Jack was led into the director's office. The man behind the desk introduced himself as Director Harlan Powell.
"What are you doing, Warren?" Why are you holding a Torchwood agent at gunpoint? You'd better have a very good explanation!" Powell inquired, addressing the uniformed man with his dog and motioning for Jack to sit down.
"I found him snooping around the back entrance, Director Powell. He was armed," said the tall and wiry man named Warren and handed over Jack's Webley. "His behaviour was very suspicious, and I assumed you wanted to know about it."
Jack sat down on the offered chair and glanced around the room. Powell sat behind an old wooden desk in front of a large window with a commanding view of the large driveway in front of the house and the ascending treeline. On the wall next to the desk hung an old oil painting of a man with a white beard, wearing a tuxedo, sitting on a cushioned chair, with a walking stick in his hand.
"That's Archibald Westwood, the founder of this fine institute," Powell explained when he noticed Jack's interest.
The proud stature of the man in the picture was a stark contrast to the current director. Director Powell had a receding hairline and an unremarkable demeanour that perfectly matched his bland, grey suit. He looked more like an ordinary office worker than the head of an institution overseeing several employees and patients.
The rest of the space was filled with filing cabinets and bookcases next to a sitting area that included an armchair and two rather uncomfortable-looking cocktail sofas. Aside from the phone, the only technological device was a mechanical typewriter. The entire space screamed the 1950s. Jack had no idea what had happened, but there was no doubt that he had travelled back in time.
"So, Mr Harkness, am I right?" Powell inquired, bringing Jack's attention back to the desk. He'd only met the agent once or twice and had never spoken to him, but his appearance alone left an indelible impression on anyone who met him, no matter how briefly.
"Yes, sir. I'm looking into a missing persons case. Suspicious things were going on in the woods this afternoon, and then I ended up here," Jack explained to the man who obviously recognised him. On purpose, he remained vague. There was no need to get into specifics until he understood what was happening.
"I find that very difficult to believe, Mr Harkness," Powell expressed scepticism. "We are very proud of our ties with Torchwood, and it is very unusual for them to send agents to the estate, poking around unannounced."
Before Jack could respond, Powell removed the phone handle from its hook and began dialling. The connection was established after a few rings.
"Harlan Powell from Westwood here; thank you for taking my call," the director chirped. "I know our next appointment isn't until Thursday, but we picked up a man who was loitering around our facility. It was one of your agents, a Mr Jack Harkness. I just wanted to make sure you were aware of what he was doing."
He listened to whoever was on the other end of the line while keeping a wary eye on Jack.
"Thank you, ma'am, very kind of you. See you soon," he said before hanging up the phone. "Looks like Torchwood didn't know you were here," he said to Jack. "And they are eager to speak with you. Can I offer you a cup of tea, while we wait?"
"That would be lovely, thank you," Jack replied.
He wondered which Torchwood incarnation he was about to meet. Chances were slim that it would be Gwen Cooper, and they would have a good laugh.
A while later, two Torchwood Agents strode into Director Powell's office like they owned the place.
"Jack Harkness, it really is you," the blonde woman wearing a business dress and a short-brimmed hat said with surprise in her voice. The taller man next to her wore a dark suit and slicked-back hair. He cast a glance out the window before returning his gaze to him.
"Good to see you, Jack," he said, reaching out to greet him.
"Constance Pritchard and Griffith White," Jack stated drily. "Haven't seen you in a while."
He'd been working with them for Torchwood back in the 1950s.
"Funny thing, I see you twice right now," Griffith White said, looking out the window again.
Jack furrowed his brow. He remembered driving out here a few times. This was probably one of these days, and he was waiting outside for them to return to the car.
Director Powell scowled at Jack, who stared back before addressing the Torchwood agents. "Ms Pritchard, Mr White, I appreciate you coming on such short notice. You said you didn't send him here?"
"No, we didn't," Constance shook her head. "Your guard did an excellent job bringing him in."
"When did you came from," Griffith said bluntly, not interested in exchanging more pleasantries.
Jack looked around but said nothing.
"Thank you very much, Warren; you are no longer required," Constance said as she excused the security guard to gain more privacy.
Constance reassuringly motioned to Jack after the guard had left. "You can speak freely now; Director Powell has signed the Official Secrets Act. He is obligated to remain silent about everything we discuss. Please, then, enlighten us. When did you come from?"
Jack looked at Constance, wondering what they were up to. While he had driven them to Westwood a couple of times, they'd never told him about their business at the hospital.
"I'm from 2008, and Torchwood is working on a case involving missing people in the area. I was looking for clues in the woods. What year is this?" he asked in return.
"This is 1958: looks like you travelled 50 years into the past," Griffith revealed.
"Dammit," Jack cursed.
Whatever they had been searching for, he'd walked right into it. He should have been more cautious. Where was Ianto? Was he still in 2008, or caught up in the anomaly too?
"You have to help me find a way back," Jack implored. "I can't get stuck here. Is there anyone else who appeared out of nowhere like me? I have to take them back as well."
"The fabric of time around the asylum is still fractured," Griffith mused, ignoring Jack's comment. "I wonder how long it will take until the distortion settles completely? Bryanna hasn't been up to her task lately. She's becoming sloppy."
"Bryanna is doing an excellent job, as always. Things like this just happen," Constance said dismissively. "The cracks are minor. And as it looks like it creates intriguing new opportunities."
Jack looked at them, puzzled. What were they talking about?
Director Powell had been a curious listener, but now he spoke up.
"Westwood has been a trusted partner of Torchwood for years; we can promise to keep our end of the bargain. So my only question is, what shall we do with our guest?"
"That is a good question, Director," Constance said. She walked over to where Jack was sitting and leaned in close. "What are we going to do with you?" she murmured, trailing her finger along his jawline.
The tone of her voice alarmed Jack, and he realised he had missed something crucial during their conversation. A split second later, he felt a pinprick in his neck, and his consciousness slipped away immediately. Griffith caught him as he slipped from the chair and laid him down on the floor.
"Sorry Jack, but your presence complicates things unnecessarily. We can't let you snoop around here," he said to the unconscious body. Then he straightened up and addressed Constance, "How do we get rid of someone who can't die?"