There were no ladders, no pipes, not even a ledge to creep out on.
He started around the building again, and when he came to the west side of it, he suddenly saw something.
On the building behind The Rockwell, the fire escapes began at the roof, and ran all the way down to the second floor. But the roof of the building next door was a full floor lower than The Rockwell’s rampart, and the fire escape was opposite a spot where The Rockwell’s roof pitched so steeply downward that Ryan didn’t dare try to creep out on it. But a few yards to the left, there was a flat area before you came to the cupola on the corner.
Still, the gap between the buildings looked like it had to be at least ten feet wide.
He’d never make it.
He’d fall down the shaft between the buildings and hit the concrete at the bottom and—
Suddenly the chasm itself seemed to be pulling at him, and a horrible dizziness came over Ryan. He backed away from the precipice until the sick feeling that he was going to fall began to lift.
But then he edged closer again, and took another look at the gap.
Maybe it wasn’t ten feet — maybe it was only eight.
And in school last year, he’d done almost seven and a half feet on a running start. And since the roof of the building next door was lower, he was sure to go further.
Wasn’t he?
He looked down again, then quickly looked away as the dizziness washed over him once again.
But what choice did he have? It was either try it, or give up.
Backing away from the edge, he tried to gauge exactly how many steps it would take to reach the rampart.
If he missed the rampart—
If he was wrong about how wide the chasm was—
If he tripped—
If—
Then, as he kept staring at the chasm, he heard his father’s words once again: ’Keep on going…’
Making up his mind, Ryan sucked his lungs full of air, then began running toward the precipice.
One step. Two steps. Three steps.
His right leg stretched forward, raised high, and his foot found the top of the rampart. He swung his arms back, heaved himself forward, and led off into the air with his left foot.
His right foot left the rampart, and he was suspended in mid-air.
And time seemed to stop, stretching into eternity…
I’m not crazy. I’m not paranoid and I’m not psychotic. It’s all true. It all sounds crazy, and it all sounds paranoid, but it’s not. It’s all true. The words had become a mantra to Caroline, and she’d silently repeated them to herself so many times that they had taken on an almost mystical quality, the words themselves repeated so often that they’d become meaningless, but the rhythm of the chant embedding itself deeper and deeper into her soul, an anchor to keep her sanity from drifting away. It’s all true. It’s all true. It’s all true. Not paranoid. Not paranoid. Not paranoid. Not crazy. Not crazy. Not crazy… But despite the constant repetition of the mantra, she could feel herself slipping closer and closer to the edge of madness. It yawned before her, an immense bottomless chasm that seemed to be drawing her toward it as surely as a great height exercises its deadly magnetism on an acrophobic.
The thing of it was, even with the mantra to cling to, her memories were seeming more and more like figments of her imagination, or something she’d dreamed. How, after all, could they possibly be true?
Tony couldn’t be dead.
Melanie Shackleforth couldn’t be Virginia Estherbrook.
And she couldn’t possibly have seen Tony and all her neighbors gathered around her daughter, draining the very life out of her.
Yet even as she lay strapped in the bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for—
For what?
What was she waiting for?
A doctor? A doctor who would come and make her well?
But she wasn’t sick.
Not sick… not crazy… not paranoid…
But wasn’t that the very definition of paranoia, that you thought all the things you imagined were really true?
What if the doctor — if he really was a doctor — was right? When he’d come in to see her — when? Hours ago? Minutes ago? Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that he’d explained it all.
Explained it all as if he were talking to a five-year-old.
“You’ve had a breakdown,” he told her. “Nothing serious — I suspect you’ll be able to go home in a few days. You just need a good rest, away from your job and your children. Just think of it as time for yourself.”
But it wasn’t a breakdown and she wasn’t crazy and—
And she remembered the look in Detective Oberholzer’s eyes when she’d tried to tell him what was happening. He hadn’t believed her any more than the doctor had.
After the shot — the shot that made her fall asleep so quickly she hadn’t even been able to finish what she was saying to Oberholzer — everything had gotten hazy. When she woke up, her mind had been foggy, and she’d felt too tired even to try to sit up. She’d simply lain there — she didn’t know how long — until slowly the fog began to lift and the memories began to return. At first the memories had seemed like they must have been nightmares she was having trouble shaking off, but as her mind cleared more and more, the images didn’t slip away like the ephemera of dreams.
Instead they became more vivid with each minute that passed, and as they came into clearer and clearer focus, her terror for her children rose up inside her once again, overcoming the power of the drugs they’d given her. That was when she’d begun repeating the mantra. It’s all true… it’s all true… it’s all true…
But if it was all true, and she wasn’t crazy, then she had to find a way to get out. Out of the room, and out of whatever hospital she was in. The only way to do that was to keep her mind clear, and the only way to keep her mind clear was to avoid the drugs. If they gave her another shot—
Caroline refused even to finish the thought in her head, but instantly changed her mind. If she wasn’t crazy, then she could face reality squarely, and make rational decisions about what to do. She reformulated the thought, and this time made herself follow it through to its logical conclusion. If they gave her another shot, she’d lose consciousness again. If she was unconscious, there was nothing she could do to help her children. She would have to wait until the drugs wore off, and the fog cleared, and start all over again. Time would be lost and Laurie would be dead.
Dead.
And she would not let that happen, not as long as she had a breath left in her body.
After that, things had been simple. She concentrated on a single thing at a time. First, she’d searched the room for any means of escape. It had been clear right away that wherever she was, it wasn’t a regular hospital. Aside from the bamboo-patterned wallpaper, which looked far more expensive than anything she’d ever seen in a hospital, there were some other things that didn’t fit either. No clock, anywhere in the room. No television. And no window.
Just a bare room, with an oak door with crystal knobs.
The same kind of crystal knobs as the apartments in The Rockwell!
Was that where she was? In one of the apartments in The Rockwell? But that didn’t make any sense — the way Detective Oberholzer had been acting, it had to be some kind of hospital. The doctor had been with him, and there’d been a nurse. So it had to be a private hospital — one of those fancy places for rich people that don’t look like hospitals.
Certainly, Tony could afford one of those places.
And if it was one of those places, it was probably small, which meant that if she could figure out a way to free herself from the straps that held her to the bed, and the door wasn’t locked, then maybe she could get out.