Now they were gone, and she drifted to the tall windows. She saw the light of electric torches flickering, moving about the dark landscape. In the distance jouncing headlights marked a pickup truck. That would be Pickens, the maintenance supervisor, cruising carefully, hoping to catch sight of her as she tried for the ivy-grown outer wall.
She drew back from the shadowy window, nodding slowly; Very well. Quite well let them search the trees and shrubs and pan along the wall, searching in all the wrong places...
Castleneau, the night man in gray security guard’s uniform, swung open the wrought-iron gate and the white jag shot through. Gramling slammed the car to an immediate halt and looked up through the open side window as Castleneau bent and peered in.
“Well?” Gramling demanded through gritted teeth.
“Not yet, Doctor. But we’ll find her. She is still inside the grounds.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“As sure as I can be of anything. She simply didn’t have that much time. I had Pickens, his crew, orderlies and aides spreading about the perimeter in everything available on wheels within thirty seconds after the night nursing supervisor notified me. Camilla Jordan will have to grow wings to get out of here.”
“Very well.” Gramling was only slightly mollified. “But every second counts. She is a patient, Castleneau. Don’t forget that for a moment. No telling what she will do. It’s worth your hide if she hurts herself.”
“If we had a few more people...”
“You will have people in sufficient number to take Haven Hill apart,” Gramling said, gunning the engine. “I’ll have day crews, from grass cutters to RN’s reporting in immediately. Nobody gets any sleep until Camilla Jordan is safely back in her room.”
Gramling threw the clutch, and the jag shot toward the white shadows of colonial buildings at the further end of the driveway.
Camilla stood in the soft darkness of the munificent, walnut-paneled office, looking at the deeper shadows of chairs in leather, the imposing desk with its high-backed chair like a throne upon the heights. This was Terrence Gramling’s sanctum, his lair, the place where his mind wormed in its patterns.
She turned her head, hearing the sound of his voice speaking to someone out in the corridor. She eased backward, until her shoulder blades were pressed against the wall close beside the door.
She heard the sound of the doorknob turning in his hand.
And she was quite prepared. Her face was a glint of sweat-slick whiteness. The cones of black erupted in her eyes. Her right hand was lifted, poised, her fingers burning with strength as they gripped the cleaver from the butcher’s block.
The door opened. And in walked the unspeakable monster who had destroyed her child...