Chapter 9 - The Clinic With No Patients)
Emma could not give them a date.
Children measured time in birthdays, Christmases, and whether it was dark outside.
But she remembered rain.
She remembered Christopher being away.
She remembered Yvette reading a bedtime story.
And she remembered waking after midnight because someone tapped softly on the glass.
Her bedroom was on the ground floor then.
Emma said Rachel had been outside.
"Did Mommy come inside?" Christopher asked.
Emma shook her head.
"She cried."
"What did she say?"
"She said I had to keep Bunny safe."
Christopher struggled to breathe.
"Did she say anything else?"
Emma thought carefully.
"She said Daddy couldn't know yet."
The sentence devastated him.
Not because Rachel might have survived.
Because if Emma remembered correctly, Rachel had chosen not to come home.
There had to be a reason.
The coordinates led to St. Catherine's Recovery Center.
Cole obtained a warrant before Christopher could argue about accompanying him.
The property sat behind a forested road surrounded by twelve foot fencing.
The front building looked abandoned.
No vehicles.
No receptionist.
No patients.
The sign claimed the clinic treated neurological trauma and long term memory disorders.
Corporate records showed it had been owned for six years by Hale Medical Holdings.
Margaret's maiden name was Hale.
But Margaret denied knowing anything about the company.
Inside, investigators found empty rooms.
Medical beds.
Locked cabinets.
Shredded documents.
The building had been cleared recently.
One room contained personal items.
Women's clothing.
Hairbrushes.
Books.
Christopher stood outside while investigators searched.
Cole finally allowed him into the room after it was documented.
On the bedside table was a photograph.
Christopher and Emma.
It had been taken at the zoo eighteen months after Rachel's death.
On the back someone had written:
They look happy. Don't ruin it.
Christopher stared at the handwriting.
Rachel's.
He knew it.
"She was here."
Cole did not disagree.
Inside a drawer they found journals.
Most pages had been removed.
One remained.
I remembered Emma today.
I remembered the song I used to sing when she couldn't sleep.
Dr. V says memories can be dangerous.
I don't believe him anymore.
Christopher read the paragraph twice.
"Dr. V."
Cole nodded.
"We're identifying staff."
Another room contained surveillance equipment.
Hundreds of photographs lined one wall.
Christopher entering his office.
Emma leaving school.
Yvette shopping.
Juliette at a restaurant.
Grant outside a bank.
Even Margaret Mercer at her home.
Someone had been watching all of them.
Then Cole found a photograph of Grant unconscious in a hospital bed.
Christopher stared.
"If Grant runs this place, why photograph him?"
"Maybe he doesn't run it."
The assumption they had carried since the pool began to collapse.
Grant might be involved.
Grant had manipulated Juliette.
Grant had entered the mansion.
But someone else was watching Grant too.
On the final wall was a photograph of Christopher's father.
The image had been taken one week before his death.
A red circle was drawn around Thomas Whitmore's face.
Beneath it someone had written one word.
LIAR.
Cole photographed everything.
A technician called from the basement.
They had found a server room.
Most drives were missing.
One remained.
It contained patient intake records.
There was no Rachel Whitmore.
No Rebecca Lane.
But there was Patient 17.
Female.
Age thirty.
Admitted on the night Rachel supposedly died.
Diagnosis:
Traumatic brain injury.
Dissociative amnesia.
Identity uncertain.
Christopher sat down.
"She didn't know who she was."
Cole looked at the record.
"At least according to this."
"How did she get here?"
The admission form listed the person who authorized treatment.
Dr. Victor Hale.
Margaret's family name again.
Cole called her.
She answered from the mansion.
"Margaret, do you know Victor Hale?"
Silence.
Cole repeated the question.
Margaret's voice changed.
"My brother."
Christopher looked up sharply.
"Where is he?"
Margaret whispered, "He died twenty years ago."
Cole stared at the phone.
"Someone is using his name."
"Or his medical license," Margaret said.
"Was he a doctor?"
"Yes."
"What kind?"
"Psychiatrist."
Christopher closed his eyes.
Another dead person's identity.
His father's prescription.
Victor Hale's clinic.
Someone had built an entire structure using ghosts.
A forensic investigator entered.
"Detective."
Cole turned.
"We found something behind the basement wall."
They followed him downstairs.
A section of paneling had been removed.
Behind it was a narrow storage cavity.
Inside were boxes labeled by year.
Rachel's year contained photographs and medical reports.
But another box caught Christopher's attention.
It carried his name.
CHRISTOPHER WHITMORE.
Inside were records beginning when he was six years old.
School reports.
Medical history.
Photographs.
Notes about his behavior.
Christopher stared at Cole.
"Somebody has been watching me since I was a child."
Cole opened another folder.
A note was clipped to the front.
SUBJECT C REMAINS UNAWARE OF PATERNAL DISCREPANCY.
Christopher felt cold.
"What paternal discrepancy?"
Cole did not answer.
There was another file.
Grant Mercer.
Another.
Thomas Whitmore.
Another.
Margaret Mercer.
The final box was smaller.
EMMA WHITMORE.
Christopher opened it.
Only one page sat inside.
A photograph of Emma sleeping.
The date was from three days earlier.
Beneath it was a handwritten message.
She is the last uncontaminated heir.
Christopher looked at Cole.
"I want everyone who touched this place found."
Cole nodded.
Then a phone began ringing.
Not Christopher's.
Not Cole's.
The sound came from inside the wall.
They removed another panel.
A cheap prepaid phone lay on the floor.
It was still ringing.
Cole placed it on speaker.
"Detective Cole."
Silence.
Then a man's natural, undistorted voice answered.
"Christopher is there."
Christopher leaned toward the phone.
"Who are you?"
The man laughed quietly.
May you like
"Ask Margaret who your real father is."
The call ended.
