A man in a hard hat and a business suit breaking ground with a ceremonial golden shovel. Another photo dated almost twenty-four months later, of a sharply dressed woman cutting a ribbon. Various headlines:
GROUND BREAKS ON INNOVATIVE CARE CENTER.
SECLUDED WOMEN’S HOSPITAL A RETREAT FOR THE WEARY.
RENOWNED PSYCHOLOGIST TO JOIN SAINT SEBASTIAN’S STAFF.
Mortimer scanned the articles, frowned as other headlines and bits of story jumped out at him.
DEPRESSION UP AMONG WOMEN, CLAIMS SAINT SEBASTIAN’S DOCTOR.
SAINT SEBASTIAN’S TO OPEN NEW WARD FOR VIOLENT PSYCHOTICS.
KNOXVILLE WOMAN WHO MURDERED FAMILY TO GO TO SAINT SEBASTIAN’S.
Something cold and leaden sagged in the pit of Mortimer’s stomach. He glanced sideways at Ruth, who still gestured airily at the many volumes. Oh, hell, he thought.
Mortimer cleared his throat. “Uh…well, this has been fun. If I could just get my boots, I really need to hit the road.”
Ruth tilted her head, frowned at him. “The road?”
“I want to leave. Thanks for the soup.”
She shook her head. “Nobody leaves. This is the society. We are within, safe from the outside. No one leaves. Ever.”
Mortimer suddenly realized what was so strange about the hospital. He’d not seen a single open door or window.
XVIII
He burst from the library and headed down the hall at a fast walk, Ruth trailing behind and looking confused. His eyes darted in every direction looking for a door to the outside or a window. There wasn’t even an EXIT sign.
Mortimer spotted a hall branching off, turned on his heel and jogged down it.
“Not down there.” Ruth trotted after him. “Nobody goes down there!”
The hall was dim, every third or fourth fluorescent bulb burned out overhead. Cobwebs in the corners.
“Stop!” she shouted. “You’ll get us in trouble.”
He ran faster. “Why? Is this where the door is?” he shouted back. “Is this the way out?”
“Please!” Distress high in her voice. “Stop!”
“Get away from me, wack-job.”
A door at the end of the hall snapped into focus, and Mortimer ran for it. As he got closer he saw the DO NOT ENTER sign across the front, the yellow police tape crisscrossing the doorway. A large padlock.
Above the door was another sign, spray-painted in rough, juvenile lettering. HOLY OF HOLY.
He heard more footsteps stomping up behind him.
Mortimer ripped aside the yellow police tape. He kicked the door hard, rattling the padlock. The shock traveled up his leg, hurt all the way to his hip. He ignored the pain, kicked again.
Ruth screamed.
Mortimer tried to turn, but white-hot fire struck him in the side, bathed his nervous system in electricity. He fell, twitched and slobbered, tried to turn his head.
The last thing he saw was a man in a dress.
“Hit him again with the stun gun,” he said.
ZAP.
When Mortimer came around, he was tied spread-eagle on an operating table. Bare-ass naked. He felt slightly queasy, his whole body still humming from the massive zap, all his nerve endings buzzing and raw. It was cold, and Mortimer shivered.
He blinked the blur from his eyes, saw the rows of faces above him like some grim jury. He realized the operating room was theater style, a place where surgeons could demonstrate complicated procedures to student cutters.
Mortimer worried what they intended to demonstrate on him.
The women in the gallery were of every variety, tall, short, fat. Women with haggard horse faces. Younger women with open, timid expressions. Old crones crazy eyed and wrinkled.
Some regarded Mortimer like a new species of insect to be logged and dissected. Others had an eerie, hungry look, like Mortimer was raw red meat.
“Some hardly remember what a naked man looks like.” The voice behind him was gruff and low. “A few have never seen one at all, not quite like this.”
