The hairs on the back of my neck were standing at attention as I watched Francesca stare at me her face twisted with disgust—or was it anger? It suddenly felt like a scene from a bad horror movie as I looked up at the second floor of the old Victorian. Pulling out my keys, I unlocked the car door and reached for the handle. As I did so, movement at the end of the long drive caught my attention. A man dressed in nothing but gym shorts stumbled, unsteady on his legs, as he tried to cross the blacktop. He appeared to be walking from the center—if you could call it walking—to the carriage house at the back of the lot. A patient who’d wandered off? I watched for a moment, wondering if he was inebriated. I looked from the man back up to the second floor window where I’d seen Francesca, but she was gone.
The man stumbled yet again, going down on one knee. Hesitating for only a second, expecting someone from the center to rush out to assist him, I ran forward down the drive toward him. Before I could get close, he regained his footing, stood, and moved unsteadily toward the coach house. By the time I reached the spot where I’d seen him fall, he was no longer in sight, having disappeared into the outbuilding. Concerned for his safety, I followed. On the right side of the building I found a door with a “No Admittance—Private Property” sign prominently displayed. Where the hell was the staff? I looked back at the house, but no one seemed to be coming to assist.
My choices were to go back to the main building and tell them they were missing a patient or ignore the warning sign and enter. A loud crash behind the closed door made the decision easy.
Inside I was met with a set of stairs on my right that rose toward a second floor. A hallway straight ahead was flanked by a series of doors. The light was dim, and the space wasn’t what I’d expected. The interior of the coach house had been chopped up, reconfigured way beyond its original purpose. There were no signs of the young man. I scanned the nearby walls for a light switch, but none were apparent. Illuminating my phone, I stepped up to the first door in the hallway, put my hand on the knob and turned. Light washed over what appeared to be a large storage closet. Boxes and bottles were stacked floor to ceiling on the shelves. Beyond their shape, it was too dark to make out any details. Medical storage? I closed the door and moved to the next one. It too opened freely, this time into a larger room. A row of chairs were arranged in front of a hospital bed, and several supply carts lined the far wall. What was this?
As I stood contemplating the function of the room, a loud, guttural wail came from the upper level. I raced up the stairs only to find yet another hallway lined with a series of doors. These, however, had been outfitted with glass windows.
I couldn’t see the man, nor did I hear him any longer, so I quickly stepped to the nearest door and peered in. Inside was a hospital bed, a cabinet, and an IV stand next to the bed. Were patients receiving medical care here? Thoughts of licensing requirements ran through my mind as I viewed room after room, finding more of the same setup.
Another wail, this one closer, louder. It was the sound of agony. But was it emotional agony or physical? I rushed to the end of the hall where light from a clerestory window illuminated a larger open space. The young man I had followed was on the floor, thrashing, scratching at his forearms and his neck.
I rushed to his side, scanning his body for obvious signs of injury, but nothing was apparent.
“Can you speak? Where are you hurt?” I asked these things as I tapped open my phone. He threw his head and shoulders side to side, clutching at me, his long hair tangled over his face as I dialed 911.
Giving my name and the address, I asked for an ambulance while the man groaned and flailed against me. Whatever agony he was in had no visible physical manifestations. I searched again for signs of blood as the operator asked me to stay on the line, doing what I could to calm him down but to no avail. He was sweating profusely, and I brushed the hair off of his face.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” a male voice behind me boomed.
I looked up to see Dr. Wykell barreling toward me, a nurse in blue scrubs right behind him.
“He’s in trouble. I called an ambulance. They’re on the way,” I said, ignoring his accusatory tone. This was hardly the time to be worried about a trespasser.
“You did what?” he shot back.
Pulling the man from my arms, he then shoved me away with one firm jab. I fell against a medical cart, sending the clanging metal into a bed and my body to the floor. Shocked, I sat against the cart, trying to understand his response. The nurse stood behind him, her brown eyes wide, but she did nothing to assist, seemingly waiting for Wykell to issue an order.
“Do something!” I yelled at her. “He’s in trouble. Look at him. I saw him fall in the driveway. He was clearly in serious trouble, so I followed him and found him like this.”
She stared at me, pain in her eyes, but hesitated half a second before stepping forward.
“You’re trespassing on private property. You need to leave immediately,” Dr. Wykell shouted at me. His nurse froze, and whether it was out of fear or needing his permission to proceed wasn’t clear. “How we handle our patients is none of your concern.”
Wykell motioned for the nurse. She moved to his side, checking the young man’s pupils and pulse. Locking her eyes on Wykell, she opened her mouth to say something, but he shook his head, silencing her.
What was happening?
“Look at him,” I said again. “What the hell is wrong with him? Do something!”
The nurse looked nervously from me to the patient, then back to the doctor, grappling with her medical duty and the parameters Wykell was placing on her.
“Please,” I said to her. “Help him. Don’t let this kid die when he doesn’t have to.”
“We need to get an IV into him immediately,” she said, her slightly accented voice wavering. After one more check of his pupils, she took hold of his wrist, turning the arm to expose the veins. Small dark bruises dotted his pale skin. She was a sturdy, big-boned woman and probably could have tossed her patient over her shoulder if needed. Her stick-straight hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore a name tag that identified her as Darna.
Wykell ignored her demand. As she shifted, presumably to reach for supplies, Wykell pushed her arm away.
“I said, get out!” he screamed at me instead.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I shot back, getting to my feet. Still on a live connection, I could hear the operator again. I pulled the phone back up to my ear. “Yes, I’m here.” She told me the ambulance had just pulled up.
“I’m not leaving until I know he’s okay,” I repeated to Dr. Wykell. Whatever calm the young man had felt for a moment was gone and he beat his hands against the doctor’s chest, pushing him away, his head still thrashing. Wykell moved behind him, pulling the man’s arms across his body as if he were a human straitjacket, forcing him to become still. This man needed medical attention not a straitjacket.
The nurse had stepped over to a nearby cabinet and was pulling out a syringe and a vial.
“I said, leave,” Wykell repeated as the nurse handed him the injection.
As she swabbed a site with alcohol, two EMTs rushed in. “Hold on. We’ve got it from here,” one of the technicians said. “Step aside, sir,” he ordered, this time more sternly. Wykell no longer had a choice, and he released his grip on the young man, handing the syringe quietly back to the nurse.
The young man’s body still twitched as the EMTs quickly assessed his dilated pupils. Wykell stood to the side, glaring at the technicians as they worked.
“Do we know if he’s taking anything?” one EMT asked, directing his question at Dr. Wykell. He mumbled no, but I didn’t believe him. The nurse stood mutely next the supply cabinet, but her eyes told me she was as frightened as I was. As the medical team worked, the young man began to clutch at his chest, taking loud, raspy breaths. A moment later he was convulsing on the floor, his body rolling in waves and foam coming from his mouth.
I watched in horror as the EMTs seemed unable to stem the pain wracking their patient’s body, and Wykell and his nurse refused to offer any assistance.
“Time to fess up, people,” the EMT said, this time urgently as the two technicians struggled to stabilize the man. “What is he on?”
Silence from Wykell. With one loud gasp, the young man’s body shuddered.
“We’re losing him,” the EMT said. “One of you had better start talking!”
“Dr. Wykell,” I screamed. “Stop the goddamn stonewalling. What is this kid taking?”