“I really need to see some of these records if you want me to take all this seriously,” Mitt said, deciding suddenly to be completely up-front. “Specifically, I would like to see Charlene Wagner’s record.”
“I’m sorry, but as I already mentioned, I can’t give them to you, even one record.”
“Okay, I understand,” Mitt said. “And I respect your promise to your mother. What I’d like to propose is that you simply show me the record and let me read it.”
“You mean we both go into the psychiatric building? You’d be willing to do that?”
“I would,” Mitt said. “It’s not that I doubt what you are saying because I don’t — I believe you. At the same time, what you are telling me seriously challenges what I’ve believed all my life. Seeing this record and holding it in my hand will go a long way toward convincing me about the role of my ancestors and the existence of the paranormal. I hope you understand. I need this kind of corroboration.”
“You’re willing to go in there despite what I told you about all the Bellevue ghosts from its three-hundred-year history pretty much having taken over the building?”
“What are you implying?” Mitt asked. “Is that where you’ve seen apparitions like I’ve described?”
“Absolutely,” Lashonda said. “I see them every time I’ve gone in there to check on the papers and particularly when my mother and I moved them because of the hurricane.”
“Did your mother see them as well?”
“No, she didn’t. She wasn’t a portal.”
“But they didn’t bother you or your mother?”
“No, they had no cause with us. Our family has only been service personnel.”
“I think I can deal with seeing them,” Mitt said. “I’ve almost gotten accustomed to it.”
“If we were to make such a visit, it would have to be at night,” Lashonda said, warming to the idea if it was going to help Mitt understand his peril. “Whenever I’ve gone inside, it was always at night. During the day hospital security keeps an eye on the building and makes regular tours around the grounds. As far as I know, the last time someone was allowed in during the day was when a mandatory test for asbestos was ordered by the city.”
“I’m fine with going in at night,” Mitt said. “In fact, why not tonight? Why not right now and get it over with? Do you have the key or keys with you?”
“No, but they are in my office,” Lashonda said as she glanced at her watch to check the time.
“What do you say?”
“How long would you need for us to be there?”
“Not long. How many pages is Charlene’s record?”
“Just two pages. The earlier records going back into the early nineteenth century are even shorter. Most of those are a single page or just a couple of paragraphs. Back then recordkeeping was hardly what it is now.”
“Ten to fifteen minutes would probably be adequate,” Mitt said. “I’d like to see her record and maybe a few of my earlier ancestors’.” Once he knew exactly where the records were, he figured, he could return at some point in the near future and do them justice.
“All right, why not!” Lashonda said, suddenly making up her mind. “It is important for you to understand the seriousness of what is happening, especially considering the deaths of your seven patients. That can’t have been by chance, and unfortunately, it’s bound to continue. And, to be honest, I’m seriously worried about your own safety. Bellevue Hospital is simply not where you should be, for everyone concerned.”
“I’m getting that message,” Mitt agreed.
“Let me first check with the operator to make sure there isn’t a housekeeping issue brewing.” Lashonda picked up her phone, which was lying on the table next to her plate. Her conversation with the operator was rapid and to the point. She quickly ascertained there were no current problems requiring her presence.
“All is quiet,” she said, pocketing her phone. “I’ll get the necessary keys and a couple of flashlights from my office. There’s no power in most of the psychiatric building, just the tiny section being used as the homeless shelter. I’ll meet you downstairs in the elevator lobby. We’ll get over there by going out through the laundry building. Okay?”
“Okay,” Mitt said. “I trust that you know the way.”
“I should hope so, after all these years. My department did the housekeeping in the psychiatric building until all the patients were moved over here to the high-rise in 1984.”
They both lifted their trays with their mostly uneaten food and headed toward the soiled-dishes window. No one in the cafeteria paid them any heed as they departed together.
Chapter 25
Thursday, July 4, 4:32 a.m.
Mitt was waiting on the first floor when Lashonda got off the elevator. She was carrying a relatively large, nondescript brown paper bag. She motioned for Mitt to follow her. As befitting the city that never sleeps, the first floor of the Bellevue Hospital was more crowded than he expected, which he imagined had mostly to do with the emergency room. Even the outpatient pharmacy was open although no one was currently at its counter.
“Just follow me,” Lashonda said as she waved over her shoulder before heading first west, then north. To keep up, Mitt had to pick up speed.
“You are motivated,” Mitt said once they were on their own in an otherwise empty corridor.
“I want to get this over with well before the shift change,” she said without slowing her pace. “And as fast as possible because either one of us could get called at any minute.”
Mitt nodded to acknowledge she was correct. Although there was a possibility he could be called, he felt justified in doing what he was doing because he wasn’t leaving the hospital grounds, and it was hospital business in a way. Besides, he trusted that if there was a real emergency and not something like a falling-out-of-bed episode, Madison would be called.
They passed through the laundry building and then out into the night. Once again, Mitt was mildly taken aback by the warm sultriness of the night air after spending nearly twenty-four hours in the hospital air-conditioning. But he wasn’t surprised, knowing full well that New York City acted like an enormous heat sink composed of millions upon millions of tons of concrete and macadam that absorbed all the summer sunlight energy during the day and then gave it off continuously during the night.
They crossed a hospital service road that at one time in the distant past had been part of East 28th Street and skirted another mostly dark building. “What’s in the bag?” Mitt called ahead toward Lashonda. He was curious and had been meaning to ask, but she was not slowing to make it easy. “Flashlights?”
“Yes,” she said without slowing. “There are security cameras all over the entire first floor of the hospital, including the outpatient atrium, that are watched day and night by the Security people. I didn’t want to advertise that we were heading someplace where we’d need flashlights.”
“Good point,” Mitt said. A moment later, upon reaching the 29th Street extension, the old Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital loomed ahead, soaring up into the night sky like a totally dark, forgotten landmark from the past. From this vantage point, it was strikingly huge. The sight of it caused Mitt to catch his breath, especially since the instant its ten stories came into view, he simultaneously experienced a particularly strong flash of the same paresthesias he’d felt early that Monday morning when he’d passed the structure on his way to start his residency and again when he headed home Tuesday evening. Then, as now, the tingling sensations evoked an involuntary shudder.