Then a six-story building came into view, appearing like an ancient ship out of an artic fog, with a black roof and brick wings on both sides of an octagonal rotunda, which was adorned with an impossibly tall white cupola that disappeared into the low gray clouds. When the bus made its way around the side of the building, she saw another wing even longer than the others, making the building look like a giant cross. Smokestacks—more of them than she could count—jutted from the multiple black roofs like building blocks scattered on a shelf. Then other buildings emerged like dark apparitions, many of which looked like shops or garages or storage sheds. And everywhere she looked there were more U-shaped, numbered buildings and additional turnoffs leading to other roads. High fences surrounded some of the buildings to keep people in—or out; it was impossible to say which. When the bus slowed, she noticed a lone shoe in the snow and something that looked like a pair of crumpled pants. Goose bumps prickled along her arms. Maybe, even when it came to a place like Willowbrook, appearances were deceiving.
Finally, the bus pulled around to what looked like the main entrance of the cross-shaped building and came to a stop, air brakes hissing. A sign above the double doors read: ADMINISTRATION. The Asian couple stood and moved toward the exit, the husband waiting patiently for the wife to go ahead. Sage took a deep breath and gathered her courage. It was now or never.
Still looking out the window, she reached for her purse, wondering if she should have another cigarette before she went in. But her hand landed on an empty seat. She gasped and looked down. Her purse was gone. Shit. She should have known better. She should have kept her eyes open, especially when the bus stopped in some of the seedier neighborhoods. Frantic, she scanned the floor, then got up to search under the other seats. Maybe it had slid off the cushion when they stopped. But it was nowhere to be found. She went down the aisle, looking in and under every chair.
“Is there a problem, miss?” the driver said.
“I think someone took my purse,” she said.
The driver rolled his eyes, put the bus in park, and got up to help.
They looked everywhere, over and under and in between every seat, and searched every inch of the floor. Her purse was not on the bus.
“Was there anything important in it?” the driver asked, out of breath and sweating. “Money? ID?”
“Just a few dollars and some makeup, a hairbrush, my cigarettes.” There was no point in mentioning her fake ID.
“No driver’s license?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have a license.”
“What’s the purse look like?”
“It’s a leather saddlebag, with blue flowers stamped on the front.”
He returned to his seat, took off his cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and grabbed a clipboard from a hook on the dash. “Give me your name and phone number. If it turns up, dispatch will give you a call, but don’t hold your breath.”
“It’s Sage Winters. 212-567-2345.”
He wrote the information down and put the clipboard back on the hook. “Okay, got it,” he said. “Sorry about that.” Then he looked up at her. “You okay?”
No. I’m not okay. Not even close. She nodded and tried to smile, touched by his compassion, and for the first time, noticed his kind eyes. She glanced out the window at the massive brick building. “Do you know anything about this place?”
He shrugged. “Not any more than you do, probably,” he said. “I just drop people off and pick them up, so I can’t tell you much. I remember Robert Kennedy called it a snake pit, though.” He pointed out the open bus door, in the direction the Asian couple had gone. “That couple, they come every other week, and every time I pick them up that poor woman is crying.”
She wished he hadn’t told her that. “Do you know why?”
“I think they’re visiting one of their kids. And I imagine it’s got to be an awful sad thing to have someone you love in a place like that, don’t you think?”
She nodded, sorrow tightening her chest. Poor Rosemary.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that. Are you visiting someone?”
She swallowed hard. “My sister.”
“Damn. I’m sorry. Did she just arrive?”
“No, she’s been here for six years.”
“Oh,” he said, then furrowed his brow. “I know it’s none of my business, but how come I’ve never seen you on my bus before? Do you normally come with your parents?”
She would have laughed if she didn’t feel like crying. “No, I just found out she’s here.”
“Oh, man,” he said. “I’m sorry. That had to be hard.”
“It was,” she said. “It is.” For a brief second, she thought about asking him to go with her, to take her inside so she wouldn’t be alone. But that was ridiculous.
“Well, good luck, kid,” he said. He shoved his hat back on his head and turned toward the steering wheel. “If your purse shows up, someone’ll give you a call, but like I said, don’t hold your breath. The ‘lost’ list is a lot longer than the ‘found’ list on this route.”
“Okay, thanks,” she said, and started to exit the bus. Halfway down the steps, she looked out at the massive building again and was struck by a jolt of panic. What she wouldn’t give to be getting back on the bus for the return trip home. She stopped and turned to face the driver again. “I guess I’ll see you later then, when you come back to pick us up.”
To her surprise, he frowned. “Sorry, kid. Normally it would be me, but I’m clocking out early to take my wife out to dinner for her birthday.” Then he smiled again and gave her a friendly wink. “You know what they say, happy wife, happy life.”
She forced a weak smile. Going out to dinner to celebrate a birthday sounded like the most wonderful thing in the world right now. Hell, going to the dentist sounded better than what she was about to do. “Oh. Well, thanks again for your help.”
“No problem.” He put his hand on the door lever and waited for her to get out. “Take care now.”
At the bottom of the bus steps, snow filled the backs of her clogs, instantly turning her feet to ice. She turned to wave to the driver, but he was already shutting the door. Swearing under her breath, she made her way along the snow-filled sidewalk toward the brick building. At the top of the frozen steps, she hesitated, wondering if she should knock on the imposing double doors or just walk in. She tried the handle. It turned, one side of the door clicked open, and she went inside.
After stomping her snow-covered clogs on the industrial-size doormat inside a short vestibule, she read the plaque on the wall: ADMISSIONS: ACUTE AND CHRONIC PSYCHIATRIC, GERIATRIC, CHEMICAL DEPENDENCY, MENTAL RETARDATION, AND CHILD-ADOLESCENT WARDS. She frowned. Was she in the wrong place? Wasn’t Willowbrook supposed to be a school? Nothing on the sign said anything about classes or teachers or grades.
The only thing she could do was go in and ask. She went through another set of double doors and entered what looked like a waiting area. Straight ahead, a receptionist wearing cat-eye glasses sat at a desk looking through a stack of papers. Except for an odd, roped-off staircase at one back corner, the waiting room had the false, relaxed feel of a doctor’s office, with a tiled floor, cushioned chairs, and paintings of mountains and lakes on the walls. A corner table offered an assortment of magazines—National Geographic, Psychology Today, and Better Homes & Gardens—and a small room off to one side held toys and books and child-size chairs. Then she noticed the sinister-looking gargoyles on the banister of the roped-off staircase and was instantly reminded of the rumors about Satanic rituals being held under the old tuberculosis sanitarium. What the hell were those creepy-looking decorations doing in a school? She shivered, then shook off her uneasiness. This was no time to let urban legends make her afraid.