Page 41 of The Secret

Neilsen said, “Whatever is this place? It looks evil. Like an asylum in a horror movie. Maybe Jack Nicholson’s in there.”

Smith said, “I think it is a kind of asylum. Or was. An annex of St. Elizabeth’s. It closed in the sixties. The main site is still open. It’s notorious. It was one of the first psychiatric hospitals in the country. Every bad thing happened there. Electroshock treatment. Forced lobotomies. Trials of truth serums during the Cold War. All kinds of stuff they can’t do anymore. The operation’s much smaller now. Rumor is, they’re going to close it soon, too.”

Neilsen said, “It gives me the creeps. Let’s go. We’re clearly on a wild-goose chase. We should buy a can of gas and some matches and pay that prick Sarbotskiy another visit.”

Smith shifted into Drive but before she lifted her foot off thebrake, Reacher said, “Wait.” He could feel a prickling sensation at the base of his neck. An instinctive response. A signal from his lizard brain. The part that was hardwired to sense when he was being watched. The kind of signal Reacher had learned not to ignore. “We’re here. It can’t hurt to check.”

Smith and Neilsen stayed silent. Neither of them moved.

Reacher said, “Stay in the car if you like. I’ll go.”

“No.” Smith turned the ignition key, pulled it out, stretched up and switched off the dome light, then opened her door. “I’ll come. Let’s just stick together, OK?”

Neilsen fumbled for his door handle. “Guess I better come, too. Keep an eye on you guys.”

—

Reacher led theway around the perimeter of the site on the outside of the fence. He moved slowly. His gaze was constantly switching from the ground in front of him to the sides and top of the building. He was looking for wires, or the glint of metal or glass. He saw nothing. It was too dark to make out much detail. But he could almost feel the presence of the hulking structure like it was some kind of giant prehistoric creature, alive, but asleep.

They completed their circuit without incident and wound up in front of what must have been the asylum’s main entrance. A giant portico jutted out from the wall. It was supported by ornate columns, originally to protect new arrivals from the rain or the sun. Reacher checked the join between the nearest sections of the fence. All the others he’d seen were secured with two clamps shaped like butterfly wings with a nut and bolt through the center of the body. This one only had a single clamp, and the nut was missing. The bolt was just pushed through its hole. There was nothing to hold it in place. Reacher pointed down at the concrete base that supportedthe fence’s metal posts. One was scuffed. Something had carved a portion of an arc into its rough surface. Reacher popped out the bolt and opened the clamp. He lifted the post. He pushed and it moved. The clamps holding it to the next section of fence were acting like hinges. And they were silent. They had seen some oil in the recent past.

Reacher squeezed through the gap he’d made in the fence and crossed to the portico. Smith and Neilsen followed. He continued to a pair of double doors. They were huge, made of dark wood, shot through with black metal studs and divided into panels covered with intricate carving. The workmanship had been high quality. That was clear, even though now the surface was dull and rough. The result of years of neglect and damp air, Reacher guessed.

Neilsen was staring at a padlock that secured one door to the other with a hasp and eye. It was a substantial item. Designed to exude strength, and discourage wannabe trespassers from wasting their time trying to pick it. But it was old. It was caked in rust. It couldn’t have been opened in years. Neilsen shook his head and turned to go. Reacher grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“What are you doing?” Neilsen whispered. “This is a waste of time. That lock’s seized solid. We’ll never get it open.”

“We don’t need to,” Reacher replied. “That’s not the way anyone gets in or out. Think about it. You can’t work a padlock from the inside.”

Reacher crouched down and inspected the doors’ lower panels. The bottom edges were in the worst shape. He figured that was due to rain splatter so he switched his attention to the next row up. He pressed one of them. It was solid. So was the next one he tried. But the third gave a tiny bit. He tried its opposite edge and it swung back, under tension from some kind of spring. It left a gap about six inches by eight. Reacher stretched his arm through. The surfacewas contoured and uneven. More carving, Reacher thought. Then his fingers brushed against something smooth and straight and narrow. A small plank. Reacher pushed and pulled and twisted until it came loose. He dropped it, pulled his arm out, and pressed on the next panel. This time a whole section swung inward. Nine panels by nine. Like a tiny door within a door.

It took a lot of squirming and wriggling and struggling but Reacher managed to squeeze his body through the hole. He stood up and stepped to the side, sliding his feet and stretching his arms into the empty darkness. Smith joined him. Then Neilsen. They all stood still and waited for their night vision to kick in. After a couple of minutes a few details started to emerge. The floor was covered with black and white tiles. They were submerged under a thick layer of dust. The cornice around the ceiling, high above them, was crusted with dirt and cobwebs. Hunks of plaster were hanging off the walls at random intervals. There was the indistinct outline of a piece of furniture ahead of them. Maybe a reception desk.

Smith said, “Close your eyes for a second.”

Reacher heard rustling, then a click. He opened one eye and saw Smith was holding a slim flashlight. She had pinched the beam down to a narrow shaft and was playing it around the space. A chandelier was hanging from the center of the ceiling. There was a pair of double doors on each side. Ahead was a wall of glass, now obscured by layers of grime. It felt like a grand hotel gone to seed. Reacher could imagine it with uniformed bellhops ferrying fancy luggage and gussied-up guests flitting between dining rooms and ballrooms and the formal gardens that lay outside. Though he knew in reality living there could hardly have been more different. Being forced to live there. There could have been few worse places in the country if Smith’s recollection was correct.

Smith lowered her flashlight beam to the floor. The extraillumination revealed multiple sets of footprints going back and forth along a path through the dust. She started to follow them.

Reacher said, “Stop.”

He was too late. He had seen a small break in the line of footprints. A narrow patch that hadn’t been stepped on. That meant one thing. There was a tripwire above it. Then the flashlight confirmed it. The line was colorless. As fine as a hair. It ran the whole width of the room. And Smith caught it with her right shin. Immediately the room filled with light from somewhere above them. It wasn’t harsh and bright, like it would be in the movies. It wasn’t enough to blind them. Or to blind the guy who stepped out from the doorway on the right. He was maybe six feet tall, but he was stooped. His hair was long and gray and thin and it hung down on either side of his face in no particular style. His skin was pale. His feet were bare. He was wearing jeans with huge bellbottoms. A bright paisley shirt with a massive collar. And he was holding a shotgun. An old one. A Winchester Model 97. A Trench Broom, as the infantry in the First World War used to call it. He was aiming it at Smith but Reacher and Neilsen were so close behind that they would get torn to shreds along with her if the guy pulled the trigger.

Chapter16

The guy with the shotgunsaid, “Stop. Who are you? Why did you break into my home?”

Reacher drifted to his right. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the others. He kept his eyes on the guy’s trigger finger and raised his hands to shoulder height. He said, “We’re looking for Spencer Flemming. Is that you?”

“Stop moving. What do you want?”

“Are you Flemming?”

“Who’s asking?”

“My name’s Jack Reacher.”

“Are you police? FBI? CIA? What?”

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