Free The Siren Project by Stephen Renneberg

mean?”
    “We got a phone call this morning from a
doctor telling us Mr Rayborne has been hospitalized due to a stress related
illness.”
    “Would you have the name of the hospital?”
Mitch asked. “We’re friends, and I’d like to send him a get well message.”
    The woman’s demeanor brightened. “I wrote
it down. I’ll get it for you.” She stepped out of the reception area and
hurried off down the hall.
    “He was definitely coming here this
morning, wasn’t he?” Christa asked.
    “He was so pissed, and scared, he’d be here
even if he had a nervous breakdown and two broken legs.”
    She opened Rayborne’s office door. Finding his
office deserted, she walked in, stopping in the middle of the room as if
listening for something. After a moment she moved toward Rayborne’s desk
cautiously, taking up position behind his chair. She slid her hands across the
leather upholstery slowly, as if studying the quality, but her eyes stared off
into space, deep in thought.
    Mitch stood in the doorway watching her curiously.
“What are you doing?”
    “I don’t think he’ll be coming back to this
job,” she said softly. “Ever.”
    Mitch was struck by how white her face had
become, and the faraway look in her eyes.
    “He’s not suffering from stress,” she
whispered.
    “The chair told you that?” Mitch asked
incredulously.
    Her eyes regained focus. “Did he call you
from here?”
    “I don’t know. Why?”
    The secretary returned with the hospital's
details, giving Christa a suspicious look. “You’re not supposed to be in here,
Miss.”
    “Thanks,” Mitch said as he took the sheet
of paper out of the woman’s hand, before she could change her mind, then
stepped past her and headed for the door. “I’ll be sure to let Mr. Rayborne
know how helpful you were.”
    Christa hurried after Mitch without
offering an excuse to the woman. By the time they were outside the building,
the color had returned to her cheeks.
    As they walked to the car, Mitch asked, “What
was all that about, in Rayborne’s office?”
    “Rayborne isn’t going to be of much help to
us now,” Christa said, brushing his question aside.
    “How do you know?”
    “Call it . . . woman’s intuition.”
    Mitch thought there was a trace of sadness
in her voice, which surprised him, considering how much she detested the greedy
little bureaucrat.
     
    * * * *
     
    Mitch parked in front of a two story
southern style building, surrounded by neatly manicured gardens.  The hospital
had a picturesque view of Chesapeake Bay, and felt more like a convalescent
home for wounded soldiers or the elderly, than a medical facility.
    At the front desk, they were met by a nurse
who directed them toward Rayborne’s ward. They passed through the main
building, out into expansive gardens enclosed on all sides by hospital wards. Narrow
concrete paths crisscrossed the common, which was partially sheltered from the
summer sun by large sycamore trees. Patients sat peacefully on park benches,
and in wheelchairs, all under the watchful supervision of white clothed nurses.
The only sound above a whisper was the chirping of birds in the trees.
    Mitch and Christa followed the path toward
Rayborne’s ward, passing a nurse pushing a wheelchair containing a young boy,
his head bent forward at an odd angle. The nurse stopped to wipe spittle from
the boy’s shirt as he drooled on himself.
    When they were out of earshot, Mitch
whispered. “This is a nut house, not a hospital.”
    “Yes,” she said unsurprised.
    Mitch noticed the vacant looks on the
patients sitting absently under the trees, then as they approached the ward, he
said, “If there are guards outside his door, we keep walking.”
    “If I’m right, Mitch, Rayborne will be
unguarded.”
    “Right about what?”
    “His condition.”
    Mitch looked confused, but she did not
elaborate.
    They entered the ward through white,
freshly painted, double doors. Inside, visitors whispered in hushed tones to
the