an old orchard.
The trees were now all dead, the bare limbs a web of twisted dark wood.
Emma made a point of never going around back. The place was scary enough. That’s why she was surprised kids would go around there to ring the buzzer.
Well, they were in for a surprise. She’d give them a good scare. Then she’d go back to sleep.
As she turned the corner and looked down the corridor, she saw that the light at the end had burned out again. But a car with the headlights on was parked outside and she could make out the silhouette of a person through the steel mesh covering the back-door window.
The shape was large. Not a kid. A big man, from the size of him. She felt the first niggling of real fear. What could he want at this hour?
The buzzer sounded again, this time more insistent.
Emma had never been very intuitive, but something told her not to answer the door.
Go back to the office, call the sheriff in Antelope Flats.
She told herself that if the man at the back door had a good reason to be here, he’d have called first. He wouldn’t have just shown up at this hour of the night. And he would have used the front door.
She started to turn back toward her office to make that call when she heard what sounded like the front door opening. She froze, telling herself she must have imagined it. She’d checked to make sure the front door was locked before she went to sleep.
Cool night air rushed around her thick ankles. Someone had come in the front door!
How was that possible? As far as she knew, there were only three keys: one for herself, one for the Realtor and one for the other night watchman, Karl, the man she was filling in for tonight. The Realtor hated to come out here even in daylight. No way would he be here at this hour!
Until that moment, she’d never considered that anyone who used to work here might still have a key since the locks wouldn’t have been changed in the vacant building.
She heard the front door close in a soft whoosh and then footfalls headed down the hall in her direction.
Her fear spiked. She couldn’t get back to the office without running into whoever had just come in.
From the quick pace of the footsteps, the person headed her way would soon turn the corner and see her. Panicked, she ducked into one of the empty rooms and immediately realized her mistake. The room was small, rectangular and windowless, with no place to hide.
She started to close the door. It made a creaking sound. She froze, even more shaken at the thought of what she’d almost done. The doors locked automatically with no way to open them from the inside. So even if she hadn’t left her keys on her desk in the office, she wouldn’t have been able to get out.
She could hear footsteps, close now, and didn’t dare move even if there had been enough room to hide behind the partially closed door.
Flattening herself as best as she could against the wall in the pitch-black room, Emma held her breath and watched the dim corridor, praying whoever it was wouldn’t look this way.
The footfalls hurried past as the buzzer sounded again. She got only a fleeting look at the man. Tall, dressed in a long black coat, a dark fedora covering all of his hair except for a little gray at the side. She had never seen him before.
The buzzer started to sound again but was cut off in midbuzz. She heard a key being inserted in the lock. The back door banged open.
“I thought I told you not to ring the bell,” snapped a voice Emma had heard before. The man had called a few days ago. She remembered because no one ever called while she was on the night shift.
He’d demanded information without even bothering to tell her who was calling. She hadn’t liked his attitude—that sharp edge of authority she’d always resented.
“I’m sorry, who is this?” she’d demanded, and waited until he’d finally snapped “Dr. French.”
He’d asked if anyone was there besides her. She’d told him that was none of his business. Well, did she know what had happened to the patient records? Were they in storage? Or had someone taken them? Could he come up and look for them?
She told him she didn’t know anything about any files and no one was allowed in the building at night, that he should talk to the Realtor.
He’d become angry and hung up, but she hadn’t forgotten his voice. Or the way he’d made her feel. Small.
“You were supposed to wait,” Dr. French snapped at the man at the back door.
“She was starting to wake up and you said not to give her any more of the drug,” the other man answered in a deep gravelly voice Emma didn’t recognize.
“Get her in here,” Dr. French ordered. “Where is the man you said would be here?”
“Karl? Don’t know. Haven’t seen him yet.”
There was a metal clank and then Dr. French said, “You made sure there will be no trace of her?”
“I did just as you said. Got rid of everything. Including her rental car.”
Emma didn’t move, didn’t breathe, but her heart was pounding so hard she feared they would hear it and discover her. They thought Karl was working tonight. Because Karl was supposed to be working tonight. If she hadn’t needed the money when he’d asked her to fill in at the last minute—
“There’s a car parked out front,” Dr. French said. “It must belong to your friend.”
“Guess so, though I thought he drove a truck.”
The back door closed in a whoosh, automatically locking. Emma heard another clank and then footsteps coming down the corridor toward the room where she was hiding. Something squeaked as they moved.
Out of the corner of her eye Emma saw the doctor and a large burly-looking man roll a wheelchair past, one of the tires squeaking on the linoleum. The burly man had a bad case of bed-hair, his mousy brown hair sticking out at all angles.
Emma only glimpsed the woman slumped in the wheelchair with her head lolling to one side. She wore a long coat, slacks and penny loafers. Her chin-length dyed auburn hair hid most of her face. She clearly wasn’t from around this area.
The wheelchair squeaked down the hall to the echo of the men’s footsteps. Emma waited until she heard them turn the corner and start down the hall toward her office before she moved.
Her first instinct was to run down the corridor, out the back door. Except all the doors in the building locked automatically and had to be opened from the inside with a key, a precaution from when patients roamed these halls.
And she’d left her keys on her desk, not needing them to scare away a few kids through the window at the back door.
She would have to hide in the building.
Unless she could get to her keys.
She stole down the corridor, trying not to make a sound. At the corner, she sneaked a look down the hallway toward her office.
The two men had stopped with the wheelchair at the locked section that had once been reserved for the criminally insane.
The chain and lock on the doors rattled. She watched as Dr. French inserted a key. The chain fell away with a clatter that reverberated through the building. Afraid to move, she watched the doctor hold the door open for the wheelchair.
He had a key? Even she didn’t have a key to that area and had been told it was only a long corridor of padded, soundproof rooms best left locked up.
Emma waited until the men disappeared through the doors, the burly one wheeling the woman into the second door on the right. The number on the door read 9B. What was it she’d heard about 9B, something terrible. Oh God. She had to get out of here.
If