The bartender came over and tapped him on the shoulder. “You all right, buddy?”
Mark tipped his head forward, opened his glazed eyes. He looked around. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m okay.”
“You want another?” the bartender motioned at Mark’s beer glass.
Mark checked his watch. “Shit.” Mark looked back up at the bartender. “No. No thanks. I gotta’ get going. What’s my tab?”
“Sixteen fifty.”
Mark peeled a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to the bartender. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks,” the bartender said.
Mark stood. He lost his balance a little and grabbed the table to steady himself.
The bartender reached out to grab Mark’s arm. “I better get you a cab.”
Mark held his hand out, released the table and stood steady. “No, really. I’m okay. My leg just went to sleep.”
The bartender let go of Mark’s arm and Mark walked to the front door. He opened the door, and held his hand up to his eyes to block the light from the setting sun. He looked around before stepping outside. He didn’t really remember driving to the bar, nor did anything outside really look familiar. One thing did strike him — the street sign at the corner. It read:
HOME AVE.
Mark looked back at the bartender, now standing behind the bar. “I’m in Xenia?” he asked.
“Where the hell do you think you are?” the bartender answered as he dried a beer glass and put it back on a shelf. “You sure you don’t need a cab?”
“No. I’m okay. Just a little disoriented. Which way to the Children’s Home?”
The bartender leaned on the bar, looking at Mark as if he’d lost his mind. “You go right, about five miles. But it ain’t there anymore.”
“What happened to it?” Mark asked.
“Tore it down. Sold the place to some church. That’s been a couple of years ago.”
“Not surprised,” Mark said as he waved at the bartender and stepped outside. His car was only one of two parked in the small lot. He stepped towards it and was unlocking the door when he spotted the camera case in the back seat. Open. And empty. “Shit.”
Mark got in. He pulled his cell phone out as he backed out of the parking lot. He punched in Ellen’s number. Ellen picked up quickly.
“You jerk,” Ellen said over the phone. “Why the hell’d you leave me out there? That’s pretty chicken shit, even for someone like you.”
“I’m sorry,” Mark said. “Something happened.”
The line was quiet for a few seconds. Then Ellen came back and simply said: “I’m listening.”
Mark wasn’t sure how to explain it. Wasn’t sure she would understand him. Or believe him. He wasn’t sure he understood it himself. “I’m not sure. I kind of blacked out or something. I was trying to look into the building and next thing I know I’m out in Xenia.” No need to tell her he had found himself in a bar.
At the hotel, Ellen stepped out of the bathroom. She had a towel wrapped around her, and the phone to her ear. “Jesus, Mark. Are you all right? What’s a Xenia?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Mark said over the phone. “It’s a town East of Dayton about twenty miles. The orphanage where I grew up is out here… Was out here.”
Ellen continued to listen as she dropped her towel on the floor. She dug through her suitcase and pulled out a matching set of satin bra and panties.
Mark drove down Home Avenue until he reached a church where the old children’s home used to be. He slowed, looked the place over, but didn’t stop. He continued on the phone: “I’m going to stop at the newspaper in Dayton and see if I can dig through their archives. Will you be okay on your own tonight?”
“I’ve been okay on my own so far,” she said.
Mark could hear the sarcasm in Ellen’s voice. A moment passed, then he heard her say: “Yeah. I’ve got something to do. Isn’t it a little late to go to the newspaper? Won’t they be closed?”
Mark checked his watch. “It’s only six. I guarantee there will be someone there. I’ll meet you at the hotel restaurant in the morning.”
The Dayton Herald was downtown, in an old building with concrete pillars out front. Mark climbed two dozen steps to get to the large, oak doors. Once through, he was met with the buzz of a newspaper newsroom. He glanced around. No receptionist, but a dozen or so reporters and editors hammered away at their keyboards in an open work space. Mark spotted a few offices near the back of the room, frosted glass windows for walls. There was a light on in one of the offices. Mark crossed the bullpen and headed for the office. It was always best to go straight to the top.
He reached the office and read the stencil on the glass:
Mark looked in the open door. All he could see was curly, red hair behind a row of monitors. He could hear her pounding away at a keyboard. He rapped on the door frame.
The hammering against the keyboard paused and, beyond the monitors, the redhead looked up briefly. Mark spotted a pair of liquid green eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. As quickly as they appeared, they were gone again and the typing continued in earnest.
“Yeah? Who are you and what do you want?” Alicia asked against the din of her near-frantic typing.
Mark stepped in without waiting for an invitation. “Mark Wilcox. Channel Seven. Chicago.”
“TV news?” Alicia asked.
Mark stepped closer until he could see her by looking over the monitors. She was glancing back and forth between her screens, adeptly spinning and clicking her trackball between stints at the keyboard.
“Yeah. Investigative,” Mark said.
“What do you want, Mr. Wilcox?” she asked, not letting his presence interrupt her.
“I’d like to dig through your archives,” Mark said.
Alicia looked up, briefly, then back at her screen as she continued to work. “Working on a local story?” she asked.
“Yeah. The Dayton State Hospital is closing. I’m working up a history of the place.”
Alicia glanced up again, but only momentarily. “Could be a good story. There have always been rumors…”
“I know. I grew up here,” Mark said.
“Hang on,” Alicia said.
Mark watched her as she glanced back and forth between her monitors, ran her finger along one of the screens. She seemed to be reading something. Her hands dropped back down to the keyboard again and made a flourish with a key stroke.
Alicia leaned back, staring at the monitor for a second, then exhaled slowly and stood, extending her hand. “Sorry. Had to finalize the news section for tomorrow’s paper.”
Mark shook her hand. “Deadlines.”
Alicia nodded. She released her hand and folded her arms in front of her. “TV story on the old asylum. I heard they were closing. What makes Chicago interested?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Mark said. “One of the senior producers wanted the story.”
“So here you are?”
“Here I am.”
Alicia paused, no longer the urgent editor with a deadline. She seemed to make up her mind and dropped her crossed arms and stepped past Mark to her open door. She yelled out: “Rodney, come here for a sec.” She turned back to Mark: “You’ll credit the paper?”
“I’ll do what I can,” Mark said.
A young man with a ponytail hurried into her office: “Yes, ma’am?”
“Rodney, this is Mark Wilcox from Chicago. He needs access to the archives. Take him down to the morgue and help him get started.”