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We head north on the 110 toward Pasadena. Pull off on a side road and head onto a winding private road not far from Huntington Hospital. It’s one of those funny places you find in even the poshest towns. Sort of a secret street backstage behind the world. Not quite an industrial district, but where deliveries and the help arrive for all the shiny places you see on the street.
We pull into a parking lot beside what looks like a two-story office building. Poured concrete exterior. Big mirrored windows. There’s no name on the front. Not even an address. It looks like just the kind of discreet place you’d want to store crazy Aunt Sadie when the attic got full.
Our three vans pull up in a line. Wells gets out first in a clear plastic raincoat.
“You too,” he says to me. “But keep your mouth shut. You’re here to observe.”
We splash through the rain to the hospital’s front door under a concrete overhang. The guy waiting for us doesn’t look like the head of a hospital. More like an accountant who found out that his boss has been embezzling money and investing it in porn and nuclear weapons. His coat and shoes are expensive, but it doesn’t look like he’s combed his hair since Halloween.
“You’re the people?” he says when he sees us.
“We are indeed,” says Wells. “I’m Marshal Larson Wells and this is one of my associates.” He doesn’t introduce me. “You just leave everything to us from here on out.”
The guy looks so relieved I think he’s going to cry. Even through his suit, his raincoat, and the rain I can smell his fear sweat.
“I’m Huston Aldridge. The head of the facility. I don’t have to go back inside with you, do I? I don’t want to go back in there,” he says.
“No, sir. You don’t.”
Aldridge nods.
“The board has already decided to close the hospital. There’s no earthly way to make it habitable again.”
“Is your staff out of the building?”
“Staff? What staff? There are the ones on holiday. The rest are in there. No. There’s no one alive inside, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” says Wells with all the sincerity of a Hummer salesman. He wants to ditch this sniveling civilian and get his mitts on the place.
I say, “What kind of security does the place have?”
Wells gives me a look, but lets the question pass.
“Ample. I thought. Not many people in the city know it, but years ago this was a holding facility for prisoners on their way to or from county jail. We kept some of the old gates and cells in place.”
“Sounds homey.”
Wells steps in front of me.
“Do you know how many people are inside?”
“It was a holiday weekend, so, thankfully, the number of staff was low. Some patients who could went home with their families for Christmas. The last count I’m aware of was sixty-six patients plus twenty-four staff.”
Wells nods, keeping up the good-cop routine.
“Right. Any unusual incidents lately? Hirings? Firings?”
“Magic?” I say. “Evidence of a haunting?”
“What?” says Aldridge.
Wells says, “What my associate means is did anyone, patients or staff, see anything unusual, anything they couldn’t explain?”
“Nothing that I know about. It’s usually quiet this time of year. Visits are down. People have other things on their mind.”
“Do we need keys to get around inside?”
Aldridge shakes his head.
