Chapter Four
Tuesday
I couldn’t shake the chill in my bones, and it had nothing to do with the weather.
Towering over me, with its many turrets and towers reaching high into the overcast sky, was a building that looked like something straight from the set of a Hollywood horror movie.
I’d never seen a hospital with a bell tower before.
Dr. Rook mentioned that the facility had once been a Catholic church. Arriving with that knowledge still hadn’t prepared me for the sheer intensity of the stone building, with its stained-glass windows depicting holy figures covered by rusty iron bars.
The large—somewhat newer—sign bolted to the front of the building’s brick facade read: Saint Bartholomew’s Center for the Criminally Insane.
I took a deep breath and adjusted my grip on my suitcase, the handle slipping from my sweaty palm.
Too late to turn back now. The Uber was gone, and my cell reception was zilch all the way out here. It wouldn’t make any sense to change my mind now anyway.
This is a good thing, I kept telling myself. This is a chance to get my life together.
This position at Saint Bartholomew’s was the answer to all my problems. The salary and benefit package were unheard of for someone like me, so fresh out of residency.
Dr. Rook had hired me over the phone after a curt interview that had felt somewhat pointless, like he’d already made up his mind about hiring me before we even spoke.
Still didn’t make any sense.
How had he heard about me? He’d said I came highly recommended.
By who? When I asked, he’d shuffled onto the next question.
The senior doctors I’d worked under in residency could have been behind it, but I wasn’t exactly trained for this kind of position.
Something at a high-security mental hospital for the criminally insane was better suited for a forensic psychiatrist. They knew more about the legal system and handling dangerous patients.
You’re out of your depth, Tuesday.
Of course I was. But it wasn’t like I was in a position to turn down this opportunity. Not when it came with a high salary, room and board.
Besides, that strange dream I had the other night could only be described as prophetic.
The man wasn’t real, but he had said I belonged at a place called Saint Bart’s.
Next thing I knew, I was getting a job offer from Saint Bartholomew’s.
I wasn’t the type to believe in destiny, but I could still take a hint from the universe that this was my chance to start fresh.
That, or it was a sign to kick the pill habit I’d developed.
“You must be Dr. Beckett,” a woman’s voice cut through my haze of thoughts.
A middle-aged woman stood on the topmost step of the staircase leading up to the entrance, her hands folded in front of her.
Where had she come from? I must have been so entangled in my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed her.
She wore an old-fashioned style nurse uniform, with a crisply-ironed white dress and nurse’s cap. Her salt and pepper hair was in a low bun, and she wore vintage-style makeup with mint eyeshadow.
“Yes, I’m Dr. Beckett.” After several awkward beats of silence, I smiled, trying to break the tension. “Whoever picks the uniforms must really love vintage aesthetics.”
The woman didn’t smile back. “We value old traditions here at Saint Bartholomew’s, Dr. Beckett.
You’ll find all the nurses, orderlies and attendants wear classic uniforms at the behest of Dr. Rook.
But don’t worry, he doesn’t require his staff physicians to follow the dress code.
You may wear what you wish beneath your lab coat. For now.”
I wasn’t sure what unsettled me more, the fact that this was a mental asylum that "valued old traditions” or the “for now” that this woman tacked on, as if the rules could change at any moment.
“I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I'm Nurse Beatrice. I am the head psychiatric nurse here at Saint Bartholomew’s. Now, come.”
I followed her inside the gothic archway and gasped at what greeted me on the other side.
The interior was as derelictly grandiose as the outside.
What had once been grand was now well-worn and crumbling.
The old-world craftsmanship of the main staircase leading up to the higher levels, the stained-glass windows, the white marble tiles—many of them cracked and dirty.
There were some modern updates—as in they’d been done in the last fifty years or so. The walls had been painted a pale, sickly green, and fluorescent lights lined the high ceilings, humming loudly above us.
Beatrice led me to the reception area and gestured to the front desk. “The receptionist can buzz you in and out if you need to leave, though I wouldn’t see why you would. Dr. Rook has a schedule for you that will keep you busy enough to have someone run to town for anything you might need.”
I wasn’t listening to the nurse.
Instead, my attention was fixated on a large glass box separating the main hall from the reception area.
In it was a dead body.
Years in medical school had galvanized my stomach—I’d seen my fair share of dead bodies.
Not like this one, though. The poor soul on display in the glass cabinet had clearly been skinned from head to toe.
It was withered, dusty, and its exposed muscles and sinew had been sloppily preserved.
The unmistakable scent of formaldehyde stung my nose even through the glass.
The body wasn’t completely naked; it appeared to be wearing a leather coat.
A brass plate in the top corner of the box read, Saint Bartholomew. One of the twelve Apostles tortured and flogged for his faith. Forced to wear a coat of his own skin.
My lungs slammed together, my gut twisting in disgust as my eyes trekked back to the coat.
“What is this?” I asked, turning to Nurse Beatrice. Surely it wasn’t the real Saint Bartholomew. By the look of the shoddy embalming job, it couldn’t have been nearly that old.
“A medical cadaver, donated to the hospital many years ago,” the woman sniffed. She didn’t seem pleased by the disapproval on my face.
It put a bad taste in my mouth. The body had been donated for science, not so it could become some creepy religious display piece.
“Is this a church-funded facility?”
“No, but Dr. Rook enjoys collecting medical specimens and oddities. Since this one represents our facility’s namesake, he keeps it on display in the reception area.”
I frowned. Medicine had a dark history, and it wasn’t uncommon for doctors to collect medical equipment and specimens. I knew a guy in school who loved jar specimens—brains, fetuses, all sorts of organs and appendages. And a gynecologist who collected speculums.
But putting someone who had no prior consent to this on display in a mental health facility? It put a rancid taste on my taste buds.
The head nurse gestured to a row of pink, faded plastic seats placed against the wall. "Sit. I'll inform Dr. Rook of your arrival." She spun sharply and strode down the hall, heels clicking as she went.
I glanced to my right to see a wire rack, loaded with vintage magazines.
This place was borderline medieval. And disorienting. This was a facility that housed dangerous, mentally ill inmates. There wasn’t heavy security here, not the kind you’d expect. But it was remote, far away from civilization in the mountains.
Maybe that’s why my head was spinning. The air was thinner here. Had to be the altitude.
A distant scream had my heart leaping into my throat. I sensed the heavy presence of the faux saint staring at me from his box at the edge of my vision.
Sweat slicked my hands, and I rubbed them over my slacks. Fuck. One of my anxiety attacks was descending.
My fingers twitched for the prescription bottle in my doctor’s briefcase. I stopped myself. I hadn't touched it for two days, since I’d received Rook’s call. Instead, I pulled out my cell phone and my lips flattened with a grimace to see I still wasn’t getting any reception.
I glanced at the receptionist, and the fact that I found him staring at me did nothing for my nerves. “Excuse me, could you tell me what the Wi-Fi is?”
The man’s disinterested shrug had my stomach twisting with unease.
Anxiety gripped my heart in its cruel fist.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
Closing my eyes and counting always helped.
“Dr. Beckett, welcome.” A voice startled my eyes open, and I found a man in his mid-fifties standing before me.
“I’m Dr. Malcolm Rook. We’re so pleased you could join us.”
Dr. Rook had a full head of gray hair, with a pleasing streak of silver sweeping from his widow’s peak hairline to behind his ear.
I’d consider him a handsome man if it weren’t for the fact that much of his nose was missing, leaving two triangular openings to his nasal cavities.
It looked as if someone had taken a bite out of it.
Gathering myself, I got to my feet and offered him my hand. “It’s good to meet you, Dr. Rook. Thank you for having me.”
He shook my hand. “How was the trip?”
My jaw opened, and my answer froze in my throat. It occurred to me that I couldn’t recall the trip. The last thing I remembered was my dream of the man in the straitjacket, then my call with Dr. Rook. Everything after that was a blur.
My brows scrunched as I tried to recall. “It was long, I think. I apologize, I’m getting a bit of a headache, and it’s making my head a bit fuzzy.”
He nodded. “It’s most likely the altitude. You’ll adjust.”
It should have been a relief to hear him confirm my suspicions, but something in his smile had me shifting uncomfortably.
“Uhm. I’ve brought my resume.” I pulled out a thick folder of papers. “As well as my medical license, my CV, proof of my malpractice insurance—”
“I’ll look at these later.”
“Don’t you want to verify my—”
“Please, Doctor. You already have the job. Tomorrow you’ll receive a tour, and we’ll get you settled into your new office. For now, you must be tired from your journey. Shall I show you to your room?”
I swallowed down the pit in my throat and nodded. "Yes, please."
As we moved through the facility, I noted that the renovations I’d noticed before weren’t as up to date as I’d expect in a medical facility. The mint paint was peeling in places, and the elevators were out of service.
The money funding Saint Bartholomew’s was hopefully going to the patients and their treatment, since it sure as hell wasn’t going into keeping the hospital itself updated.
Dr. Rook led me to a door, unlocked it, and together we went up a flight of stairs. "Staff quarters are locked, understandably. There is a key in your welcome packet in your room."
"Does everyone who works here live here?" I asked, noting the large number of rooms. Up here, the walls were a grayish-blue, and the scent of vanilla permeated the air instead of the moldy crotch smell in the lobby.
The room Rook led me to was small and sparsely furnished, with only a twin bed, a side table with a lamp, and a dresser.
“It’s simple, but it’s far preferable to the patient units.”
After seeing the condition of the lobby and reception area, it wasn’t surprising.
I set my suitcase beside my new bed and turned to face the doctor. “Is this a state-funded hospital or privately owned?”
“Private. But we have federal contracts.”
“And how did you hear about me again? Was it one of my supervising doctors at UCSF?”
Dr. Rook’s olive eyes gleamed with what I could only discern as cool mirth. “One of your past patients, actually.”
I blinked. “One of my patients from the UCSF Medical Center?”
He cleared his throat, his hand extending toward my room’s door handle. He was done with this conversation. “It’s getting late. I’ll leave you to settle in. Sleep well.”
With that, he left. I stared at the door with a frown. How was I supposed to sleep well when Dr. Rook had left me with more questions than answers?
It didn’t take long to unpack; I hadn’t brought much. I’d left in a hurry—at least, I think I did. It was frustrating that I still couldn’t remember. I’d have to call and arrange for movers to take care of my things and put everything in storage.
For hours, I lay awake on my uncomfortable mattress, staring up at my new ceiling.
Then, the screams began.
It wasn’t until I took two Vicodin that sleep came. I surrendered to the darkness, sweeping me away from this cold, unfamiliar room…
Until I found myself in another.
Fire ignited inside me when concrete cell walls came into view.
I was having another dream like before, trapped in that same dingy cell. This time, the man in the straitjacket was nowhere in sight.
Something wasn’t right.
I was on the floor, lying on my side, and I couldn’t move. My arms were folded over my chest, the long sleeves of a straitjacket secured over my shoulders with leather straps running down the length of my torso.
Movement behind me had my blood crystallizing in my veins. I was suddenly hyper aware of the hard muscle pressed against my back, and the hot breath fanning my nape.
I wasn’t alone.
I was not only trapped inside the cell with that madman, but I was strapped to his chest… inside his straitjacket with him.
Black tendrils of hair tickled my cheek as a deep snicker rumbled in my ear. “I thought you were a figment of my nightmares. But I’m starting to think I’m one of yours.”