Asylum

  Suddenly, Abby burst into tears.

  Jordan immediately put an arm around her, and she collapsed against his side.

  “W-we’re s-so sorry, Joe,” she sobbed, wiping her tear-stained face. Her tears left actual streaks down her dusty face. “We d-didn’t mean to b-break any rules. We w-were just so curious.… Please … I’m so s-sorry!”

  It was, in Dan’s honest opinion, too theatrical, and Joe seemed to pick up on that, too, rolling his eyes at her. But then Abby inhaled deeply and burst out with the rawest, most heartbreaking sob Dan had ever heard. Joe looked dismayed, and Dan could see his authority cracking before their eyes. Joe was thinking about what a monster he would be if he reported her.

  “It’ll be all right,” Dan said softly, patting Abby’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.…”

  “For the love of … Just don’t do it again, all right? I mean it. Don’t.” Joe shined his flashlight into each of their faces in turn. Abby nodded furiously when the light was on her. “Now get back to your rooms. Now.”

  He marched off, muttering under his breath.

  “Sweet Enola Gay, that was amazing,” Jordan whispered when Joe was out of sight. Then he turned and pulled Abby into his arms, spinning her off her feet. “An Oscar moment if ever there was one!”

  “Thanks,” she said, using the back of her hand to wipe the last of the tears. Without another word, she set off for the stairs. “That was too close.”

  “Close? Closer than close. We got caught,” Dan said, feeling as if he was resurfacing from the murky depths of a swamp. And to think, he’d been on a date with Abby just hours before. A nice normal date …

  They reached Abby’s door.

  “Jeez, I need a shower,” she said. She sounded like she wasn’t even a little bit fazed.

  But a shower did sound great. Dan itched from the dust and dirt that had settled over his skin, and the more he thought about it, the more it itched. He’d be clawing at his skin soon, but he wanted to talk to Abby one last time alone before he went back to his room. He looked at Jordan, trying to signal with his eyes that he wanted some privacy to say good-bye to Abby, dusty or otherwise.

  “Okay, on that note,” Jordan said breathlessly. “I need to go pray. A lot. I will pray to every freaking god there is in thanks that I did not just get my ass kicked out.”

  Jordan trotted off up the stairs, one hand in his pocket, the other pulling out his trusty die. Dan heard him whistle a little song as he went, the tune floating up and up before fading away.

  When he was sure they were alone, Dan said, “I had a really great time tonight. Before the getting-busted thing, obviously.”

  “Yeah,” Abby replied. Something was distracting her, though. Her eyes went to his shoulder, then to the floor, and then finally to his eyes. “I had fun, too.”

  “I’m sorry we got caught and that you had to cry.… But you were amazing, really. We would’ve been in huge trouble without you.”

  “It was nothing.” She shrugged. Then she said abruptly, “I’ll see you in the morning, Dan, okay?”

  He nodded too fast, blowing whatever nonchalance he had hoped to project. “Yeah, of course. Sleep tight, Abby. Be a tree.”

  They both laughed nervously and looked at their feet. Whatever had been between them earlier this evening—if there had been something between them—was gone. Of course, all things considered, how could it not be?

  “Well, good night.”

  Abby gave him a quick wave and went into her room. A dust bunny hung like a burr in her hair. He should’ve brushed it away.

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  CHAPTER

  No 13

  Dan was dead tired. As he started to climb the stairs, he couldn’t believe it was only a little after ten. But his most pressing thought was not of sleep. With every step he felt his energy surge. He had a card on the Sculptor! And a leather folder to go through! The closer he got to his room, the more wired he felt.

  Dan was relieved to find that Felix was still gone. He wanted to look at the stuff he’d taken in private. He pulled out the index card and the folder and put them on his desk. His fingers were repelled by them. The stench of the basement and his itch made him feel unclean. But he couldn’t stop.

  He took a look at the index card first.

  Heimline, Dennis. Alias: the Sculptor

  Born: 1935

  DOA: 5.15.1965

  Reason for Admittance: Serial Killer

  Homicidal: Y

  Recovered: Y

  Y?

  Dan was shocked by that last line. A serial killer—recovered? How? How would they even know? Then something else caught his eye—on the bottom right corner of the card. Three hand-written numbers. 361.

  Suddenly Dan was clawing at his shoulders, trying to stop the itch. The card sat on the desk, just as it was, but the 361 seemed to shimmer. Get a grip, Dan. He really had to calm down. Take a shower. But first he took the card and folder and hid them in the drawer. With the warden.

  Dan stood in the shower for a long time. Jung had this way of talking about coincidences, one that Dan had always liked. Basically, he said that when people saw a meaningful connection between two moments—a coincidence—the connection wasn’t because one moment led to the other, it was because people’s brains were always making connections.

  The Sculptor was patient 361. His discovery couldn’t be a coincidence. It was a connection.

  Dan fumbled with the towel and his clothes in his haste to get back to his room.

  He grabbed the folder and flipped through the sheets of paper inside. Invoices … employee evaluations … Dan gave everything a passing glance, but he didn’t stop on anything until he came to a slip of folded paper. The sheet’s edge was torn, as if it had been yanked out of a journal or notebook. Neat, looping handwriting filled the page.

  He sat on his bed and began to read.

  very nature of his ailment continues to baffle me, and baffle us all. What is the source of this abnormality? Everywhere we observe plants, animals, systems with a core. Every flower has its seed. Every animal its heart. Every masterpiece its inspiration. Yet the answers I seek elude me. There is a root somewhere in his brain, a twisted root that sprouts madness and malice. I will find it. No matter the cost, no matter the difficulty, I will find it. I will live a truly great life. My colleagues will no doubt hang me metaphorically, but I say let them hang. Legality, morality, sympathy aside, I will pull madness out by its black root, and I will leave a legacy no man, however sanctimonious, can fault.

  A truly great life. That is what humanity deserves. Not an average life, not even a normal one—a life in which genius is not an anomaly but an expectation.

  But to achieve such things

  And there the page ended. Dan flipped it over, perfectly aware that it was blank on the other side, but wanting to know more, much more. Without context, without a signature, the piece of paper wasn’t much to go by.

  The writer of this page was clearly talking about curing someone who was insane. And he was talking about something unusual, some new treatment that he alone might discover. Dan’s mind began to race. These weren’t the musings of some random Brookline doctor—these had to be the ideas of its warden. And not just any warden, if he was to believe the conspiracy enthusiast Sal Weathers—the warden, the one who had changed Brookline’s history and rehabilitated a serial killer.

  Rereading the journal page, Dan admired the warden’s grand vision. This man was willing to try something revolutionary to cure insanity. He dared to be different, to challenge the status quo. Even if he was rejected for it. Wasn’t that a little of what Dan was like—scorning the popular opinion, the popular crowd, and aspiring to something more?

  But this note wasn’t just promoting intelligence, he thought. This was something a little more sinister. Genius is an expectation. Geni
us was nice and all but you couldn’t force it on people, could you? Besides, what kind of treatment could do something like that? What could put a Y next to Recovered?

  He leaned back on his pillow, trying to put the pieces together in his head. The horrible photograph of the patient struggling. This piece of paper by the warden about a mad man. The emails about patient 361. The Sculptor. It all seemed to be adding up. But to what?

  Dan grabbed his laptop. When he went back to Sal Weathers’ website and clicked “Contact Me,” he was totally just looking for an email address. But good old Sal had listed his full details, and Dan was shocked to find an address that wasn’t just in New Hampshire, it was in Camford.

  “One of Professor Reyes’s petitioners, I’ll bet,” Dan murmured. It now made sense that Sal Weathers would be so invested in cataloging and publishing Brookline’s sordid history—he was probably hoping to get the place torn down.

  Part of him wished Sal lived across the country, or in Cambodia, so that the temptation to visit him wouldn’t be so strong. But all signs were pointing to a meeting with this man, and Dan wasn’t about to ignore a message from the universe.

  “So it’s official,” he whispered to the computer. “I’m obsessed.”

  He stood in a cell, waiting. Finally, a group of doctors came in, all wearing masks and gowns. Dan waited for them to hurt him, but they didn’t seem to know that he was there. They stood around talking and jotting notes on their pads.

  Then Dan heard screaming. Two orderlies came into the room, dragging a girl between them. She was barely ten years old, and her face was familiar—pale, frightened, with big open eyes.

  “Okay, fellows, let’s get to work on her.”

  At the sound of his own voice, Dan bolted awake. Even in his sleep he couldn’t escape.

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  CHAPTER

  No 14

  Usually Abby beat him to the dining hall, but despite the late night and broken sleep, Dan saw no sign of her or Jordan as he got in line for breakfast.

  He heaped hash browns, eggs, and a few strips of bacon onto his plate and grabbed a bowl of cereal from the end of the buffet before heading to their usual spot, a circular table by the far windows. While he finished eating his eggs and bacon, he watched the other students filing in, but Abby and Jordan still didn’t come. He started in on his cereal, taking his time with it.

  As the minutes ticked by with no sign of his friends, he became increasingly aware of the fact that he was the only student eating alone. He was used to this at his high school but here he felt conspicuous, naked without his friends.

  Finally, he spotted Jordan, who looked even worse than Dan felt, if that was possible.

  “Hey,” Jordan said, sitting down with a whump. Big, nasty bags rimmed his eyes behind his glasses.

  “You all right? Looking a bit tired there …”

  “I’m fine,” Jordan snapped, sounding decidedly unfine.

  Dan glanced at the doors again. Abby would know how to make this better.

  “She’ll show up when she shows up,” Jordan said. “Can’t you even wait a second to see her?” He bit into an English muffin as if it had personally insulted him.

  What the hell?

  “Are you okay, Jordan?” Dan risked, knowing Jordan might go for him again.

  “I’m fine. Jesus, what is this, the Inquisition? Are you on my dad’s payroll now?” The English muffin was dying a painful death in Jordan’s tightening grip. A piece broke off and landed in his bowl of Cap’n Crunch. Jordan fished it out with his chewed-up fingernails.

  They fell into an uneasy game of looking anywhere but at each other. Given his options—get chewed out again or stare at his cereal—Dan chose the cereal. Could Jordan still be angry about last night?

  With five minutes until the dining hall closed, Abby finally made an appearance. She dashed to the fruit-and-granola line and grabbed a banana and a bowl of yogurt. Her usual sunny disposition was gone. Her eyes were half-lidded, and her pretty olive complexion was ashen.

  She sat down with a quick “Hey,” and started eating without another word.

  “Hey,” Jordan said. “Did you come down with something? You look terrible.”

  “What are you talking about?” Abby glared.

  “Nothing, I was just saying you looked radiant. New makeup?”

  “Yeah, because sarcasm is exactly what I need right now.”

  Dan tried to lighten the mood. “Well, sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the gurney.” He immediately wished he had kept his mouth shut.

  Abby looked at him, her eyes flashing in anger. She dropped her spoon in her bowl, splattering yogurt all over her tray. “Actually, Dan, there was something important I wanted to talk to you guys about. But I guess it will have to wait.”

  With that, she grabbed her tray and left the table.

  “Congratulations,” said Jordan. “That might be the briefest relationship in the history of the universe.” Jordan finished his mangled muffin. “In fact, since you’re not even technically a couple yet, it’s sure to be one of those delightful death-by-silent-treatment endings. Quel dommage.”

  “What the … ? What the hell did I do to piss you guys off?” But Jordan was already on his way out, and Dan ended up saying it to the back of his head.

  Dan’s mood worsened in class, when the professor showed a documentary he had already seen, which meant he sat for two hours in the dark, distracted, not a word of the film penetrating his brain while he replayed breakfast in his head. Maybe it wasn’t fair to expect Abby to be sunshine and daisies all the time. Everyone was allowed a bad day here and there. She might have gotten another disheartening text from her sister. Whatever the cause, Dan decided it was foolish to read too much into it. Abby would tell him what was wrong in her own time, and he would be there to listen when she did. He wouldn’t let a bad breakfast spoil things between them.

  With that reasonable plan in mind, Dan felt his spirits lift on the walk back to Brookline. Neither Jordan nor Abby had said anything about lunch, so he figured he would try to fit in a bit of studying. Or, he thought, his nerves coming to jittery life, he could make good on his self-promise to visit Sal Weathers. He’d have more than enough time if he hurried.

  Felix was in when Dan got back to his room. He was, as always, at his computer. It looked like he was browsing a body-building forum of all things, and Dan noticed that his roommate was sucking down something called Muscle Aid. Which, judging by the strapping, oiled dude on the bottle, was some kind of prepackaged protein shake. Not Felix’s usual diet, but then again, Dan had known the kid for a grand total of a week. Still, he thought Felix looked more buff than he had when they first arrived. His shoulders seemed broader somehow. Maybe protein shakes worked after all.

  “Hey,” Dan said, going straight to his own desk.

  “Hello, Dan.” Finishing his drink, Felix crushed the plastic bottle in his hand and threw it over his shoulder, and Dan watched, amazed, as it landed squarely in the garbage can behind him.

  “Nice throw,” Dan said, trying to cover his surprise.

  A crisp white envelope waited on Dan’s keyboard. His heart beat a little faster. Was it from Abby? An apology, or maybe an invitation to go somewhere and talk?

  “Did you see who brought this?” Dan asked, opening the envelope.

  “No, it was here when I came in. I assumed you put it there before you went to breakfast.”

  “Shit. I must have forgotten to lock the door this morning,” Dan said. It was a hard habit to get in to. Still, he could swear he’d locked things up that morning.

  “That’s troubling,” Felix replied, not taking his eyes from his computer screen. “Please don’t let that happen again.”

  “Sorry, man. I won’t.”

  Inside the envelope, Dan found a simple card made of thick pap
er. On it was just a single line of spidery handwriting, a single question.…

  Q: How do you kill a Hydra?

  That was … distressing. Dan flipped the card over.

  A: You strike at its heart.

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  CHAPTER

  No 15

  What kind of sick joke was this?

  Dan looked at Felix, who hadn’t turned around or moved a muscle.

  “Are you sure you didn’t see who left this?” Dan said.

  “I’m sure. It’s not signed?”

  “No, it’s not signed.” Dan flashed the card at Felix, but not long enough for him to be able to read it.

  “Hm. Strange. Do you recognize the handwriting?” Felix continued browsing his current web page, the wheel on his mouse clicking softly as he spun it.

  “No, it’s calligraphy or something. Nobody writes like this anymore.…”

  “Calligraphers do.”

  “Do you know any calligraphers?” Dan snapped.

  At last, Felix turned around. He thought for a few seconds and then said calmly, “Not at this program, no. I do have a friend back at school though who’s pretty good at it.”

  “That doesn’t help me.” Sighing, Dan dropped into his chair and swiveled it around. “Sorry. Bad day.”

  “I understand, and I hope you find your mystery pen pal.”

  Sinking deeper into his chair, Dan flipped the card over and over again, studying the handwriting, trying to find some clue in the words. Hydra. There were at least fifty kids in Professor Douglas’s class who would have heard the clever nickname he had given the three of them yesterday. Dan had no way of pinning down the identity of the writer.