Reed ducked underneath a beam and took them down a long corridor that opened up into a large, rectangular area with doors on both sides. Darby moved the beam of her flashlight through the rooms of broken windows. The rooms were various sizes. All of them were empty.
'These are the doctors' offices,' Reed said. 'Man, you should have seen the furniture in there. All antiques. Some guy bid on all of it, hauled it away and made a small fortune.'
He paused in front of a big room holding an ornate stained-glass window. 'This was the hospital director's office. Your cop friend stopped here for a moment, just stared for a bit like he was reminiscing or something. He didn't say anything but…'
'What?' Darby prompted.
'It's not important, really, just sort of odd. I just remembered he didn't take off his sunglasses. I mentioned he might want to take them off, given where we were heading, and he just ignored me and walked off like he knew where he was going.'
Darby followed Reed down three flights of dusty stairs, the ancient building creaking and moaning around her. Ten minutes later, Reed stopped in front of an old steel door and shined his light on the faded red lettering: ward c.
'This is where they did the prefrontal lobotomies,' Reed said, opening the door. 'Watch your step in here. Moisture collects on the tiles, even in the winter. Place is sealed tighter than a flea's ass. It's slippery as hell.'
No windows, just pitch-black darkness. The cold room reeked of mildew. Mounted against the wall was an old General Electric clock covered in rust. Darby spotted several spigots. They probably hooked up hoses to them to wash away the blood. She wondered how many patients had undergone what was considered, at one point in time, to be a progressive medical solution to treating mental illness.
Reed's boots squeaked across the tiles. 'When I first took the job, the steel tables with the leather restraints were still in here. They used to do shock treatments in here, too.'
A creaking sound as he opened the door at the far end. The adjoining hallway was in a state of partial ruin. Darby followed the man through another hallway and then it opened into a wide space full of two floors that reminded her of a prison. Cells were on either side, each steel door equipped with locks and a grating so doctors could look in on their patients. The doors were rusted, the small rooms stripped clean.
'This here's C wing,' Reed said. 'The cop walked over to this room here.'
Reed moved the beam of his flashlight inside and jumped back from the door. Darby moved past the man and looked into the cell.
Thumb-tacked to the wall underneath a windowsill was a photograph, a headshot of a woman with long blonde hair parted in the middle and feathered. She had piercing blue eyes in a deeply tanned face and wore a white collared shirt.
'That wasn't here this afternoon,' Reed said. 'I'll swear on a stack of bibles.'
Darby's attention was on the windowsill. Standing above the photograph was a statue of the Virgin Mary – the same statue that had been sewn inside Emma Hale and Judith Chen's pockets.
She turned to Bryson, who was staring at the statue, mesmerized.
'Do you know this woman?'
Bryson shook his head.
Darby examined the picture. It was printed on thick, glossy paper. There was no writing on the back, no date or time-stamp anywhere on the paper. Darby wondered if this picture had been printed on a computer. Every photography and drug store had kiosks where you could slip in a memory card and print out digital pictures in a matter of minutes.
'Mr Reed, would you excuse us for a moment?'
The caretaker nodded. He stepped away from the cell and joined the other men who were wandering around the vast room, beams of light crisscrossing over one another as they searched the cells on the two floors. Darby turned to Bryson.
'I've got evidence bags in the trunk, along with a spare kit. I can process this room myself, and you can be the witness to anything we find. It will be quicker than having to get people from the lab in here.'
'What about a camera?'
'I've got a Polaroid and a digital.'
Darby's cell phone vibrated against her hip.
'What do you think of Sinclair?' Malcolm Fletcher asked. 'It's like walking through purgatory, isn't it?'
31
'I wouldn't know,' Darby said, motioning to Bryson. 'I've never been to purgatory.'
'Haven't you read Dante?' Fletcher asked. 'Or don't they teach that in class any more?'
'I've read Paradiso.'
'Yes. The good Catholic girls always learn about heaven first, don't they?'
Fletcher laughed. Bryson stood behind Darby. She held the phone an inch from her ear so Bryson could listen.
'The nuns should have made you read Purgatorio,' Fletcher said. 'It's where Dante describes purgatory as a place where suffering has a real purpose that can lead you to redemption, if you're willing to go the distance. Are you willing to go the distance?'
'I found the room with the photograph.'
'Do you recognize the woman?'
'No. Who is she?'
'What do you think of the Virgin Mary statue?'
'Is it supposed to have some sort of meaning?'
'Now is not the time to be coy, Darby. The moment of revelation is at hand.'
'Let's talk about the woman in the photograph. Why did you leave it here?'
'I'd be more inclined to answer your question if you answer one of mine,' Fletcher said. 'Is the statue on the windowsill the same one you found on Emma Hale and Judith Chen?'
Darby wasn't about to give the former profiler any specifics about the case. 'Why did you place it here?' she asked. 'Why did you want me to find it?'
'Tell me about the statues and I'll give you the name of the woman in the photograph.'
Bryson shook his head.
'I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about,' Darby said.
'Why don't you ask Detective Bryson? Or would you rather put him on the phone?'
How did Fletcher know Bryson was in the room?
He must be watching.
Bryson moved away, drawing his weapon, and ushered Reed inside the cell. Darby covered the phone's mouthpiece.
'Don't tell him a goddamn thing,' Bryson said, and then signalled his men.
Darby's gloved hand gripped the SIG and slid it from the shoulder holster. She looked past the door, into the dark, decaying room cut with blades of light and steaming breath, wondering where the former profiler was hiding.
Darby pressed the phone back to her ear. 'Tell me about the woman in the photograph.'
'You can't find this woman alone,' Malcolm Fletcher said. 'But if you're willing to take the journey, I'll be your guide.'
If this was some sort of trap, why would Fletcher stage it in an abandoned mental hospital with a room full of cops? It was too elaborate a setup. Could the man possibly be telling her the truth?
'I think you need to explain your agenda,' Darby said.
'There's no reason to fear me. We're both after the same goal.'
'Which is?'
'The truth,' Fletcher said. 'I'll lead you to the woman in the photograph, but once you open Pandora's Box,
