Paul gazed down and read the headstone.
LILLIAN BAXTER
BELOVED WIFE OF DR. CHARLES BAXTER
BORN DECEMBER 5, 1901
DIED NOVEMBER 20, 1952
Cregg yanked a pint of whiskey from his hip pocket and took a long pull from it. He swallowed hard and stared at Paul. “Baxter was fifteen years older than his wife.”
Paul shifted his weight. “Look, Mr. Cregg, this has all been very enlightening but I see your mistake. Charles Baxter was Phillip Baxter’s father. I have the proof. You’re just mixed up, old fellow. Well, I have to go now.”
Paul started to walk away and Cregg grabbed him by the sleeve. “Don’t believe me, then. Be a fool. That’s just what Baxter wants. You better get out while you can or you’ll end up just like the others.”
Paul jerked his arm free and hurried across the courtyard. Cregg was still yelling as he rounded the fountain.
“You’ll be sorry. You better listen. Get out while you still can...
P
aul was on his way back to the residents’ hall, still musing about Cregg’s ridiculous ranting, when Baxter stopped him.
“Paul, I happened to see you talking to our groundskeeper Mr. Cregg earlier.”
“Yeah. Colorful character.”
“Yes, isn’t he? I have to warn you though; his mind is not all together there.”
Paul nodded. “I kind of gathered that.”
“I’m afraid his drinking has petrified what’s left of his brain. He’s delusional. I suppose he took you to the family burial plot and wove some interesting tales?”
“Matter of fact–“
Baxter smiled ruefully. “Just so you know, Paul, Lillian Baxter was my mother. She died of typhus in 1952. Sometimes Hudson gets confused and tells people she was my wife.”
“I’m sorry,” Paul said.
Baxter exhaled silently. “It’s all right. I was a small boy. At any rate, Paul, if Mr. Cregg bothers you any more, just let me know. I’ll speak with him.”
Paul smiled. “I’ll be sure and do that.”
Baxter paused. “So how are you finding things around here?”
“Great. I love the job.” Paul wanted to say he found things stranger by the minute, but knew he had to play along if he and Jennie were going to get to the bottom of all the secrecy at Harbor View.
“Good, I’m glad to hear that. We’ll talk again soon. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got a meeting to attend.”
Paul was more certain than ever that someone at Harbor View was lying. Cregg may be a delusional drunk, but some of what he told Paul didn’t sound like a delusion.
More like a
warning.
* * *
Phillip Baxter liked Hudson Cregg. For longer than he could remember, Cregg had been his faithful employee. Not only a groundskeeper, but also a gopher of sorts, always willing to help out with whatever Baxter needed. On several occasions over the years, Cregg had discarded things for Baxter without as much as a question. Lately though, Cregg had been getting careless. And careless was something Baxter could not afford. Cregg was old now and had outlived his usefulness. His brain, now constantly fogged by alcohol, at one time had allowed Baxter to persuade him to do anything. Now, Cregg was becoming a liability.
The time had come to do something about it.
B
ack in his room that night, Paul wondered what to do next. He had promised Jennie he’d try to get into the patient’s records. In order to do that, he’d have to wait for Baxter to leave. Then he’d attempt to gain entry into Baxter’s office. He would watch for the absence of Baxter’s car in the parking lot, of which he had a bird’s-eye view, then go down and try to get in.
Paul decided to make the best of his time while he waited. He picked up the diary, got into bed, and started reading. Most of the entries were references to specific plants and their possible uses. Not something Paul knew anything about. He thought he’d be able to take a quick nap while he waited for Baxter to leave but, given his state of fatigue, that was just not the case. Feeling frustrated, he continued to turn the pages of the diary, looking for clues about what Baxter was seeking in the Amazon.
It appeared the elder Baxter was ahead of his time. Paul marveled that he had mentioned antibiotic possibilities for the use of certain plants. Then he came to an entry marked with asterisks:
Fountain of Youth?
Paul noted that it was the very last entry for the Amazon. The next entry was written back in the United States. Paul’s mouth fell slack. The entry read:
Have arrived back home.
Feeling better than ever!
C.B.
Still wide-awake an hour later, Paul checked the time: 3 A.M. Sleep was out of the question. Getting up, he went to the window and gazed out. The gated entrance to Harbor View was cast in an eerie glow of moonlight. At that instant, a car pulled up and Paul recognized the black Mercedes belonging to Phillip Baxter. Baxter reached out of the car, punched in the security code, and let himself through.
How did I miss him going out? And what the hell is he doing out this time of night?
Paul watched as Baxter parked and opened his trunk. Reaching inside, he pulled out a large black zippered bag. It was the kind a coroner uses to pick up dead bodies:
a body bag
!
Maybe one of the residents died?
Paul frowned. He had been waiting for Baxter to leave, but he had apparently slipped by, unnoticed. Now Baxter was back and heading inside the building. Paul stayed at the window, his gaze fixed on Baxter’s car. Suddenly, Baxter emerged from the building’s rear exit. He no longer carried the bag. Finally, Baxter opened the gate again and drove off.
Paul weighed his options. Should he try to get in there tonight? His nerves were frayed and his fatigue was pressing down on him like a lead weight.
After what he’d witnessed tonight, and what he’d found in the diary, he knew he didn’t have a choice. He no longer trusted anyone at Harbor View. He wanted some answers.
Stepping out of his apartment, he made his way down to the administrative lobby and into a wide hallway on the opposite side. At the far end of the hall, he could see the massive oak doors of Baxter’s office. His doors, like the rest of the administrative offices, were secured by conventional keys, an electronic key pad, and an alarm system.
He knew if he could get inside, even briefly, he would find all the answers he and Jennie were looking for. Moving toward the heavily secured doors, Paul had no illusions of getting
through
them.
He had other plans.
Ten feet from Baxter’s office, Paul turned sharply to the left and entered the bathroom supply closet. He reached up and ran a hand over the doorframe. A key clattered to the floor. Hudson Cregg seemed to evaporate every time there was a shortage of paper towels or toilet paper, leaving the residents stranded in the stall. Finally, tired of being caught with their pants down, they had taken matters into their own hands and secured a supply-room key for ‘emergencies.’
Tonight qualifies.
Paul opened the closet.
The interior was cramped, packed with cleansers, mops, and shelves of paper supplies. Two days ago, Paul had been searching for paper towels when he’d made an unusual discovery. Unable to reach the top shelf, he’d used a broom to coax a roll to fall. In the process, he’d knocked out a ceiling tile. When he’d climbed up to replace the tile, he was surprised to hear Baxter’s voice.
Crystal clear.
From the echo, he realized Baxter was talking to himself while in his office’s private bathroom, which apparently was separated from this supply closet by nothing more than removable, fiberboard ceiling tiles.
Now, back in the closet tonight for far more than toilet paper, Paul climbed up the shelves, popped out the ceiling tile, and pulled himself up into the void.
So much for Baxter’s security. How many laws was Paul about to break?
Lowering himself through the ceiling of Baxter’s private bathroom, Paul carefully placed his feet on the porcelain sink and then dropped gingerly to the floor. Holding his breath, he exited into the main office.
* * *
Phillip Baxter, like most doctors, survived on four or five hours of sleep a night. Over the last few weeks, however, he had survived on far less. As he drove, the stress of the evening’s events slowly began to ebb. Baxter felt the late hours settling in his limbs. He normally resisted the urge to take sleeping pills, for fear of other effects they might have on him. Tonight, though, he decided he would try one and attempt to get a full night of sleep even if that meant sleeping well in to the afternoon.
Now as he wrestled with his fatigue, he realized he’d left his sleep medication in his desk.
I’ve got to go back. Godammit!
Baxter found the first turnaround he could, and sped back toward Harbor View.
P
aul’s heart was racing as he crossed the darkened office of Phillip Baxter. The room was as expansive and elegant as Paul remembered from his interview–ornate wood-paneled walls, oil paintings, Persian carpets, leather rivet chairs, and a gargantuan mahogany desk. The room was lit only by the glow of a small desk lamp.
Paul moved toward the desk. Phillip Baxter had embraced the computer age, eschewing the overflow of file cabinets for the compact simplicity of his personal computer, into which he fed huge amounts of information–patient records, meeting notes, personal medical information. Baxter’s computer was his sacred ground, and he kept his office locked up at all times to protect it. All this information had come to Paul via several residents who made it
their
business to know everyone else’s, including Baxter’s.
Paul slipped behind the doctor’s desk and sat down. He took a deep breath, looking at Baxter’s computer
. If he’s hiding anything, it will be in here.
Baxter’s screensaver was a plain blue screen with the Harbor View logo emblazoned across it in large white letters. Paul jostled the mouse, and a security dialogue box came up.
ENTER PASSWORD
Paul Grant was about to try a password when he heard footfalls coming down the hall. His bowels nearly let loose.
Someone was putting a key in the door!
He hit the escape key, and the dialogue box instantly evaporated. Diving under Baxter’s desk, he pulled the chair in and plastered himself as far back as he could. Holding his breath, he heard the metallic click of the door lock, followed by the shuffle of footsteps coming in his direction.
Baxter!
Paul heard the top desk drawer open and the sound a pill bottle being shaken. The drawer closed and Paul heard more footsteps, then the heavy mahogany door slammed shut.
Thank God.
Paul finally let out the breath he’d been holding and sank down. He knew he had to get out of there now; he couldn’t chance Baxter coming back again. He would just have to tell Jennie there was no way he could get those records.
Paul sat in the darkness under Baxter’s desk and realized he had no idea what to do next. What if Baxter was still in the building and would return?
Preparing to leave, Paul realigned the chair at the desk and stood up. With his blood pumping hard, he returned to Baxter’s private bathroom and climbed back out. Baxter’s visit had left Paul rattled and he wondered if he should just leave Harbor View.
Just get the hell out of there.
Dropping back down into the janitor’s closet, he heaved a heavy sigh as his feet hit the floor. He pressed his ear to the door.
Silence.
Paul slipped out, replaced the key and hurried back to his room. As he plopped down on his bed, Paul Grant wondered what the hell else could possibly happen tonight.
T
he next evening, Paul sat on a stone ledge near the entrance to Harbor View and peered out at the road. Seven thirty had come and gone, and Jennie Bradford still hadn’t shown up. It was now eight o’clock. Dusk was fast approaching and the fading light cast ominous purple shadows across the grounds of Harbor View.
Jennie was half an hour late and, although she had confessed to not being punctual, Paul’s innate fears and insecurities often gave way to panic. He couldn’t help it. He had waited at the airport for his parents the day their plane slammed into a ridge in Berryville, Virginia.
Waited and waited!
Finally, three hours later, an airline official called all the families together to tell them the horrific news. His parents and everyone else on the plane were dead. Ever since that day, if anyone was even a minute late, Paul felt the signs of an anxiety response.
He already had beads of perspiration forming on his brow, worrying about Jennie and where she might be. Did she have car trouble? Had she changed her mind and decided to go home and be done with that wench, Margaret? Surely she would have at least called him. Paul’s run-in with Hudson Cregg, followed by Baxter nearly finding him in his office, had left him in an uneasy mood. Cregg seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, then vanished just as quickly after he told Paul things only another drunk would believe.
Delusional with alcohol, Baxter had claimed.
Had Cregg amused himself by trying to scare Paul?
One thing he’d said, though, still troubled Paul. His reference to the ‘others.’ Did he mean former employees? Paul had found some documents the previous nurse had left at the nurses’ quarters. Her name was Colleen Brady. According to Baxter, she’d quit unexpectedly, which probably fueled Cregg’s delusions about people disappearing. Paul had to admit that Harbor View was eccentric, but Cregg’s overblown imagination, powered by a fifth of cheap whiskey, was just too much. Unfortunately, now that Jennie hadn’t showed up, Paul’s own imagination was a jumble of bad thoughts playing in his mind. Earlier, he had tried to call her cell phone, but was unable to connect. He cursed hit-and-miss cell phone reception. For all the hoopla about good service, it seemed to be just a matter of luck if you got a connection.