Expiration Date

a chance to make a break for it.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The front lawn of the Adams Institute was manicured to within an inch of its life, and glistening with the humid rain. I strode forward purposefully, unapologetically. I was faking it like you wouldn’t believe.

Inside the main hall there was a reception desk. I blew right past it and continued down a marble-floored hallway. Someone said “hey!” but I turned a corner, looking for a wall-mounted directory. There was a door to my right, then another set of stairs, then another door…which took me outside again, into the rain. Crap.

Not knowing exactly where to go, I darted down the side of the building, feeling the water creep down my collar, until I found a path that led into a group of trees. There were more buildings, two and four stories each, dotting the grounds. Derace could be in any one of them. Or not here at all.

I kept strolling, not too fast to be obvious. By the time I reached the tree line I could see another building off to the left—a 1950s-style, no-nonsense two-story deal. Which one of these things is not like the other? If I were going to run government drug experiments, would I do it in one of the storied old buildings that had been around since the Civil War, or would I use federal money to slap up something new? The name on the building said: the papiro center.

And that was as far as I got before I felt a hand on my good arm.

I half-expected a guard, but instead it was a man in a white robe and slippers. Late fifties, with brown hair combed straight back. His eyes were the most intense I’d ever seen. They practically glowed.

“I remember you,” he said. “I met you when you were a kid. On that boat. Do you remember?”

I had no idea who he was, or what boat he was talking about.

“You and your sister. You were lost. On that boat.”

See, right there were strikes one and two. I was an only child, and I grew up a landlubber. Mom didn’t bring us on any yachts or cruise ships. She didn’t even bring us to the Good Ship Lollypop down at Penn’s Landing, like every other kid I knew.

“Sorry,” I told the guy. “I don’t remember.”

He leaned forward and winked at me.

“My name is Dean. But that’s just an alias.”

Dean looked around to see if anyone else was listening. I looked around, too, to see if any armed guards were running toward us. But we were alone. Unfortunately.

Sometimes, though, a reporter can’t be picky about his sources. It was a long shot, but I looked at Dean.

“Do you know a man here named William Derace? Billy Allen Derace?”

Dean’s eyes widened.

“Of course I know that bastard. You should stay away from him—he’s incredibly dangerous. I’ve been trying to collect him for years, but they keep him locked up all the time. Oh, the murders I could solve with that son of a bitch locked in my skull.”

Okay, this guy was probably loony tunes, but it was also possible that he conflated actual reality with his fantasy life. Maybe he really did know Derace.

“Where do they keep him locked up?”

“No,” Dean said. “Can’t tell you that. Too dangerous. You don’t want anything to do with Billy Derace. They keep that menace on sedatives twenty-four/seven. Weird shit happens when he wakes up.”

“Come on, Dean. For old time’s sake.”

“You trying to con an old con? Nothing doing.”

But Dean’s eyes gave it away anyway. They flicked over to his right. Toward that 1950s building I’d spotted. The Papiro Center.

Dean tried cover it up by changing the topic.

“So how’s your sister?”

“I don’t have a sister. I’m an only child.”

“Sure you do—the two of you were together on the Moshulu, when you got lost at the Bicentennial. You know, the little blond-haired girl eating the popcorn with you.”

That stopped me cold. Suddenly I knew who he was talking about, but it wasn’t my sister. It had been my mom’s youngest sister, who was only nine months older than me.

We had been down at Penn’s Landing because my father had been hired to play with a band called The Shuttlebums in front of Winston’s Restaurant. And across a pedestrian bridge was a huge clipper ship, since converted to a restaurant, called the Moshulu. During the summer of 1976 my dad was working maintenance on that boat.

Mid-gig, I somehow conned my aunt, who was all of five years old, into walking over the bridge and checking out the boat. My parents went insane with worry, but luckily we were picked up by an off-duty cop, who thought it was a little suspicious that two little kids sat themselves down at a small table meant for two—meaning, no room for parents.

“You’re the guy who found us?” I asked. “How is that possible? How do you even recognize me?”

“It’s not your face,” he said. “It’s your soul.”

Okay then. I thanked him and then excused myself. Leave it to me to get lost as a kid, only to be found by a raving lunatic who could see other people’s souls.

The lights were mostly out in the Papiro Center. The back doors were locked. The front door was locked and controlled by a keypad. Why did I think it would be open? This was a mental hospital.

I stood there, looking up at the building. I’d already trespassed; I’d feel like a moron just leaving without trying something.

Screw it.

I shouted.

“BILLY DERACE!”

This would either work right away, or not. If I saw a light on the ground floor, I’d bolt.

“BILLY! DERACE!”

Come on you nutcase. Get up out of bed, come to your window, look down. I’ll know in a second if you recognize me. Which of these windows is yours?

Then, on the left side—movement. No light, just a shadow on shadows. Dark gray on black. A male figure? It was too hard to see.

Behind me I heard a cough. My head whipped around; nobody. I looked back up at the window.

Nothing.

Just the rain, smacking into the grass, the blacktop path leading back to the main building.

Suddenly security lights flickered to life all around me. Crap. The main office knew I was here. I ran back the way I came, figuring that I could slow down my hurried jog at the last minute and just stroll on out of there, clipboard in hand.

But the door I’d used to get out was locked, trapping me outside.

Trapping me on the grounds of a three-hundred-year-old insane asylum.

Okay, so I freaked out a little. I ran in the opposite direction, toward the fence near Adams Avenue, where we’d parked. At the very least, I thought I could yell to Meghan and let her know what happened before they tackled me to the wet grass and wrestled me into a straitjacket. Meghan’s dad was a powerful lawyer. I’m sure he could get me out of this place. Eventually.

There were voices behind me. I ran faster. You never realize how much you depend on your arms for balance until you lose feeling in one of them. I felt like I was going to tip over at any minute. Which would make it much easier to wrestle me into a straitjacket.

As I approached the gate, I saw that Meghan was out of the car, waiting for me. Her hair was dripping wet, and she urged me forward with her hands.