Lake

 

 

I don’t know why Jules lied about Marty’s writing. But considering how he was acting in the library, there is the possibility he’s clinically depressed. Jules didn’t lie about that part, so she may be telling the truth about him being moved to the Darwinians’ wing. In a restricted area.

When I first arrived, Deborah had explained that certain areas are restricted because it’s where the Darwinians live. She’d chuckled and admitted it’s the only place they can get away from us. I’m not sure how many restricted areas there are since I’ve never had a reason to test which doors are locked. I wouldn’t be surprised if Stryker knows. I should get him, but I may not have long before Jules discovers I swiped the keycard.

My heart is pounding in my ears. Why am I so nervous? I’m not planning to steal their secrets and open my own you-too-can-live-in-someone-else’s-brain business. But I will be where I’m not supposed to be.

I open my journal and review my sketch of The Flem. I turn down what I think is the right hall and come upon the person I’ve been avoiding. Before I can back away, Orfyn looks up and smiles.

My carefully-thought-out apology vanishes as my eyes glom onto the wall covered in gruesome, devilish creatures. One is hacking at a human as others watch in glee, and another is vomiting up smaller monsters. It’s truly disturbing.

“Is there a reason you’re painting this?” I ask, wondering if I’ve been intuitive about avoiding him.

“A lot of Catholic churches have paintings of demons to show the congregation that their actions have consequences. I thought the Darwinians could use a reminder.”

“Orfyn, why do they need a reminder?”

The mischief in his eyes evaporates. “It’s complicated.”

I edge closer and whisper in his ear, “Are we in danger?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.”

Why do I continue to allow Stryker’s distrust to influence me? For all I know, Orfyn is retaliating because they forgot to order his art supplies.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I tighten my grip on the stolen keycard. I’ve seen Orfyn paint often enough to know he’s not leaving until his work is finished. I could abandon my plan, but I owe this to Marty. The problem is, there’s not a semi-believable lie to explain how I got the key, and why I need to sneak into the restricted area.

I open my hand. “I’m looking for Marty,” I mouth, then shoot my eyes to the Darwinians’ wing.

Orfyn’s brows meet. He leans down and whispers, “What’s he doing in there?” His breath tickles my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

“I’ll explain later,” I whisper back.

He points to his chest, then to the doors.

I can either lose precious minutes whispering protests, or give in. Honestly, it would be a relief to have someone come with me. If only Orfyn didn’t look so cute with that streak of yellow paint on his forehead.

I wave the keycard over the panel and hear a click. I’d been hoping I was wrong about what Jules’s key unlocks. I open my journal and add, Jules’s key unlocks the Darwinians’ wing.

Orfyn looks at me curiously.

I just confirmed to him that I can’t trust my own memory. I’ll have to deal with that later.

After the door closes behind us, Orfyn says at a normal volume, “I doubt they have bugs in their own wing.”

“Good point. If we see anyone, we’ll tell them the door was left ajar.”

He nods. “We need a reason for being here.”

“We’ll say we heard someone crying out in … in pain and we were concerned.”

“Works for me.”

I finally notice my surroundings. I expected the Darwinians’ wing to resemble the Sanctuary’s décor, but it’s the standard white walls, white tile floors and no embellishments. Our wing is vibrant now, thanks to Orfyn’s paintings.

“Tell me what’s going on with Marty,” he says.

“Jules told me he’s being treated for depression and he was moved to the Darwinian’s wing. I saw him last night, and I can believe that part. But she lied to me about his writing, and then I found this kite, I mean, key in her book. So now I’m questioning everything she’s told me.”

“Why would Jules lie?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we’re here.”

If I tell him about forgetting to ask Deborah to talk to Cecil about Marty, Orfyn’s going to lose any respect he may have had for me. I opt for a different truth. “I have this feeling I can’t shake. I think something is wrong with Marty.”

Instead of questioning my sanity, Orfyn simply says, “Let’s go look for him.”

We make our way down the hall, reading the name plates as we pass. There’s actually quite a few Darwinians I don’t know. It’s the afternoon, and they all must be working. Even though I’ve devoted three minutes of thought to my plan, the timing couldn’t be better.

It feels as if there’s a liter of adrenaline running through my veins. I make myself say, “What are those double doors near the end of the hall?”

As we get closer, we hear muffled voices coming from behind the plaque labeled Conference Room.

“We sure could use an invisibility cloak,” Orfyn whispers.

“If only I brought propylene and triethylene glycol.”

He gives me a quizzical look.

“It creates an instant dense fog.” For the thousandth time, I wonder if chemistry joke is an oxymoron.

The conference room doorknob turns, and the door opens a crack. We press ourselves against the wall, which doesn’t do much to conceal us. I suddenly really do wish I had my chemistry kit on me.

“I have to say it again,” we hear from the room. “It’s not the results we anticipated, but it’s a true game changer.” I don’t recognize the man’s voice.

“As you both suggest, I’ll give some more thought to my decision,” says a woman who begins to cough violently.

I point to an elevator at the end of the hall, and we rush past the conference room. Orfyn pushes the button, the elevator doors slide open, and we step in without being seen. My heart is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s.

The elevator buttons are labelled -1, 1, 2, and 3. “The elevator in our wing doesn’t have a button for the third floor.”

“Nope. There also aren’t any stairs that lead up to it.” Orfyn hovers his finger over the 3 and looks at me questioningly. “If we go up there, our excuse that we heard something isn’t going to cut it.”

“Then let’s not get caught.” I push the button labeled 3, hoping this isn’t one of those times when bravado is synonymous with stupidity.

The elevator doesn’t ascend.

“Try the keycard,” Orfyn suggests.

I pass it in front of the black panel above the buttons, then press 3 again. I hear a sound behind me. We turn to see the rear wall sliding open, exposing a stone staircase.

“That’s not what I was expecting.” My voice sounds like I inhaled helium.

Orfyn stands straighter. “We’re doing this, right?”

I give him the nod. I have to see this through for Marty. My eyes follow the worn stairs leading up. The walls are covered in dark wood paneling, and it’s well-lit by a large hanging lamp with six round globes. Why is this place designed so we have no access to the third floor?

As we make our way up the steps, Orfyn says, “Why didn’t they keep the rest of the The Flem looking like this?”

That’s what he’s thinking right now? I’m trying not to pee my pants.

“Look at this.” Orfyn points to the banister. Carved into the wood is: Ashley Chambers 1916, Lest We Forget. “World War I.” Orfyn runs his fingertips across the hundred-year-old tribute. “They called it the ‘war to end all wars.’”

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Stryker and … Bjorn can create a more peaceful world?”

A look of annoyance flashes across Orfyn’s face, and then it’s gone. “We’ve got to believe they can.”

We reach the top step and are met by a hallway going off in opposite directions. The same globe lamps extend down the ceiling, casting a soft, yellow glow. This floor hasn’t changed since the last class let out who knows how many years ago. I’d expect it to be musty, but it has a sharp disinfectant smell.

When a phone rings, my heart skips a beat. We’re not alone. After a few seconds, a woman’s voice says, “I’ll be right there.”

Orfyn opens the nearest door and pulls me in. The room contains whirring and beeping mainframe computers, which is an anachronism next to the blackboard that still has chalk smudges on it. The woman’s shoes click-clack on the tile floor in the hallway. The sound grows closer, passes us, and then fades as she descends the stairs.

Orfyn looks at me questioningly.

“The cleaning ladies I know don’t wear high heels.” I take a bracing breath. “We need to see what’s down there.”

Orfyn takes my hand, and it feels like I’m touching a bare electrical wire. I know I should let go, but it’s giving me the courage to do this. As we creep down the hall, I hear the sound of squishes doing a body’s breathing, and blips monitoring a beating heart.

Please, let me be wrong.

I peer into the last room. A row of hospital beds line the far wall. My stomach drops when I recognize the face nearest the door.

It’s Marty.

Plastic tubes snake out of his nose and arms, electrodes are attached to his shaven head, and he’s hooked up to a number of machines. As he lies unconscious, he barely looks ten years old.

“This isn’t how they treat depression,” I whisper.

Orfyn touches Marty’s shoulder and shakes it, but he doesn’t wake up.

“He has a … a feeding tube,” I say with a shaky voice. “They must think he’s going to be here for a while.”

The memory of Marty’s keening rings in my head. He was sleeping when I returned from Cecil’s. What happened to him?

Orfyn gestures to the other six kids. “Who are they?”