John Hart - The King Of Lies

“Somebody planted that document in my house, Clarence. It had to come from somewhere.”

Hambly straightened to his full height and looked down the length of his nose. I saw color in his face, and the pulse of blood in the big veins that ran down his neck. “Earlier today, I held some pity for you, Work. But that’s gone. I will look forward to your trial date.” He pointed a thin arm toward the stairwell, and I saw that it trembled. “Now, please leave.”

“Very well, Clarence. Thank you for your time.” I walked down Hambly’s private stairs and did not look back. I heard his office door slam.

I found Hank in the car, his arm out the open window.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Really?”

I looked at Hank. “Really.”

“So where to now?”

“Highway Six-oh-one, toward Mocksville. I’ll show you where to turn.”

We rolled out of town, and as we drew closer to Stolen Farm, I felt the spring inside of me grow tighter. My head was heavy with densely packed emotions. It grew more so as we approached Vanessa’s house and stopped in front of it.

“Wait here,” I told Hank, getting out of the car, leaning in through the open window.

“Jesus, Work.”

I held up my hands, palms out. “Last time,” I told him.

Stolen Farm lay in the shadow of the neighboring woods. Thin fingers of light reached for the farmhouse but fell short, satisfied with the faded red wall of the old barn. We’d parked in the rutted drive, house to the left, barn to the right. I didn’t see Vanessa’s car, but her nameless man was there; he watched me from the gaping mote-filled cavern that bisected the barn. If I’d looked up, I would have seen the door to the loft, where Vanessa and I found what we’d thought would last forever. I didn’t look up. I looked at her man. He’d been working on the tractor. Grease covered his hands and the heavy wrench he held. He leaned against the tall molded tire with a proprietary air and studied me as I crossed the dry dirt toward him. He looked bigger than I remembered; he was heavily muscled, and depressingly young, but definitely the same guy.

“That’s far enough,” he said. I stopped, still ten feet away, and held up my hands.

“I’m not looking for any trouble,” I told him. “I just want to talk to Vanessa.”

His mouth opened to an unasked question, and he put the wrench down on the engine cowling of the tractor. He moved toward me, wiping his hands on his pants. Worry creased his face.

“I thought she was with you,” he said.

I dropped my hands, feeling foolish. I might have decked him the other night, but it was clear to me now that he was not intimidated.

“What are you talking about?”

He stopped, towering over me. He searched my face as if for something specific, then flicked his eyes at the house. I followed his glance, hoping to see Vanessa, but the old place was still and dark.

“She didn’t come home last night.”

“What?”

“And I haven’t seen her all day.”

A familiar pit opened in my stomach. Something moved in the young man’s eyes, and I knew it for what it was. I stepped closer.

“Start at the beginning,” I told him. “Tell me everything.”

He nodded and swallowed hard. He wanted to tell me. The thing in his eyes made him need to tell me. It was fear; the young man was afraid, and suddenly I was, too.

So what was that all about?” We were on the interstate, ten minutes north of town. Hank had started to speak at least five times, but something in my face had stopped him. I didn’t want to answer him. I didn’t want to say the words, yet for some reason I did. Maybe I hoped they wouldn’t sound so bad if spoken out loud.

“Someone important to me has gone missing.”

“Someone important? Who do you-Oh, I get it. A girlfriend?”

“More than that,” I said softly.

“Plenty of fish in the sea, Work. Trust me on that.”

I rolled down the window because I needed the smell of something clean. Wind buffeted my face, and for a moment I could not breathe.

“You’re wrong about that, Hank,” I finally said.

“Then we’re swimming in different bodies of water.”

Not swimming, I thought, drowning, and for a moment I was.

“So who was the guy?” I didn’t answer, and Hank looked his question at me a second time. “The guy?”

I settled back into my seat, the headrest soft and sweet-smelling on the heels of jail-issue bedding. “Just drive, Hank. Do you mind? I need to think.”

His words came from far away. “Sure, man. Whatever. It’s a long trip.”

He was right. It was.

But we made it to the crowded parking lot of Dorothea Dix Hospital by late twilight. We didn’t speak until he killed the engine. I peered up through the windshield. Of all the miserable places in this world, I thought, this one must hold the darkest secrets. I thought of Bedlam, and screams choked with vomit. “Talk about the screaming willies,” I said.

“It’s not as bad as you might think,” Hank said.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Once or twice.” He did not elaborate.

“And?”

“And I’ve never been on the secure floors. But the rest of it is just like any other hospital.”

I studied the grounds again. “Except for the razor wire,” I said.

“There is that.”

“What now?” I asked.

“How much money do you have?”

I checked my wallet instinctively, forgetting that I’d already counted the money when it was returned to me. “Three hundred and seventy dollars.”

“Give it to me.” He separated out the three hundred-dollar bills and gave me back the rest. “This should do it.” I watched him fold the bills together and tuck them into the front pocket of his jeans. “Ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” I said, meaning it. He punched me lightly on the shoulder.

“Relax,” he told me. “This will be fun.”

When we got out of the car, he donned a windbreaker and checked something in the inside pocket. I couldn’t tell what it was, but he grunted lightly, as if satisfied. I looked up at the hospital, black and sharp-edged against the dark purple sky. Light seemed to jump from the windows and die on the way down.

“Come on,” Hank said. “Try to relax.”

We started toward the main entrance to the hospital. “Hang on,” Hank said. I watched him trot back to the car, unlock it, and reach inside. He came back with the picture of Alex that I’d left in the mailbox. “Might need this,” he said. The picture flashed in the weak light, but I saw Alex’s face perfectly. Like the building, it had sharp edges, and I wondered, not for the first time, what had brought her to this place. What had brought her here and what had she carried away? What had she taken home to my sister, and was it as evil as my troubled mind made it out to be?

I needed an answer, and looking at Hank, I thought we had a good shot at finding one.

We walked into the lobby. Halls shot off in multiple directions. An elevator bank faced us. The hospital smell was overwhelming.

Hank approached a row of newspaper machines and dug some change from his pockets. “Have you read the Charlotte paper today?”

I shook my head. “No.”

He dropped his change into the machine that vended the Charlotte Observer. He retrieved a paper and handed it to me. “You’ll need this,” he said.

I didn’t understand. “What for?” I asked, holding the paper as if I’d never seen one before.

“Are you serious?” he asked, and turned away.

“Oh.” I tucked the paper under my arm. Hank looked up at the bewildering proliferation of signs and seemed to find what he wanted. I didn’t have a clue what that was, but when he told me to follow him, I did. Soon we were lost in the maze, and the ever-present signs beckoned us deeper into the hospital. Hank kept his eyes down, like he knew exactly where he was going. He looked at no one and no one looked at him. I tried to follow suit. Eventually, we turned onto a hall that ended at a small waiting room. In the corner, on the wall, a television showed us its blank screen. A sticky note informed passersby that it was out of order.