs, run, escape, but he couldn't move.

Williams removed a rubber plug from the cabinet and examined it thoughtfully, finally saying, "And you know what? I don't think we're going to use this either – after all, it won't matter much if you bite your tongue off. It's not like you're going to be talking to anyone." The doctor chuckled again.

Mike opened his mouth to scream, to cry, to beg, but couldn't speak. His body no longer obeyed his thoughts. He was drenched in sweat and his muscles ached.

Williams reached forward with a large caliper and positioned the electrical contacts on either side of Mike's head.

Mike Ratner, investigator for the Department of Human Services in Satellite office 19, was gone. In his place was a boy. A boy with a fearful pounding in his chest. The memories of a terrified child charged through his mind in a destructive rampage. Between deep, erratic panic filled breaths, Mike found his final words.

"You're mad," he screamed.

"We live in a mad world, Mr. Ratner. To try and act otherwise is simply not normal," Williams reached over with his index finger to the chrome toggle switch, and said, "Goodbye Mr. Ratner."

Mike closed his eyes. His nostrils filled with the smell of fresh wet paint and his head filled with the sound of the crackling buzz of electricity.

* * * *

Chapter 29

John hit the lunchtime cross-town traffic and crawled east. He tried to contact Brim again only to leave his urgent warnings on a voice mail. He had planned to return to his house but wondered if the killers had his address. They had, after all, located and visited Brian Hempel. How could that be? How would Hobson make the connection?

John realized there was a very good chance that Hobson had slipped his sleazy fingers into the Atlanta Police Department, since he had done the very same in Arizona. Was Detective Richardson on Hobson's payroll? Brim had met with the detective that morning, but Mike doubted that his partner would be foolish enough to say anything incriminating to Richardson, or that enough time had passed after their meeting to put Taylor and Mills at Brian Hempel's front door.

Was it possible that the data on Colin's laptop had found it way to Hobson? No. The virus erased the Farfield files and there were no other clues that would lead to Brian. Had Taylor and Mills found something at Brim's house? They spent enough time there to steal one of his credit cards, could they have taken something else – a file that John might have missed? Had they somehow been following John and Brim all along? Hobson had seemed to be one step ahead of them at Oakland Cemetery.

Then John remembered Colin's cell phone. The killers took Colin's cellphone, that's how they had found Brim's address. Brim had received a text from Colin about Hempel. Had they been following John since he first visited Brian? Did they know where John lived?

And where was Brim? It was not like him to be out of touch for so long. When this investigation started, John felt very much like he and Brim were closing in on their target. Now it felt like they were the prey.

Did the killers know about Janet and Martha Hill? He called Janet but there was no answer.

John had been driving, more or less, in the direction of his home. He abruptly changed his route and headed directly for Janet and Martha Hill's house.

* * * *

John rapped anxiously on the front door of Janet's Dunwoody home. It was a relief when the door opened.

"John? What a surprise. Come in." Janet seemed in a cheerful mood.

John walked into the hallway and back toward the kitchen.

"Janet. Things have taken a turn for the worse. The people who are trying to kill us were definitely involved in illegal activities at Farfield. The security chief there, Barry Spires, is now called Hobson. He's a drug dealer."

"He's a very bad man," Martha Hill's voice has a slight tremble to it. "He was in jail, and I believe he is capable of anything."

"Why didn't you tell us this before?" John asked, irritation seeping into his tone.

"I hoped you would never get this close to him."

"Mom, I know you have secrets from Farfield. Has that Barry Spires man anything to do with them? You have to tell us, Mom." Janet sounded anxious. Almost pleading with her mother.

"I have no secrets," said Martha Hill, not convincing anyone.

"Mrs. Hill," John said, "if you know anything that could help us now is the time to speak up."

Martha Hill sat down abruptly on a kitchen chair, folded her arms, and stared out of the window. Through an open door, John could see into the family room, the television tuned to a news station, sound muted.

"Hobson and a couple of his killers tried to track me and my partner down at one of my contacts, a Mr. Brian Hempel." John turned to Martha. "Do you know anything about him?"

"His brother died," was all Mrs. Hill said. She was shutting down now, becoming uncommunicative; she looked scared.

"Well, if they know we were talking to Brian, they may know we were talking to you. So we need to get out."

"Where?" Janet asked nervously.

"Anywhere for now, a motel, a friend's house, the Amtrak station. I don't care, I just need to get you to a safe place."

"There is no safe place," Mrs. Hill said.

"Well, let's try to find one," John said, impatiently. He turned to Mrs. Hill's daughter. "Janet, take this, keep it close to you." He handed her the semi-automatic Walther pistol.

"No. I don't want that," she said stepping back.

"Take it." John grabbed her arm and pressed the gun into her palm.

"No. I don't like guns." She was shaking her head and tried to give it back. "I'm not going to be in any danger." She placed the gun carefully on the kitchen table, and turned it so that the barrel pointed to a wall.

"You're probably right, but keep it with you just in case." John slid the gun across the oak table, back toward Janet. "Right now you and your mother need to get your things together. We're leaving."

There was a pause. Janet nodded. "Come on, Mom. We need to get our things." Mrs. Hill remained seated. A statue of stubbornness.

John pulled a chair up next to Mrs. Hill and spoke softly, "Mrs. Hill, It's obvious that you know something you're not telling us. Please, what is it?"

"I don't know anything that will help you. I've told you Barry is a dangerous man. What more do you need to know?"

"I need to know what's tortured you for thirty years, I need to know what's so bad that you daughter has had to watch it tear you apart her whole life? He looked into her eyes, his voice softening "Janet needs to know. She at least deserves that."

Mrs. Hill looked out of the window to fix her gaze on the shimmering leaves of the White Oak that dominated her back garden. She turned back to fix John with a steely gaze.

"What if the knowledge would hurt her more than the silence?" Mrs. Hill turned back to the window "The last person that came close to exposing these horrible people disappeared without a trace."

"Who was that?" asked John.

"He was an investigator for the Department of Human Services. His name was Mike Ratner. He was a good friend of mine. He got close to finding out the truth and then he was gone. I never heard from him again. I believe it was Spires or Hobson or whatever he calls himself, that was responsible."

John sighed and turned away.

Janet rushed back into the room. "OK. Mom. Here's your purse and coat,"

"Come on. Let's go," John said. "We'll take my car." John glanced around the room instinctively, the way one does when leaving a place. He walked into the family room to turn off the TV. It had finished the commercial break and had returned to the news program. A blue banner crawled across the bottom of the screen proclaiming "Breaking News" The video was of a commotion inside a shopping mall. A food court at a shopping mall.

Police were milling around empty food tables, the crowd held back by yellow caution tape strung between chairs. One table was overturned and surrounded by fast food remnants. A pool of something dark spilled out from beneath the table. John quickly located the TV's remote and pressed a button. The reporters voice flooded the room.

"...scene today, here at a popular shopping mall in Buckhead, when a diner at the food court was gunned down. The victim's name has not been released by the police, nor has his condition. Paramedics carried an unconscious man out of the building about half an hour ago. The police said they have no leads, and the motive for the shooting is unknown. Dan Robinson. 11 Alive News, Atlanta."

John immediately knew why Brim was'nt answering his phone.

"I have to get to Brim," he said.

"That was your partner?" Janet asked.

"Yes. Are you starting to see how serious this is?"

"Have you called the police?"

"No. Brim had gone to meet the police; they were probably somehow involved."

Martha Hill came into the family room, nodding slowly. She had put her coat on and carried her purse. The fear had partially gone from her eyes, it had been replaced by resignation.

"Let's leave now," John said.

John reached in his pocket for the car keys. Janet grabbed the front door keys from a side table, and the three of them walked quickly down the corridor to the front door. John opened the door and was greeted by the fresh chill of the fall breeze, and Willie Taylor, motionless, waiting, nickel plated revolver held inconspicuously at his side, pointed at John.

Taylor stepped in as John, Janet, and Martha stepped back into the hall.

"All right, you," Taylor stabbed the gun in John's direction. "Hands against the wall."

John turned and placed his hands on the rose patterned wallpaper, while Taylor patted him down. John was glad he had given the pistol to Janet. With any luck they wouldn't search her. Satisfied that John had no weapon, he roughly pulled John away from the wall. This was John's first clue that they were not simply going to be killed. if that were the case, Taylor would have just shot them then and there.

"All right. We're going for a little drive," said Taylor. " You walk slowly, in front of me to the driveway, and do what you're told. Clear?"

Everyone nodded.

Taylor opened the door again and motioned with the gun, and the three captives walked down the path to the driveway where a blue ford SUV was parked behind John's Mazda. The same blue SUV that had driven past and killed the hacker, Jenkins, and that had chased them through downtown Atlanta afterwards.

"You stand there," Taylor ordered John to stand by the open front window of the SUV, where Ben Mills covered him with a gun. Taylor reached in his jacket and removed a long zip-tie which he wrapped around Johns wrist's.

"You two, in here," Taylor opened the SUV and ordered Janet and Martha inside. They climbed in and Taylor placed similar restraints on Mrs. Hill and Janet.

The blue SUV started up and pulled out of the driveway.

"You come with me," Taylor said.

The two men walked over to John's Mazda, and John was searched again for the keys. He was then ordered into the passenger seat and Taylor climbed in behind the wheel.

The SUV was already out of sight by the time John's Mazda got rolling.

"Where are you taking us?"

"You'll find out soon enough," was the curt reply. John looked at Taylor, seeing him for the first time. Hard, chiseled features, a side effect of prison life, the stony expression either as a result of humorless incarceration, or cultivated intentionally as part of the whole game. Taylor looked over at him and John felt the impact of the eyes. Cold, hateful, the eyes that had watched men die without emotion or regret. John wondered if those were the eyes that watched Brim fall to the floor, right where that pool of dark liquid had spread out across the tile floor of the foodcourt.

"Did you kill Brim?"

"Who?"

"The man who was killed at the foodcourt today."

"No. Mills did that one."

John hated the way Taylor said "that one."

"How about Colin?"

"Who?"

"The guy with the laptop."

"Oh, yeah. That was me."

John thought that if he had a gun right then, he could have easily killed Taylor. One shot in the head. He had never felt this way before.

A gun. They hadn't searched Janet, she still had the gun. Would she be able to use it to escape? Were they going to the same place, if so, could he get it from Janet?

John looked out of the window. They were just getting onto 400 and heading south. He had no idea where they were going.

"Was that you at the cemetery, too?"

"Shut the fuck up. You ask too many questions." Taylor sneered.

John was scared, more scared than when he had been hiding in Brim's house, or when he was being chased through the granite tombstones in the cemetery, but he felt pretty sure Taylor wouldn't kill him until they got where they were going. John reasoned that it would be somewhat difficult to shoot someone in a moving car on the highway.

"Where are we going?"

There was no answer from Taylor.

"Are you taking them to the same place?"

Still no answer. They drove on is silence. John had no idea what to do.

As casually as he could, John sat back and closed his eyes. He spent several minutes gently and silently trying to break the zip-tie. But it was no use.

When he opened his eyes the car had turned off the highway on 10th street in Midtown and headed east. John knew they were going to Brian Hempel's house in Virginia Highland. Were they taking Janet and Martha there as well? Why? Were they all to be killed there? What about Brian?

The afternoon traffic was getting heavy. There would be traffic lights now that they were off 400. The car would have to slow and probably stop several times. Being handcuffed by the zip-tie, John hadn't put on his seatbelt. If he could open the door and roll out onto the street, he felt sure he could make a run for it and put some distance between him and Taylor before Taylor could get his gun. Before anyone died. He had to try. John glanced over at the Mazda door lock. It was his car – he knew the feel and the position of the door lock, he could open it blindfolded.

"Put that seat belt on," Taylor said. Had he noticed John's glance toward the door or was he familiar with bailing out of moving cars himself? Either way, John obeyed Taylor's instruction, buckling the seatbelt over both his arms because of his bound wrists. John abandoned any chance of escape and surrendered to the inevitable. A few minutes later they were at 463 Willow Drive and knocking on Brian Hempel's front door. John hoped that someone would see his handcuffs and Taylor's gun and call for help, but the tree-lined driveway discouraged any curious eyes.

Brian opened the door and was completely taken by surprise at the sight of John with his wrists bound, and one of the "policemen" who had visited him earlier in the day holding the gun.

"What?..." Brian raised his hands and shuffled back down the hall.

"Shut up. Get in here," Taylor said gesturing toward the diningroom. The mound of papers was still heaped on the table.

"Sit down."

John and Brian sat on dining room chairs, while Taylor pulled up his own chair to guard them.

"Now what?" John asked. Brian Hempel seemed in shock; he just sat in the chair with head bowed.

"We wait. There's someone who wants to meet you."

They were distracted by the sound of someone opening the front door. Mills appeared at the dining room doorway with Janet and Martha. John was relieved to see them, to know they were still alive, but the feeling was shortlived when he considered the danger they were all in. Janet and Martha were brought in and made to sit next to John and Brian. The sound of another car pulling into the driveway caused both Taylor and Mills to walk over to the window. John whispered to Janet.

"Do you still have the gun I gave you?"

"I left it on the kitchen table. I told you I don't like them," was her barely audible reply. John's last hope evaporated.

"Quiet over there," Taylor yelled. Mills walked out of the room toward the front door. Less than a minute later, Mills walked in with another man. The new man's hair was shorter and gray, the glasses were gone and the beard was more closely cropped, but it was, without doubt, Hobson. He stood before the small group of hostages, while Taylor and Mills took seats to watch the show.

"Well, now. Look who we have here. All the troublemakers in one room." He took a step toward Brian Hempel. "I've been looking forward to meeting you again." Hobson looked over at the research on the table. "You've been busy. I was hoping you had given up."

"I was hoping you were dead," Brian spat out the words.

"No, not yet. You know, you caused us a lot of problems back in Farfield, with all your protesting and involving the G.B.I. All because on one dead brother." Hobson allowed a thin cynical laugh to escape, and moved on to the next chair. "And you must be John Mars. The man who wants to play detective. Why did you have to start digging? Things had been so quiet and easy for us." Hobson removed a black semi-automatic pistol from inside his jacket and pressed the barrel into John's forehead. John had to say something, to keep talking, to buy some time.

"Did you kill all those people at Farfield? Is that what this is about?"

"No, of course I didn't. That was Williams' medicine."

John didn't understand what this meant. What was Williams' medicine? Was it from the experimental drug trials that Gregson had spoke of? Gregson seemed to imply that the trial drug might have caused the deaths. He wanted to keep talking, to ask another question, to run out the clock, but Hobson had already moved on.

"It's Martha, isn't it? You worked in records if I remember correctly."

Martha nodded.

"You were friends with that auditor, Mike Ratner, the one that disappeared?"

"Disappeared because of you," said Martha. "He knew what you were up to. You were the one who kidnapped him."

"You know I haven't quite figured out why you're involved in this yet. But I will. And when I do..." he wagged his finger at her. He moved on again and stood before Janet.

"The daughter, right?"

Janet said nothing. John found his voice again.

"So what happens now, are you going to kill us all?"

"Yes," Hobson said, "I'm going to kill you all."

The seconds stretched, and John felt his heart racing, he felt the desperation. The panic.

From the hallway came a sound. Someone was knocking on the door.

* * * *

Chapter 30

Mike's eyes were closed tightly, he strained to keep the world out of his head. All that existed for him was the crackling buzz of electricity.

But he felt nothing.

No violent seizures. No muscle contractions powerful enough to break bones. No teeth biting through his tongue. Nothing.

The buzzing stopped after only a second or two. He opened his eyes and blinked at the light.

Williams stood before him, frozen in catatonic suspension, his mouth partially open, his eyes rolled back in his head to reveal only the vacant stare of unconsciousness. Then he dropped to the ground, quickly, as if swatted to the floor by some giant hand.

Behind him stood Martha Hill. In her right hand was the cattle-prod that had hung behind the door of the morgue. The steel contacts on the end of it were silent, they no longer danced with their blue-light arc of sparks.

Martha dropped the cattle-prod onto the floor and began to unbuckle the restraining straps that held Mike's wrists to the stainless table. Her hands shook.

"How did you get here?" Mike asked, ripping the electrodes from his temples.

"I told you I was working late tonight. I missed the last bus, so I came back here to call a friend to pick me up. When I talked to Janet's babysitter she told me about your call. I knew something was wrong. So I thought I should wait for you to come back."

"All night?" he asked.

"If that's what it took, yes," she answered. Mike realized he owed Martha a huge debt of gratitude, a debt he could never hope to repay.

"I don't remember coming back." Mike said unbuckling his ankle restraints.

"A little after midnight I heard a car pull up to the ambulance ramp at the back of the morgue. My office overlooks the back of the building so nobody say my light on, and because my car was in the shop, nobody even knew I was here. I walked along the hallway on the second floor and when I looked through the window I saw Barry carrying you into the morgue."

"Yes. He tricked me into a fake meeting with the GBI and then drugged me. Barry's involved with drug dealing, Williams is the supplier. Where's Barry now?"

"He left after he dropped you off."

"So, how did you get down here." Mike was still woozy, but his faculties were returning. He crouched beside Williams motionless form and felt for a pulse.

"I crept down the stairs very carefully. It was dark in here. You were still unconscious. I was just about to turn on a light and release you when I heard Williams coming, so I grabbed that cattle-prod and hid in the bathroom."

Mike only half heard Martha's last sentence.

"Williams is dead," said Mike.

"What?"

"He's dead. There's no pulse."

"But that thing's not supposed to be fatal."

"Well, it was for him."

"Oh no," Martha said, leaning against the stainless steel table for support. "That means I killed him. Oh, this is bad. There'll be an investigation. Mike, what if I have to go to jail? I have a daughter."

"It's self defense," Mike said. He looked at the silent stillness of Williams dead body. Was it self defense? In his mind it was perfectly justified, but would a court see it the same way? A respected doctor, performing a medical procedure, who is electrocuted without warning by one of the office staff? How would that look? Mike sank into thoughtful despair. Farfield had proved itself highly edept when it came to coverups. They would easily explain it. They would pull a blood test from Mike and show drugs in his system, the same drugs that Barry gave him. They would say Mike became violent, and would probably blame him for one of the patient deaths, perhaps a recent one like Norman. They might even research and site Mike's medical records from childhood, and his visit to the mental hospital. In the end it would be washed over like all the other incidents at Farfield. And Martha would be convicted. Mike looked at Martha. He saw the hopelessness in her eyes and she began to shake.

"What am I going to do?" Martha asked, sobbing softly.

"Wait." Mike said. "There is still a way out of this."

He picked up the cattle prod and using a white lab-coat, he wiped off Martha's fingerprints. Then he gripped the black metal rod with his own bare hands.

"What are you doing? They're going to think you did this."

"Exactly," Mike said.

"But you can't do that," she said.

"Yes. I can. You are a single mother with a daughter who needs you. If Barry even suspects that you know about the drug dealing, he'll kill you. No one has seen you, no one knows you were here, your car isn't even in the parking lot. But I have nothing holding me here. I have a crappy job and a crappy apartment. I can walk away from it all."

Martha was just staring at Williams dead body. Mike could tell she was in shock. He walked over and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Martha," he said.

She blinked and turned her attention to him.

"Don't you see? This is my chance. This is what I've always wanted. To get away – to have a real life."

She blinked again and shook her head.

"Now here is what you do." Mike instructed. "You carry on as if nothing has happened, you show up for work tomorrow and if anyone asks, you left sometime soon after nine. You were never here. You understand?"

Martha said that she did, but Mike could tell that she was still traumatized.

Mike glanced around the morgue, looking for anything else he needed to do to ensure he would be blamed for Williams' death. He saw the leather bag that on the countertop, the one from the trunk of Barry's car. He looked inside. He wasn't entirely surprised to find that it contained money, but he was surprised at how much. It looked to be several hundred thousand dollars. He took it. Then he looked through Williams' pockets and retrieved the doctor's car keys.

"Come on, let's get out of here."

They ran out of the building together and into the cold dark air. The only car left in the parking lot was the white frost covered Cadillac belonging to Williams. Mike unlocked it and threw the leather bag of money onto the back seat. They drove off heading for the main gate.

"The key you have that opens the side gate, does it open the main gate as well?"

"No. That has to be done by the guard, and he's gone home. We'll have to leave the car and use the side gate."

"Put your seat belt on," Mike said.

As the road curved around a stand of pines, Mike could see the gate ahead of them. He pressed the gas pedal to the floor. At sixty-five miles per hour, Mike thought it was probably the fastest anyone had ever driven on the rough hospital roads. The gate was ahead of them now, washed by the yellow glow of the security lights. A hundred yards...seventy five yards.

"Hold onto something," said Mike. Martha put her hands flat against the dashboard of the Cadillac. John prayed that there was nothing coming on the dark road beyond the gate.

The car crashed into the gate. There was a loud metallic clanging sound as the locking mechanism shattered, and a grinding noise as the gate was pushed off its sliding track, and broke free from the fence. The nose of the Cadillac pushed over the metal barrier to flatten it against the road, as the car drove over the bent steel wreckage.

"Now, where can I drop you off?" Mike asked.

"I'll direct you to my house," she said.

They kept to the deserted backroads as they drove through the darkness. Mike didn't stop to inspect the damage to the car, but the steering felt a little odd after the impact, and he was pretty sure he had lost a headlight.

He eventually pulled up outside Martha's house.

"Let me give you some of this money," he said, reaching for the brown leather bag.

"No." She was very defiant, " I don't want anything that reminds me of tonight. Having that money will just feel wrong."

He walked Martha to the door.

"Will you come in?" she asked.

"No," Mike said. "I'm not good with long goodbyes, and anyway, I have to move fast. The important thing is that you must never speak of this night to anyone, ever."

"I won't," she said. "But what will you do?"

Mike knew exactly what he would do. All his life he had wanted to escape. To run. Now fate had forced it upon him. He wasn't unhappy about it.

"I came here to perform an audit," he said, "but that quickly turned into what I thought was a murder investigation. That's over now. I set out to solve this and I have. The deaths will end now that Williams has gone; hopefully, so will the drug dealing." There was a long pause. Mike smiled at Martha. "I'm going to disappear," he said, "I'm going to find somewhere quiet and remote where this money will last. A secluded corner of the world with sunshine and warm beaches. After tonight I'll be a wanted man. The world must think I'm dead."

Martha hugged him for a long time. She wept. And then Mike did exactly what he said he would do. He climbed into Williams' wrecked car and he disappeared. She never saw him again.

* * * *

Chapter 31

The sudden and demanding blows on the front door stunned the room into silence. Hobson stood motionless holding his gun. He looked at Taylor.

"Well, go answer it."

Taylor rose from his seat and took out his gun, stepping lightly into the hallway and to the front door.

John felt hope. Who could it be at the door? The police? Had a neighbor seen the suspicious traffic of men with guns shepherding people in handcuffs to Brian's front door? Could they have seen through the heavy wall of greenery that protected Brian's home from the street? In any event someone else entering the situation would not be good news for Hobson and the killers. They would have to deal with the uninvited guest, and make sure the visitor was out of range before they could resume their plan. Only Hobson and Mills were in the room now, but they were armed, there was no way John could overpower them. Something told him that Hobson was easily capable of dealing with any interruption. It wasn't worth the risk.

John heard the door close and footsteps in the hallway.

Mills came in first. John had never seen the man with him, but found something familiar in the firm set of the jaw, maybe the shape of the nose?

"Smith?" Hobson said. There was surprise in his voice. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I wanted to come and witness this myself," said Smith. He was carrying a briefcase, which he carefully placed on the dining-room table.

"Your name's not Smith."

John turned to see Martha, her features a mix of fear and hatred. She was shakeing. Then John realized who this was. It was Jake Williams, a much older version of the man in the photograph that was taken outside Farfield.

"Yes," Williams was speaking directly to Martha, "My name is Smith. Mr. Ronald Smith. It's true that I used to be called Williams, but that was so long ago. You would be surprised at how easy it is to change your identity when you know the right people. Isn't that so, Barry, or should I call you Micheal Hobson?"

"But...I killed you," Martha said, gasping. "...I killed you."

Janet looked horrified.

"So that was you?" Smith seemed almost entertained. "All this time I could never figure out who zapped me. For a while I even suspected Barry. It's so hard to trust anybody in our line of business, isn't it Barry?"

Barry nodded.

"All this time." Martha was sobbing softly now. "All this time, I thought I had killed you."

John knew in that moment the reason for the pain that Martha had carried with her all those years. It created a wall of misunderstanding between Martha Hill and her daughter.

"You almost were a murderer," said Williams, "I was out for about an hour. When I finally came to, you and that Ratner guy were long gone – with my money! You should learn to check a pulse a bit better – you worked in a hospital for Christ's sake." He paused. "So, you knew Barry was involved but you couldn't prove it without Ratner's testimony. And you needed the job to support that little brat of yours," he looked at Janet. "So every day you had to show up for work and look Barry in the eye. That must have been terrible for you," he said, his words laced with sarcasm. Williams was taking delight in Martha's lifetime of anguish.

"You bastard," Janet said, showing more anger than John ever expected of her.

"But you died in a car crash," John said. Williams removed a 9mm Beretta from inside his jacket.

"Someone did, but it wasn't me. The car burned up. One thing I learned a long time ago is that fire will destroy a lot of evidence."

"You killed my brother," Brian Hempel said.

"Yeah, well, too bad. He was just collateral damage." John had broken through the dread and the fear. He had reached a point of resignation. He knew he was going to die. He just wanted to know as much as possible before he did, and Williams seemed like the kind of man who was both willing and proud to share what he had done.

"So it was your medication that killed all those people. Your experimental drugs," said john.

"Who said that?" For the first time Williams' cockiness had gone. He was suddenly serious, almost concerned. Could it be that Williams answered to someone further up the food-chain?

"Your buddy there was telling us," John thrust his bound hands toward Hobson. Just for a moment Williams looked angry.

"Well, Barry shouldn't tell tales out of school. He could get in trouble for saying things like that." For the first time Hobson looked scared.

"But, you disappeared from Farfield right after that night in the morgue," Martha had regained some composure and was trying to make sense of it all.

"When I woke up and Ratner was gone, I thought it was only a matter of time before he would alert the authorities; after all he knew about the coke and the drug trials. So I simply left Farfield forever, and floated the story that my project funding had dried up. Ratner's not the only one who knows how to disappear." He winked at Martha, then took a step toward her, bending down so that his face was close to hers, "I don't suppose you want to tell me where Mike Ratner went?"

"I don't know where he went. Somewhere away from you."

"Ah well, the secret will die with you then, which brings us to the business at hand," Williams sais.

"You," he pointed at Brian Hempel, "you caused me so much trouble. I should have killed you back then, but I guess I'm just too nice."

Williams paced over to the window and looked outside, satisfying himself that it was sufficiently private. He began screwing a long metal tube to the end of the gun barrel. John knew it was a silencer. Brim would have called it a suppressor. He wished Brim were here. Calm Brim. Capable Brim. Brim with his big Colt. Williams turned to address John.

"You," he raised his voice and jabbed the gun in John's direction, "you, are the reason all this has become a problem." He waved the gun around the room as if he wanted to demonstrate what "all this" really meant. "Sure the old man over there had made it his life's work to find out what happened to his dead brother, but he never would have discovered anything. He would have died a lonely old man with all his press clippings and his research." Leaning forward over the table Williams swept his free hand in a wide arc brushing the pile of papers onto the dining room floor. "He would have never found out about us." Williams shouted the word "never" and John could tell he was becoming angry. Unstable. "But you, Mr. John Mars, you had to start digging. You don't have any idea, do you? You didn't realize that if you continued to follow the trail of those deaths, it would lead to some very powerful and dangerous people." John was now sure there was someone else that the mad doctor reported to. When Williams turned back he had regained some of his mental balance, "I was savoring the autumn of my years, comfortable, quietly enjoying my time at home. I don't really like leaving my home. And now I have to come here and deal with this." he voice was getting louder and he waved the gun around again. "I have to come here and kill people. And I going to start with you," he said as he turned to face Hobson.

"What?" Hobson said, almost shouting.

"Yes, Barry. You. You were supposed to keep a lid on this. You were supposed to not involve me. You know, for some time now you haven't really been needed in this organization. Taylor and Mills do all the work. What do you bring to the party?"

"But...I...I..."

"No buts, Barry. You've messed this up. There have been some very high profile and public murders. You've got the police involved and you've drawn a lot of attention to us. If you're discovered it will only be a matter of time before I'm discovered," he stabbed the gun barrel quickly at John again. He raised his voice – almost to a shout, "This guy's was an investigative journalist for Christ's sake."

"No, you don't understand..." said Barry.

"I understand plenty," Williams said. "I understand that you blabbed about the drug trials. That's something we never, never, do. Those people would never let you live if they knew you'd done that."

Then Williams shot Barry Spires twice in the chest. Barry fell backwards, stumbling over a chair, collapsing, gasping for breath as a pool of blood soaked the front of his shirt. Williams stepped forward and john heard another muffled thud from the gun as Williams shot him once more just above his eyes.

John felt numb, shocked as his mind tried to grasp these new events. Someone screamed. And then the room filled with a stunned thick silence.

"Well now. That's one problem solved," Williams said, as easily as if he were discussing the weather. He turned to Taylor and Mills, who were still sitting in the dining room taking in the show. "OK. Barry has obviously outlived his usefulness. Congratulations on your promotion. You work for me now. Are we good with that?"

"Yes, sir," Mills said. Taylor nodded.

"OK, then. Get him out of here."

Taylor and Mills picked up Barry Spires by his wrists and ankles and carried him out of the dining room. John heard the front door open and close again.

"You won't get away with this," said John.

"I already have," said Williams.

"But there's a trail of evidence," John said. "You shot Brim. The police will investigate that."

"Yes, but probably not very thoroughly," Williams said, "I know those guys pretty well."

"How do you know I haven't told anyone about what I know?"

"I don't," Williams said. "But what can you prove? And it's not like you're going to be around to testify, is it? Evidence is your big problem, Mr. Mars, and to be quite honest with you, it's also mine. I have to get rid of all this." He waved the gun around the room again.

"You. Old records lady," Williams spoke directly to Martha. He placed his hand in his pocket and threw several long zip-ties onto the floor in front of her, "Put one of these round everyone's ankles. Tie each foot to the leg of the chair."

"I'm not helping you do anything," Martha said defiantly.

"How about now?" he said pointing his gun at Janet's head. Martha looked terrified. Frozen. She couldn't move.

"Oh, relax," continued Williams with light-hearted impatience. "I'm not going to shoot you." He sighed and with an exaggerated theatrical delivery said, "cross my heart and hope to die. Huh, how's that?"

In a daze Martha complied. John didn't think she believed Williams, but he knew that when all seemed lost, the mind was willing to accept any suggestion of hope, rational analysis simply stopped working.

"Nice and tight now."

John felt the nylon band secure his legs to the chair. Now, even if the situation presented itself, he would not be able to get up and tackle Williams.

"What did you do with Spires?" asked Williams.

"He's in the back of the car. We'll dump him somewhere where he won't be found."

"Thank you, Taylor. Very kind of you."

Williams walked over to the table. When he first entered the room he had placed a briefcase on it. With dual snaps he opened the briefcase and studied the contents. Reaching in he removed a package wrapped in black plastic and sealed with painters tape. He casually tossed it to Taylor. Taylor weighed it in his hands and nodded.

"So, where to now?" Williams asked.

"Well, I'm going over to Lawson's place and we will divide it up for sale."

John recognized the name, Lawson. James B. Lawson was the owner of the house that Taylor and Mills had visited in the white Lexus after killing Colin. John had staked it out and later he and Brim had surmised that it was something to do with drugs. Apparently, they were correct.

"Good," said Williams.

Taylor turned to leave, but Williams stopped him with an afterthought. "Wait. Watch these troublemakers for a minute." Williams left the room.

Taylor took out his gun again and leaned against the table. Nobody spoke. Janet and Martha looked terrified. Brian looked shocked. John stared at the blood on the floor where Barry Spires had died. After a few minutes Williams returned carrying a red five gallon container of gasoline.

"Like I said, the problem is that I have all this evidence to get rid of. You can leave now, Taylor."

Taylor walked out of the dining room and John heard the front door close.

Williams removed the cap from the gasoline and lifted it, groaning from the weight, to splash the liquid all over the papers that now littered the floor of Brian Hempel's dining room.

"Like I said, fire will destroy a lot of evidence."

Then he continued his stroll around the room, pouring the gas on the carpet, the other upholstery in the room and the plush velvet drapes that framed the picture window. The spirituous aroma filled the room.

Williams walked over to his bound and seated prisoners. Then to John's horror he poured gasoline over Brian Hempel. Brian struggled, but Williams smashed his gun into the side of Brian' s face. Brian cried out in pain. John tried to stand up, it was a move more instinctive than calculated, his feet were too restrained to allow it. Williams continued pouring the gas on Martha, Janet, and John, finally throwing the empty container to one side. The fuel soaked John's hair and stung his eyes. Everyone was screaming, Janet sobbed hysterically.

"You're a monster!" yelled Brian. "I hope you burn in hell!"

John looked over through his stinging eyes, Williams calmly walked over to Brian and leaned in close to him. "No, Mr. Hempel it's you who are going to burn."

Through blurred vision, John could see Williams remove something silver and shiny from his pocket. A cigarette lighter. This was it. This was how they would all die. He closed his eyes and waited.

The sound of the gunshot was unmistakable. Sudden and loud. John opened his eyes. His ears were ringing from the noise. Williams stood motionless, still holding the lighter in his hand, a look of disbelief on his face as a patch of red appeared over his heart. He seemed to sway slightly back and forth, he tried to inhale but appeared to struggle, then his head tilted slowly upwards as if he were inspecting the ceiling, and he fell back into the pile of gasoline soaked evidence.

John looked around the room. Martha, being the only one whose feet were not bound to the chair, was standing with arms outstretched, hands clasped around the butt of the .380 Walther pistol that Janet had left on her kitchen table. A thin trail of smoke drifted up from the barrel. She trembled slightly but her face showed determination and resolve. Her eyes remained fixed on the motionless form of Dr. Jake Williams.

"Martha?" said John softly, his ears were still ringing and he barely heard himself. He imagined that Martha must have equal difficulty. In a louder voice he repeated, "Martha?"After a moment Martha Hill seemed to snap out of her shock, and stare at John.

"He's dead, Martha."

She nodded slowly. Brian and Janet were speechless.

"Are you OK, Martha?"

She continued to nod slowly, finally letting the hand holding the gun fall to her side.

"Martha, you need to get something to cut us free." Martha continued to nod as she walked slowly out of the dining room. Brian let out a massive sigh and his head dropped forward to stare at the floor. Janet looked relieved and shaking her head took several deep breaths.

Martha soon returned with some scissors that she had found in the kitchen and cut the prisoners free. Brian stood up and walking over to Williams' dead body. He spat on it. Then he walked out of the room. John went over to Williams and searched him, soon finding his cell phone. It was an older flip phone with no password. He opened it up. From the bathroom came the sound of Brian Hempel throwing up. John thought it was either the shock or the smell of gasoline, which still socked the air with its chemical intensity. John dialed 911.

"Hello.....Yes, there are two men in a blue Ford Explorer driving to an address on Elm Lane in Sandy Springs. They have drugs and weapons, and there's a dead body in the car." He hung up.

John looked at Martha. For the first time he saw a peace in her eyes.

"I'm so glad it's finally over," she said. "For most of my life I have lived with the memory, the pain of thinking I had killed Williams, and knowing that Mike Ratner took the blame, and knowing that Barry Spires was so evil, but not daring to tell anyone. Oh, I was so afraid that they would hurt you if I did." She was speaking directly to her daughter, confessing her sins, exorcizing the the devil that now lay in a crumpled heap on Brian Hempel's dining room floor.

Brian came back into the room.

"You OK?" asked John.

Brian nodded.

"I'm so glad it's over," Martha said again between sobs. But then she looked panicked. "But what about the police? They will come. Oh, I can't go through an investigation. I can't relive the past again."

"You won't have to go through anything," Brian said.

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"You were never here," replied the old man. "For years I have been investigating Williams for the death of my brother."

"But you can't take the blame," Martha said.

"I can," said Brian. "This is the way it should have been. I should have killed him. I will tell the police that he was an intruder in my house. I was defending myself. It makes perfect sense. No jury will ever convict me."

In a daze, Brian began picking up the extra zip-ties, the only evidence that John, Janet, and Martha had ever been there.

"You guys should leave now," said Brian. "One of my neighbors probably heard that shot and called the police."

* * * *

Chapter 32

John Mars sat on the wooden park bench where less than a week before he had encountered the strange old man who had started his exhausting and dangerous investigations into Farfield. He saw this place with different eyes now.

It was hard to erase the knowledge that in these woods, in the now demolished red brick buildings, behind the locked doors, amid screams of anguish and sobs of despair, there had been so much suffering. In the end there had been no serial killer. No crazed lunatic wandering the grounds looking for his next victim, just an unhinged doctor, illegally testing a drug with some very violent and unpredictable effects, and being paid under the table with high-grade coke. Just an unhinged doctor. A devil who had teased and played with the minds of the sick. In this place, where so many unfortunate souls possessed nothing but their own tortured minds, this monster would dwell and make their lives even worse. And decades later justice would be done as those same monsters were squeezed out of existence by the damaged lives they caused and by the lingering remains of their own past.

Following the incident at Brian Hempel's house, the police had stopped the blue Ford Explorer and, in the shootout that followed, Willie Taylor and Ben Mills had been killed, but not before Mills had winged a cop. A ballistic report on their weapons identified them as the killers of Colin, Jerome Spencer, Jenkins the hacker, and the man killed in Oakland Cemetery. The police no longer considered John or Brim suspects in the case.

No charges were filed against Brian Hempel, the police concluded it was an act of self defense: a man from Brian's past, who he continued to investigate for the death of his brother, had finally snapped and lashed out at Brian, trying to burn Brian's evidence and kill the old man. Brian had simply shot an intruder.

"So, you going to see your girlfriend again?" Brim asked.

"Not my girlfriend," replied John.

Brim was smart to have worn his bullet-proof vest the day he met with Richardson. He was pretty sure that the detective had nothing to do with his shooting, but suspected others in APD had access to Richardson's appointment information, and tipped off Spires or Williams or someone else. Brim had no idea where the shots had come from. The first two hit him in the chest, the impact absorbed by Kevlar, but still powerful enough to knock him off his chair. The third, probably intended as a headshot had missed his vest and struck his shoulder. He was recovering nicely but complaining constantly.

"So who is behind it all?" John asked. "It sure sounded like Williams answered to someone higher up the foodchain."

"Who knows," Brim said. "If I had to guess I would say it was the people behind the testing of Williams' crazy pills."

"The government? The military?" John asked.

"Maybe," said Brim, lighting a cigar. "Maybe even some terrorist group or a foreign interest. Either way it's someone who Williams was still shit scared of thirty years later."

"You know," John said. "I think I might make private investigations my new line of work. Writing is just too dangerous."

"You wouldn't last a week without me watching out for you," Brim said.

THE END

* * * *

