Jeffery Deaver - Speaking In Tongues

BRMHF had been the last destination for the hard-core crazies in the commonwealth of Virginia. Schizophrenics, uncontrollable bipolars, borderline personalities, delusionals, souls lost forever. Security was high-the patients (that is, inmates) were locked down at night in secure quarters (padded cells). The eight-foot chain-link fence enclosing the ten-acre grounds was “designed to provide comforting boundaries to patients and nearby residents alike” (it sported a live current of 500 volts).

The hospital had served its purpose well until two years ago, when it had been closed down by the state, and the patients were shipped to other facilities and halfway houses. BRMHF was soon overgrown with foliage and the place was forgotten.

Dr. Aaron Matthews was intimately familiar with the hospital; the patients here had found him a confidant, confessor, judge… a virtual father over the course of nearly four years. When he thought of home he thought first of this hospital and second of the Colonial house in Arlington, Virginia, he’d lived in with Margaret and their son, Peter.

Matthews now braked the Mercedes to a halt and examined the place carefully for signs of intruders though a break-in would have been very unlikely. The current to the fence had been shut off long ago but the chain link was intact and the grounds were patrolled by five knob-headed rottweilers, as raw and brutal as dogs could be, teeth sharp as obsidian; they hunted in packs and once or twice a week killed one of the deer that often strolled through the gate when it was open.

He listened carefully again-no sound of approaching cars-and unlocked the two tempered steel locks securing the gate. He drove inside and parked.

Then he lifted Megan from the trunk and carried her inside, pushing through a door with his shoulder. He’d reversed the locks on the doors-you could simply push in from the outside but couldn’t get back out without a key.

He stepped into the lobby.

Asylums smell far more visceral than do regular hospitals because ‘even though their province is the mind, the by-product of mental pathology is piss, shit, sweat, blood. This was still true of the Blue Ridge Facility years after its closing; the air stank of bodily functions and decay.

Through these murky halls Matthews carried his prize in his arms. Feeling every ounce of her weight-though it wasn’t the weight of a burden; it was the weight of treasure: a golden or platinum artifact, solid and perfect.

Matthews carried Megan into the room he’d fixed up for her. He laid her on the bed and undressed her. First the blouse and the bra. Then jeans and panties and socks. His eyes coursed up and down her body. Yet he touched her only once-to make sure her pulse was regular.

Taking her clothes, he left the room, locked her door with a heavy padlock. He thought about stopping to see his son but the boy was in a different part of the hospital and Matthews had no time for a visit now. Tate Collier still troubled him. He left the building, got into his car and started through the gate. He’d driven only ten feet before he heard the thump-thump-thump of the flat tire.

Oh, not now! His mood suddenly darkened. And he fought once more to keep the blackness at bay. He thought of Megan. It buoyed him just enough to keep him functional. Matthews climbed out and walked to the rear of the car.

He took one look at the slash mark in the Michelin and leapt toward the driver’s door to get to the pistol in his glove compartment.

Too late.

“Don’t move.” The young man held the rusty machete, left over from the groundskeeping Matthews had done when he’d brought his son here. He gripped the long knife awkwardly but with enough manic determination to make Matthews freeze and raise his hands. The boy’s muscles were huge.

He blurted, “I’ll give you my wallet. And there’s-”

“I want to know what’s going on.”

The young man’s voice was astonishing. What a beautiful patois. Carolinian and Caribbean and some succulent English, which tempered the two. This man could fuck any woman he wanted simply by telling her she was beautiful.

“Don’t hurt me,” Matthews said desperately.

A flicker of uncertainty in the brown eyes.

“What’ve you done with Megan?”

Matthews frowned. “Who are you?”

Ah, young man, asked the silent therapist within Matthews, you’re not a fighter at all, are you? You’re out of your element, brandishing that knife like a squash racket… And why do you feel so guilty, why do you feel so unsure?

The pistol was in the glove compartment only feet away. But his assailant was riding on pure nerves. With his strength it wouldn’t take much for the boy to injure Matthews seriously, without even trying. Besides, while he believed the young man wasn’t dangerous Matthews had learned that premature diagnoses can be very risky.

He smiled and lowered his hands. He nodded knowingly. “Wait, wait. You’re not… You must be Joshua.”

The boy’s face squirreled up into a frown. “You know me?”

“Sure, I know you,” Matthews said smoothly. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk.”

“You startled me,” said the soothing voice of Aaron Matthews. “I didn’t mean to react the way I did.” He glanced at the tire, laughed. “But, then again, you did attack my Mercedes with a machete.”

With his voice trembling (love that voice, love it), the boy said, “I thought you’d just brought her here on a date. To show her some of your property or something. Then I saw you carry her inside. What the hell’s going on? Tell me!”

“Wait. Carry who inside?” Matthews frowned.

Show her some of your property?

“Megan. I saw you two.”

So he’s thinking real estate development. Matthews shook his head, glanced toward the hospital. “You mean just a few minutes ago? Well, I carried in some bags of cleaning supplies. And a tarp. I bought this place and I’m turning it into condos.”

A minuscule lessening of his suspicion. Not believing your own eyes, are you? How often we don’t. Also, in his face was a suspicion that the young man himself had made a stupid error here. You don’t do well with embarrassment, do you? A gift from the African-American executive mom, I’d say. The one with practiced elocution and the Chanel scarf over her shoulder and the defensive eyes?

Matthews noted, however, that the boy continued to hold the rusty blade firmly in his hand.

“Where is she? What were you doing with her car?”

“Joshua,” Matthews said patiently, “I just dropped Megan off at my weekend place up the road.” He pointed into the woods. “A couple miles from here. She wanted to get a head start on making lunch.”

“Why’d you switch cars at the Metro?”

“Megan’s got a friend. Amy.” He paused.

Joshua said, “I know Amy.”

“Amy’s borrowing her car. We left it at the Metro for her and took the Mercedes.”

The boy frowned. “I didn’t think Amy had a license.”

Matthews laughed. “Oh? She didn’t share that with us. I wondered why she didn’t want us to drop it off at her house.”

Good, Matthews told himself, giving his performance high marks.

“But wait… I didn’t see Megan in your car when I was behind you.”

“You were following us?” Now a frown-at the boy’s odd behavior.

“Yes, I was following you. How did you think I found you?”

“I assumed that Megan told you about me. And that we come up here sometimes.”

Joshua blinked.

Matthews studied the young man for a moment then tilted his head and said with sympathy, “Look, Joshua, don’t do this to yourself.”

“Do what?”