4

He wound up in the Rathburg Public Library. A computer search had yielded nothing—the Creighton Institute did not have a Web site and other hits yielded nothing useful. So he'd started searching through the microfilm files of the Rathburg-on-Hudson Review and again came up empty. Lots of passing mentions, but no background. Maybe a local paper was the wrong place to look. It seemed to take for granted that its readers knew all about Creighton.

He gathered up the microfilm rolls and returned them to the desk.

"Find what you need?" said the withered, blue-haired lady behind the counter.

"No, unfortunately."

He studied her. She had a Miss Hathaway voice, rickety limbs, a slightly frayed dark blue skirt and jacket with a white silk scarf loosely tied around her neck—to hide the wrinkles? A cloud of gardenia perfume enveloped her. She looked old enough to have dated Ichabod Crane. If she'd spent most of her days around here…

"Are you a native of this area?"

"Born and bred."

"Then maybe you can help me. I'm doing some research on the Creighton Institute but I can't seem to find much on it."

"I'm not surprised. There's not been much written about it." She raised a gnarled finger and tapped her right temple. "But there's a lot stored right up here."

"Would )uu care lo share some of that? I'd be willing to compensate you for your time."

She frowned. "Pay me for letting me ramble on about the old days? Don't be silly."

"Well then, why don't we find someplace where we can sit and have some coffee. I'll buy."

She winked. "Make that a Manhattan and you've got yourself a deal."

This lady was all right.

"Deal. When do you get off?"

"Any time I want. I'm a volunteer." She turned toward a small office behind the counter. "Claire, watch the front desk. I have to go out."

Within seconds she'd shrugged into a long cloth coat and was heading for the door.

"Time's a-wasting and I've only got so much of it left. Let's go."

Jack followed her outside. The sky had gone from clear blue to overcast while his nose had been stuck in the microfilm viewer.

She stopped at the foot of the front steps and thrust out her hand.

"I'm Cilia Groot, by the way."

Jack shook her frail hand. "And I'm Jack." He looked up and down the street and spotted a pub sign hanging over the sidewalk. "What about that place?"

"Van Dyck's? I've been in there once or twice. I suppose it will do."

As they started toward the pub Jack had to ask: "Do you have a dog?"

She looked at him with concern, then down at her coat. "Why? Do I have hair—?"

"No, just curious."

"What an odd question. No, no dog. Three cats though."

Good. Ladies with dogs had been popping up in his life for the past year or so. They all seemed to know more about his life than anyone should. He'd seen one of them right after the accident, but none since. He wouldn't mind sitting down with one—he had endless questions—but he didn't like them sneaking up on him.

He held the door to Van Dyck's and followed her in. Her arrival was greeted by calls of "Hi, Cilia" from the half dozen or so men around the bar.

She waved, then turned to Jack and said, "Let's take that table by the window where we can have some peace."

Fine with Jack.

He helped her out of her coat and they were just seating themselves on opposite sides of the table when the bartender arrived carrying a straight-up Manhattan with two cherries. He placed it before Cilia with a flourish.

"There you go, my dear."

'Thank you, Faas."

Jack smiled. Only been here once or twice, ay?

Faas—was that a first or last name?—turned to Jack. "And what can I get you, sir?"

Jack asked what was on tap and Faas recited a depressing list of Buds and Michelobs and various lights that ended on an up note with the Holland Holy Trinity: Heineken, Grolsch, and Amstel. Jack took a pint of Grolsch.

"So, what can you tell me about the Creighton Institute?"

She took a sip of her drink and closed her eyes. "Nothing so perfect as a perfect Manhattan." Then she looked at Jack. "It didn't start out as an institute of any sort. The original building, with its French chateau design, marble terraces, and classical revival gardens, was built in 1897 by financier Horace Creighton as a summer cottage."

"Cottage?"

"Yes. The Creightons lived there only during the summer months when it was too hot in the city. He said that he chose Rathburg rather than Newport because he liked the climate better and it was more convenient to his business in New York, but I suspect he avoided Newport so as not to have to compete with the Vanderbilts and Astors. Here he could be quite literally king of the hill."

"But I take it there are no more Creightons there now."

"Correct. He lost everything in the stock market crash of twenty-nine. The state government took it over for back taxes and it remained abandoned and boarded up for years. That didn't stop children—yours truly was one of them—from breaking in and using it as a playground. After the war the federal government took it over and turned it into the Creighton Hospital for Disabled Veterans."

"And that's when it was expanded, I take it?"

"Correct." She made a face. "Have you seen those wings they added? Abominations! What an awful, terrible, wretched thing to do to such a grand old house."

She tossed off the rest of her Manhattan and held up her empty glass. In less than a minute Faas appeared with a full replacement. He pointed to Jack's half-finished pint. Jack shook his head.

"When did it become a booby hatch?"

Her brief glare told Jack what he'd hoped to learn from the remark: The locals weren't happy with having an institute for the criminally insane in town.

"In nineteen-eighty-one it passed from the Veterans Administration to another federal entity. That was when it was renamed the Creighton Institute."

Jack finished it for her: "—for the Criminally Insane."

"That was never an official designation," she huffed. "I don't know how that got about, but it's not accurate."

"Okay. But they do house nutcases there, correct?"

"It's a mental research institute. There's never been a lick of trouble since its conversion, not a single incident. The barbed wire is an eyesore, yes, but they mind their business, pay their taxes, and some of the staff have joined the community and become active in local affairs."

"Like Doctor Aaron Levy?"

Her eyebrows lifted. "If you know him, why do you need me for this information. He certainly knows more than I do."

"I know o/him. We'll be having a meeting in the near future, and I wanted to have some background on the place before then."

"Yes, well, he's a nice man, devoted husband and father, and gives generously to local causes, especially the library."

"But as a doctor at the institute, that makes him an employee of the federal government. What branch? Department of Entropy?"

Cilia gave him a tolerant smile. "No one knows. Lord knows I've tried to find out—"

"Why would you want to know?"

"Because someone wants to keep it secret." She smiled. "Why else?"

"Why else indeed?" Jack liked this old biddy. "So no one knows who's running the show? Don't people find that suspicious?"

"Some of us do. I'm one of them. I've been watching and listening and snooping for years, and you know what I think?" She leaned across the table and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Department of Defense."

"But what would the Depart—?"

She held up a finger. "You didn't hear it here. And I'll say no more. But maybe when you meet with Doctor Levy you can wheedle it out of him."

He'd try.

"Odd that that particular branch of the government in question would be funding a mental institution, don't you think?"