Perhaps it wasn't the smartest plan. Approaching the station without a proper sense of how the situation looked inside the building. But then, if the cans of petrol were anything to go by, the situation simply wasn't good. And waiting for Lewis to grow a pair and lead them to action might take just a bit too long.
Blake knew that once he was on the street, Lewis wouldn't dare to do much more than hiss after him and curse. He counted on the fact that Danny at least would adhere to his words. Once he was far enough to know Lewis wouldn't just try and lunge at him, dragging him back towards their hiding spot, Blake dared to look backwards.
He was relieved to see that Cunningham and Jamieson were catching up with him, though they were approaching the building from the side, keeping more to the shadows. Blake couldn't see Danny anywhere, but he caught sight of Lewis vanishing behind the corner, a clear sign that both he and Danny were headed to the back entrance of the station.
Splendid.
Now Blake just needed to figure out how not to get shot as soon as he reached the building.
For all the effort the bad guys seemed to put into whatever scheme they were playing, Blake thought it rather reckless of them not to keep a guard outside. They were either too stupid or too sure of themselves. Both options bore their own dangers.
Blake slowed down his approach to give everyone enough time to get into position. He had his own pistol in hand, unsure if it was a smart or stupid move. He wanted to play this calmly; after all, there were possible hostages inside. Perhaps he could try and simply talk, hopefully coming to some resolution.
Of course, Blake wasn't stupid. He knew he managed to make some folks trigger happy on the most mundane day. There was no telling how much patience a bunch of gangsters might have for him.
No, talking wouldn't help. They didn't have a whole squad waiting to attack... only a bunch of cops, armed mostly with knives. The only thing that worked for them right now was the moment of surprise.
Blake stood in front of the familiar door, pistol in hand, feeling strangely wired. Jamieson and Cunningham had taken up positions by the sides, one holding a small revolver, the other a large hunting knife. They were as prepared as one could get.
Blake took few more seconds to make sure Danny and Lewis had managed to get to the back door as well then did the most mundane thing he could think of. He knocked.
There was no reaction, or not one he could take note of. But he caught a warning look from Cunningham and he took a step to the side. If someone decided to start shooting first and asking questions later, it would be pertinent not to stand in the line of fire.
Cunningham gave a satisfied nod, but there was a questioning look.
'What now?'
Blake shrugged and gave the door three more quick raps from the side. He could've sworn he heard some noise, but couldn't really say the source. Grimacing, he was just about to knock one last time... when he heard sound of shattering glass.
It was muffled, but in the silence of the night still quite audible.
That was it. Danny and Lewis decided to provide a distraction and Blake wasn't about to let it pass.
He nodded at Jamieson, who was the largest and most likely strongest of them all.
"Open it," Blake said and Jamieson stepped in front of the door, then with a well aimed kick sent it flying.
In hindsight, perhaps all they needed was to turn the knob. It was possible the suspects didn't lose time locking it if they were about to set the place on fire. But going with the way of least damage was always more Charlie's job. Seeing as he wasn't there...
The door flew open, smashing against the wall. Blake caught sight of two men straight in his line of vision... one with his back to him, weapon trailed down the hall towards the back entrance. The other man facing Blake with his hands mid-air, as if reaching for the door. On the floor was a third, injured individual.
Blake's sight focused on the man in front of him though. He was in a uniform, his nose bloody, bruises already forming under his eyes. For a second Blake thought it might've been one of the cops... perhaps Kelly?
But it wasn't Kelly; it wasn't anyone Blake had seen before. His eyes took note of the ill fitting arms of the uniform, the blood spatters on the pant legs, which were just a tad short.
Things clicked in his mind and what happened next was a matter of seconds.
He automatically raised his gun at the man in front of him.
Blake could feel Cunningham and Jamieson trying to push past him into the corridor. He could also see the armed man turning on his heels, weapon dangerously moving his way.
He reacted on instinct. He lunged forward, towards the uniformed imposter and bodily slammed him against the wall, rendering him momentarily too dazed to be dangerous. He also shouted a warning to the other.
„Gun!"
Fortunately, Jamieson had his revolver in hand. He wasn't the best shot, but when he pulled the trigger, the bullet found its way.
The armed man also managed to pull the trigger, but his bullet went wide, sailing through the air several inches behind Blake's head. He could feel the speed of it ruffling the hair on the back of his head even as the bullet smashed into the open door. Wood splintered, but no one paid it attention.
Jamieson's bullet hit the suspect in the upper shoulder, the gun flying from his hand.
That didn't make him harmless though.
With an angry shout, the man had rushed forward.
Blake could only watch as Jamieson's revolver bucked once more, but this time the bullet only grazed the opponent. It didn't even slow his approach.
Blake cursed, but couldn't really do much, as the man he was holding by the uniform suddenly buckled under him.
Blake felt a knee hit him dangerously close to his groin, ending up smashing against his thigh with bruising force. The pain and the threat of another kick was enough to put all his attention forward.
He managed to dodge another hit by quick reflexes. Balance was key in this case.
His opponent had just lost it.
Using the moment to his advantage, Blake delivered a hard punch to the already bruised face. He heard a crack of cartilage, followed by a wail of pain. The next second, instead of fighting off an enemy, he had to fight against gravity. Someone had just grabbed at his ankle and pulled.
Blake stumbled over the bent down moaning man, sending them both sprawling on the ground. It would have been comical if not for the fact his own weapon fell from his hands.
Blake fell gracelessly, half landing on top of the whimpering uniformed man, half on the floor. The fall took the wind out of him, but he didn't have time to try and catch it. His gun was gone. And there was a man... sprawled only few feet away from it.
Blake knew this wasn't a hostage.
No hostage would shoot him such a venomous glare. This one looked dangerous... and even half conscious, ready to grab the pistol.
„Not on my bloody life!" Blake grunted as he delivered a swift kick to the already downed man, hitting him in his bandaged leg.
It might not have been very sportsman like, but then, they weren't playing around. This was life and death.
The man let out a gasp and went limp.
Blake grabbed his gun.
Feeling safer by the mere feel of metal in his hand, Blake leant his back against the wall and took in the situation.
During the short scuffle he wasn't really aware of what was going on behind him. Now though he could see that Jamieson was pinning down the now unarmed suspect, who seemed to be sporting a few more bruises. Cunningham was just getting back up to his feet, looking oddly winded and flushed.
Blake shot him a questioning look, hoping he wasn't hit by a bullet. Cunningham noticed and shook his head, blushing a bit more. He rubbed at his sternum.
„Winded," he said a bit breathlessly. „You okay, Doc?"
Blake nodded, his eyes turning back towards the two men he fought with just moments ago. Both started to come around, moaning and moving their limbs.
Blake grunted and got up to his feet, keeping his weapon aimed their way.
„Handcuffs?" he said and Cunningham nodded. He only had one pair available, so did the next best thing. He grabbed an arm of each man and handcuffed them together. Seeing as one of them had a messed up leg, they could hardly just run away. The third one was still pinned down by Jamieson.
So far so good. Blake now looked into the corridor, eyes searching for Danny. Where was he? He and Lewis should have been there, unless something...
Lewis appeared from behind the corner, peeking in first carefully, then dashing forward.
„Everyone alright?" he asked and got several grunts in reply. Blake frowned, taking a step forward.
„Where's Danny?"
Lewis blinked, then grimaced.
"I have no clue. We heard some screaming from the cells and he rushed off that way."
"Why didn't you go with him?" Blake snapped, anger and worry colouring his voice.
"Because I heard gunshots from here!" Lewis snapped back, straightening.
Blake ran a hand over his face in frustration. There was no sense in going off on Lewis. This was hardly a standard situation and he had better things to do. Like help Danny. He was about to head towards the cells to do just that, when another thought occurred to him.
"Peter. Did you find him?"
Lewis blanched.
"No. I... the door to the main office was closed and lights were off so I thought-"
Blake growled.
"Help them out, then check the rest of the building," he nodded towards Cunningham and Jamieson. The men perhaps didn't need much help but he'd rather not have Lewis under foot right now.
Blake heard the three cops starting to argue almost instantly but he hardly cared. He had a decision to make.
Would he go help Danny or check on Peter? He was sure the main office hadn't been dark before their entrance; after all, Danny had seen Peter being held hostage by a masked man. There had to have been some light in there.
Thanks to the gunshots even the hope of keeping their presence a surprise went out the window. So if there was someone else in the building - and Blake was sure there must've been, based on Danny's description, they were already on high alert and most likely ready to do something... stupid.
While Blake's heart commanded him to go after Danny and provide some much needed backup, logically he knew Danny could handle himself. He was a cop, and a good one at that. But he was also Jean's adoptive nephew and Blake's friend.
„Bloody hell!" Blake cursed, hating to be in such situation. Still, he had to make a choice and in the end he knew what Danny would want. Help Peter.
So it was that Blake now stood in front of a door, the glass pane on it showing only utter darkness. Hesitantly, Blake reached out and nudged the door, pushing it softly to open wider, while he stepped to the side. He would prefer not to get shot right on the spot.
Even though the light in the corridor was on, he couldn't see anything past the small kitchen corner and the first two desks. Everything further in was cast in darkness.
Despite that, Blake knew the office was far from empty.
He could hear it.
Breathing.
One slow and measured... the other ragged and shaky.
There was no other sound, until he reached the first desk. Slowly, he turned on the desk lamp.
The darkness lifted and Blake looked towards the source of the sound.
He saw Peter, bound and bleeding, eyes wide with fear. A hand was laid seemingly resting at the base of his neck, where it met the shoulder. A gun was pressed against his head, held by a masked man.
As if that scene wasn't scary enough, the middle of the office had a huge pile of files and papers. Next to them was an opened can of petrol.
Blake swallowed, one hand still on the light switch. The other was holding the gun, but he didn't dare to raise and aim it at the moment, knowing well it would take him much longer to pull the trigger than the masked man.
„Well, seems like we are in a bit of predicament, aren't we?" the man drawled, nudging the nozzle of his gun just a tad harder against Peter's skull. Peter let out a muffled groan, closing his eyes momentarily.
"Indeed, that seems to be the case," Blake said with a resigned sigh. He just hoped that Danny was faring better.
Charlie had a myriad of questions floating through his brain. Pity he couldn't ask any of them.
The silence after Bill's admission was heavier than the silence of the building. Charlie had cleared his throat and they kept on trudging forward. Charlie wondered if he should say something. Perhaps an 'I'm sorry to hear that, Bill,' but the tension of the man leaning against him was like a warning sign.
Charlie could tell Bill was already regretting saying anything and no wonder really. Hobart was the last person Charlie knew who would admit to some weakness. And having a mother in an asylum, for whatever reason, would be regarded as weakness by people around. Though perhaps it explained some aspects of Hobart's character, Charlie was careful not to dwell on it. Still, one question stayed on the forefront of his mind. Under different circumstances, he would have pushed it back, but right now he just couldn't.
So mentally preparing himself for some backlash, Charlie paused in their walk. Hobart didn't see anything strange about it, on the contrary. He seemed to be thankful for the pause, resting his leg.
Charlie took in a bit sharper breath and cleared his throat.
"Got something stuck in your throat Davis?" Bill snapped, turning the torch straight at Charlie's face for a second.
Charlie grunted, the light blinding him momentarily.
"Stop that," he grumbled and pushed Bill's hand with the torch away. Great. Now he had splotches of white in front of his eyes... while the corridors around them were drowned in darkness, all except the doorway to another - thankfully - empty room.
"If you have something on your mind then say it," Bill said through gritted teeth. He obviously expected some kind of ridicule, his whole posture stiffening, practically ready to push away from Charlie's support at any time. Charlie forced back a hiss of discomfort. He had to compensate for the weight redistribution and the twitch in his side returned with vengeance. It was getting a bit bothersome, but Charlie could hardly complain, so he focused on the matter at hand.
He wanted to tell Bill to stop acting like an idiot really, but thought that might just make their common trek all the more uncomfortable.
Instead he did what Bill asked for.
"Was your mum..." he paused, as much to formulate the question right, as to steel himself for Bill's possible out lash. "Was your mum here?"
Bill had stood frozen in place and Charlie wished he could have the torch and see the man's face for once. All he could base the reaction to his question on was the slight shiver running over Hobart's form.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-" Charlie started after the silence was too long. He really didn't want to stick a hornets' nest.
"No."
Charlie blinked. Was that an answer to his question or was that Bill's reaction to him even asking?
"She was at the Lake Mental hospital, not here."
It was clear Bill didn't want to say any more, but then he surprised Charlie.
"Any other questions, detective Davis?"
The title was almost spat out and Charlie cringed inwardly. Though he knew this was probably his only chance to learn something personal about Bill Hobart in the close future, if ever.
"Did... did she get better?"
For a very long moment, it felt as if the man leaning heavily on his shoulder was made of solid, unmoving rock. Charlie forced back the urge to pinch him or nudge him in order to get a reaction. The torch in Bill's hand blinked and that seemed to do the trick however.
"No. She never did," Bill spoke, his voice scratchy and deep, with a farewell quality to it. It was heavy and it carried the pain of a lifetime and Charlie regretted ever speaking up.
"I'm s-" he started, but Bill's fingers painfully dug into his shoulder.
"I swear Davis, if you start apologizing, I will kick your ass, broken leg or not!" Bill snapped and Charlie believed him.
"Okay. I think... we should get moving," he said, trying for as neutral tone as possible.
Bill grunted something under his breath but seemed to agree.
"This stays between us, is that clear?" He spoke as they resumed their walk and Charlie almost snorted. Of course. Who would he go around telling a sob story about Bill Hobart? Hardly anyone would believe him, not to mention...
"I'm not that kind of man," he said and the slight offense in his voice must've been clear enough. Bill relaxed marginally.
Good. Now they could just keep trying to survive this stupid mess and get back to the surface as soon as possible. Charlie was becoming rather tired of lugging Bill's weight around, not to mention the constant need to be vigilant. He wanted nothing more than to crash into the kitchen chair, have some of Jean's wonderful dinner and then go to bed. Possibly sleep through the next day, screw the plans of going pubbing with Danny. He was sure the man would understand his need for a lie in after several hours spent in Hobart's cheerful company.
The only trouble was... they were barely in the middle of their road. They went past the corner and Charlie knew the door they were approaching led to the main hall of the underground level. At least he hoped the layout of the underground level copied the upstairs. Although... if there was some shortcut, he would gladly take it.
Unfortunately, it seemed like there will be no shortcuts at all. The layout was different, though that hardly meant it was better. Perhaps a bit more... problematic.
Instead of a huge main hall that was closed off by a large room at the farther end, Charlie and Bill had basically ended up on a slightly larger corridor that offered a way to the left and straight ahead. The rest were just... walls.
Charlie blinked as both he and Bill stood in place, taken aback. Bill's hand trembled slightly as he was pointing the torch to the corridor on the left. It wasn't that deep and Charlie realized it ended abruptly just where the elevator shaft was located one floor up. He held his breath until the light revealed that indeed, there was a dark hole on the left, guarded by flimsy looking bars. At least Charlie assumed they were flimsy, it was hard to tell from their position. Exactly opposite the elevator shaft there was the only other door on the whole side corridor.
"You want to... check that out?" Charlie asked. In truth, he would rather not enter any more rooms if he could help it. If one ignored the normal horrors of such setting, there was still the knowledge that there was someone actually moving around the premises that might've not had their best intentions at heart. Every closed door or dark corner (and hell, the whole building was one dark corner) presented the danger of some lunatic popping out.
If someone had asked Charlie that would've been the answer he'd give as to why he was clutching just a bit harder at Bill's equally tense form. Or why he was so reluctant to move ahead, despite the fact the door might've led to a shortcut taking them straight through to the other side of the building and the staircase.
If Charlie was honest however, at least with himself, the fear he was feeling was totally illogical. It was the fear most humans felt when alone in the dark in a strange place. The thing that caused the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention, the feeling of cold fingertips crawling up his spine, the urge to run away screaming or freeze up in place, clench his eyes shut and just pray that the monsters would go away. It was irrational, it was primal. But most of all, it was real and his body was reacting accordingly.
Charlie's breathing had sped up a bit, even as the torch made a sweep of the corridor, showing more dilapidated walls, signs of human destruction and cobwebs. Lots of cobwebs hanging above their heads, in the corners... over doorways. Charlie gritted his teeth a bit too hard. It felt as if he managed to grind them down straight to the nerves, as pain shot through his jaw. His headache thumped louder and he had to force his jaw to relax.
"Problem, Davis?" Bill asked and it was clear he was trying to appear strong and unbothered by their setting, but he couldn't hide the hitch in his voice or the slight tremble of the hand holding the torch.
Charlie still felt a bit safer hearing the man's voice.
"No. Just... taking a breather," he muttered, taking the moment to actually run a hand over his aching ribs. The pain wasn't lessening and he wondered how much longer he would be able to support Bill's form before letting on just how much discomfort it was causing him.
Well, perhaps a bit farther, Charlie thought as Bill reacted with a snort.
"And here I thought they would harden you up a bit at bonehead," Bill added offhandedly.
Charlie felt himself bristle.
"What the hell is your problem, Hobart?" he snapped. While he was usually a very patient man, hell, he had to be to work with Blake, even he had his limits. It was over a month from his return from Bonehead and he thought that Bill might've gotten used to that. He might've ignored his behaviour for a month longer, but right now he was stuck in a place he had no business of being at, after several long shifts. He was hungry, he was tired and he was hurt. On top of that, he was dragging Bill around, because the jackass was too proud to sit his ass down in a wheelchair. Charlie's tolerance was about gone.
"My current problem is a broken leg," Hobart snapped back, irritated.
Charlie shook his head, ignoring how it made the place spin momentarily.
"You know bloody well what I mean! You didn't stop harassing me about bonehead since my return. So... what the hell... is your bloody... problem?!" Charlie repeated, forcing the last few words through clenched teeth. Taking deep breaths and shouting wasn't exactly comfortable with bruised ribs.
"You are my problem, detective!" Bill shouted back, pulling back from Charlie's support angrily, while pointing the light straight at his face.
Charlie squinted, turning away.
"What?" He didn't understand. Why would him being a detective piss Bill off so much?
"You... you just... sauntered in, made pals with one of the biggest pains in the ass and been a goody boy so Lawson wouldn't kick your ass back to Melbourne!" Bill spluttered. It hardly made much sense to Charlie.
"That was... years ago!" he protested, voice full of disbelief.
"Yeah... years ago! I had the same fucking rank years ago I have now! No thanks to all the crap you and Blake pulled!"
Charlie shook his head. Was Bill delusional? He was hardly the one stirring up trouble in Ballarat and Blake... well. That shouldn't reflect badly on Bill, should it?
Of course there was also his alignment with Munro which might've caused some trouble, but honestly, Charlie thought most of Bill's problems and lack of rank climbing was caused by Bill's own temper. No one wanted a hot head in the lead of the station.
All those things considered though...
"If you want to be a detective so much, why in bloody hell didn't you just... take the tests?" Charlie said in disbelief.
That was probably the wrong thing to say.
Charlie couldn't really see Bill's figure, because the man was hidden behind the light. But he could hear the angry breathing, or the smash of a fist against the wall.
Charlie cringed but felt relief upon the fact Bill didn't smash the torch.
"You think I didn't try?" came the low answer.
All Charlie could say to that was "Oh." Because everyone knew that you had only one chance at bonehead. If you failed the rigorous testing, that was it. You just didn't get a second chance.
Charlie knew how stressful that was... hell, he barely slept in those last two weeks, preparing himself for every possible question and situation. He saw the people around him getting ready for the exams. He saw several people flop out weeks earlier, the pressure being too much.
Honestly, Charlie felt he might've done the same at few points, if not for his experiences in Ballarat. After all... being stuck between Munro and Blake for several months while trying to keep his stance unclear for all but Lawson taught him a lot. Most of all to keep handle on the stress and to persevere.
He wasn't sure what part had Bill failed at, though he had a pretty good idea. There was nothing to do about it now however. And throwing tantrums in the middle of a crisis was just one more thing to beware of.
Charlie sighed then cringed, leaning over a bit. Damn, but all this excitement was doing squat for the pain. He noted that Bill had at least turned the light a bit off to the side so it now wasn't shining straight into his face. Though perhaps it was just so Bill could nurse his hand.
Charlie took a moment to get his breathing and temper under control.
"Look Bill-"
"Drop it," came from Bill, but Charlie shook his head.
"No. Not unless you do."
There was a momentary silence, filled only with the sound of their breathing. Charlie's slow and measured one, to Bill's angry hissing.
"Did you really want to be a detective?" Charlie asked out of the blue.
"What?" Bill startled.
"You heard me. Did you want to be a detective? Because let me tell you... the paperwork is nothing to envy."
Silence.
Then a snort.
"You're an idiot, detective," Bill said but Charlie heard that the anger and resentment was gone. Or well, if not gone, then at least momentarily subdued. And perhaps it would resurface again, but he thought solving that issue would have to wait. Preferably until the time where they could sit down with a cold beer and talk it out like adults. Somewhere with more... light and safety.
"Well, idiot or not, right now I'm your only way out. Unless you fancy hobbling all the way to the staircase alone."
There was a sigh, then the sound of shuffling. Charlie reached out and resumed his position as Bill's crutch.
"I still think you suck, Davis," Bill uttered tiredly.
Charlie shrugged with a grunt.
"Goes both ways. Speaking of ways... which one?"
Bill turned the torch to the dead end corridor with the elevator shaft in front of them, then to the long corridor obviously copying the layout from above. He sighed.
"I guess we should check this out..."
Charlie nodded.
He didn't want to, he was pretty sure the dead end was just that... but he knew they must. If there was even a small chance of shortening their journey... they had to take it.
With a heavy heart and even heavier weight on his shoulders, Charlie headed towards the lonely door across the elevator shaft, Bill his somehow reluctant companion.
Lawson was wrong. He realized that quite early on, as he was passing through the daunting corridor filled with statues. Having the windows flanking the left wall wasn't all that reassuring. While yes, a bit of moonlight could be helpful in case his torch decided to give up the fight, it wouldn't do more than help him not to crash into a bench or some piece of 'art'. While he was sure that Lucien would appreciate the statues and find his fear of the things perhaps amusing, Lawson didn't have that luxury. He was never appreciative of the finer arts and statues mostly left him cold.
Of course that was when he was walking through a well lit museum with others for company. Really... who thought it was a good idea to leave these slabs of stone in human forms in a hallway of a blasted insane asylum? As if the poor souls didn't have enough to deal with.
Lawson tried to force himself not to look at them, especially as he saw one that looked too much like a child. Was that an actual knitted hat on the statues head? Lawson grunted, feeling cold and twitchy despite the stifling, musty heat.
The windows... they were dusty. No, not dusty, more like grimy. They barely let anything past, except for shadows. Lawson occasionally caught sight of a tree and more blasted statues.
Gritting his teeth, Lawson decided the faster he got to the staircase the better. It was useless to make himself more paranoid by looking around. The torch at least provided him with enough light to know that there was no imminent danger lying ahead. He would just have to ignore the chills running down his spine and keep going.
Few minutes later Lawson wished the statues were his only problem. It would have been so much easier to deal with his own fear than with the reality of the situation.
The doorway to what he expected was the staircase was... gone.
Not just locked or blocked by debris, no. Where there was supposed to be a door, there was only a wall of bricks and mortar. No paint, no wallpaper. It was clear that there used to be a doorway, just as clear that someone had decided to wall it up.
Lawson stood there, staring for a good whole minute.
Bloody hell.
What now?
He was of half a mind to start smashing the wall with his cane but knew that would be stupid and useless. The mortar was dry... the wall was dusty like most of this place. It wasn't done recently and that deserved a question of why. Why would someone have it walled up?
The only thing that came to his mind was safety issues. If the other staircase was in a bad shape or had collapsed earlier, it was logical that someone who was taking care of the building in the past had at least taken some precaution to stop curious kids from falling to their death. Pity the bastard didn't do the same with the other staircase. That would have saved Lawson and both his men plenty of headaches and possibly a broken leg as well.
However, this posed a rather big problem right now. How was he supposed to help Bill and Charlie? He was hoping the staircase was similarly treated one floor down as well. The thought of Charlie and Bill somehow managing to get up the stairs with Bill's broken leg, only to find it walled up made him sick to his stomach. Not to mention how big of a risk it was really.
Lawson wished he could let the men below know that the way out didn't lead through there. He also wished to know where to turn now. If the only way down was blocked, well. He needed to return to the town and bring help. Perhaps with the help of few men they could clear up the collapsed staircase enough to use the rope and get Charlie and Bill up... what he needed right now was to get to the town.
Lawson once again cursed the bastard that slashed their tires. Or the fact it was Charlie who was trapped down below. If it had been Lawson and Bill, Charlie could've reached the town within few hours, he was sure. Maybe sooner if he managed to flag down a car halfway there.
But Lawson, with his bum leg? It would take him ages. Who knew what could happen in all that time?
Though he was pretty sure that whatever was going on at the station, Lucien and Parks would figure it out sooner rather than later. After all, they were both noisy bastards and both had been expecting them for dinner. There was no way Blake would wave off their sudden vanishing.
No, help would arrive sooner or later and he refused to worry about what was happening at the station, if anything. Perhaps he could still use the car... as long as it started up, Lawson might get a few miles out of it even on bare rims. Hopefully, he could even make it to one of the main roads and hitch a ride...
Nodding, Lawson turned on his heels. He wished he could communicate to Charlie and Bill his plan, to tell them to hold on and wait, that help was coming, but he had no idea how and standing around was just a loss of time. He trusted that his men would understand the situation and hang on, perhaps even find another way out.
Determined to not make them wait any longer than necessary, Lawson resumed a moderately brisk walk back towards the main hall. He was in the middle of the corridor when his torch turned off.
"Bugger! Not now!" Lawson called out, the chilling fear of being left in total darkness in the company of silent statues and crawling spiders sending his heart into blind panic. He stopped in place, smacking the torch, turning it on and off, shaking it. It took a few shakes but finally the last thump worked. The light turned on and Lawson let out a shaky breath, his heart still beating too fast.
"Thank lord," he mumbled, his hands trembling as he made a quick turn to check that no one had suddenly managed to sneak up behind him.
He paused at one of the statues, frowning at it. Was it always looking his way? And where was the hat from the kid statue's head?
Lawson swallowed, but then saw the hat had just fallen down a bit, most likely as he was passing by.
He cursed and reached up to brush the sweat off his brow. He turned back to resume his walk towards the main hall, when the torch landed on one of the windows.
His heart stopped.
The blood in his veins turned to ice.
There, on the glass, was a pale handprint.
Lawson blinked.
Not a handprint.
A bloody hand... and face! Pressed against the glass!
For a second he thought he was having a heart attack. All the scary stories he had read as a child, all the camp fire stories they had shared during warm spring nights came back with vengeance.
For a moment, he was five years old again, listening wide eyed to his older cousin regaling him and several other kids with the tale of a headless rider killing off campers that didn't put out their camp fires properly. He had nightmares about it for the next few years and sneaked out several times during the night to check that the fire was truly out and the headless rider won't have a reason to kill them all.
The face on the glass moved, the eyes blinking. The hand pulled back and suddenly Lawson was looking at an empty space.
That shook him out of his stupor.
This was no bloody ghost.
Ghosts didn't leave dirty handprints on the glass.
Ghosts also didn't slash tires or break police radios.
The fear he felt just a second ago turned into rage.
If there was one thing Lawson hated more than anything, it was feeling scared.
With a curse, he let the heavy rope slip from his shoulders and lunged towards the window.
The darn thing couldn't be opened. There was no latch. Of course, it made sense... no one wanted the patients to just crawl out of a window obviously. With a growl, Lawson took a step back and used his cane to smash the window open.
It took him a few whacks, but the glass finally broke. He used the cane to get rid of the sharp glass shards sticking out. Without a second thought, Lawson heaved himself through the windowsill and landed on the hard ground. His leg gave a loud protest, but he ignored it. With a deep breath, he swished his torch around, trying to catch sight of movement.
"Police! Come out!" Lawson called out, hoping to startle the culprit.
Nothing.
No movement, no sound, except for the crickets and the slight breeze swishing through the bushes and trees.
Lawson gritted his teeth and started walking the perimeter. The inner yard was equally large, framed from three sides by the building, the fourth side led out into what looked like an unkempt forest. His eyes caught movement in front of him, but it was far ahead and there was nothing he could do but shout another warning. He had no weapon, not even a bloody rock he could throw at the culprit. All he could do was speed up his limping gait and hope the dark figure would trip and not get up until he reached it.
Of course, he wasn't that lucky. His leg was throbbing and it was him who almost tripped and fell to the ground. He had to pause, cursing his bum leg and the uneven terrain. He was thankful that at least the chance of disturbing a snake in the cooling night was smaller. But that was a small consolation when there were so many more animals or traps that could be lurking in the too high, unkempt grass. His torch bobbed as Lawson resumed his pursuit, even though he already knew it was in vain. He saw the figure take a swift turn and head towards the forest just as Lawson reached the corner of the east wing.
'Bloody bastard!' Lawson thought but he didn't follow. However much he wanted to catch the man, he realized it would be futile. He didn't know the terrain, or even if the man was alone. He could have been lured into another trap, just like his men and what then? They would be indeed trapped without a hope for rescue for the foreseeable future.
No, he had to swallow his rage and pride and start thinking like a leader. First and foremost, he had to help Bill and Charlie. That meant getting outside help.
With a growl and feeling as if he was failing his job, Lawson turned the opposite way of where the suspect fled. He went right, copying the layout of the building so that it would take him back to the front entrance and the cars.
He thought earlier that being outside would be preferable to the inside... and it was true, to a certain degree. The fresh air felt like a balm on his face after the dinky smell of the hallways. Yet the open space didn't provide any more feeling of safety, quite the contrary. The swishing of leaves in the breeze, the occasional movement in the bushes, it all made his skin crawl. Was he being followed?
Lawson kept turning around, making sure no one was lurking up behind him. He felt paranoid but knew there was a reason and his instincts kept screaming at him to keep his back to the building instead of the forest.
He actually let out a sigh of relief as he reached the corner of the east wing and saw their cars parked in the front. There was a thought that the cars wouldn't be there anymore and he was glad that was just his mind acting up and not reality. Still, the closer he got to the cars, the slower his steps were.
His stomach was churning uncomfortably.
He felt like he was abandoning Charlie and Bill.
Logically, he knew he was going for help, but logic also said that he was leaving them behind with an unknown threat, hurt and without explanation.
Lawson reached Hobart's car and leaned against the door, taking a second to catch his breath and sort his thoughts before making his final decision.
"Blasted place!" he cursed, smashing a hand against the door.
He was torn and he knew he shouldn't be. It was a simple decision, yet he couldn't make it.
He felt like he was at the end of his rope... literally. He couldn't just leave.
Lawson took in a deep breath then looked back at the eerie building towering above him.
Somewhere in the depths of it, his men were trying to find an exit, and he was leaving them at the end of their ropes too.
Lawson blinked.
The rope.
Of course.
He cursed.
There was still one way they could try. As long as he got the rope... which he had discarded in the middle of the east wing. Lawson grimaced. There was no other option though... he had to try. With a rush of new determination, Lawson headed back towards the asylum. He wasn't leaving without his men, come hell or high water.