Mad Dogs by James Grady Read Free Book Online

Clumped down the stairs. Shoes crunched on the gritty parking lot.
    Then the door closed, and he couldn’t see anything, hear anything, scream anything in that Maine night parking lot, in a blue bus, under a blanket.

10
    Standing beside the blue bus, I pointed Dr. F’s keys at the herd of empty cars, thumbed a black plastic button.
    Bweep-boop!
    Headlights flashed on a four door silver Ford.
    â€œWild!” said Russell.
    â€œSaw that in a TV commercial,” I confessed.
    Vision hit me. An epiphany so pure and clear I was breathless.
    Dr. F stuck to Zane like a drunk sophomore being held up by his Prom date.
    â€œThey know,” said Zane. “By now, for sure, the Keepers know.”
    â€œHow much?” said Hailey.
    â€œThat we’re missing,” I said. “They might still think we’re hiding or trapped on the grounds. That’s logical. That’s where they’re looking.”
    â€œBut not for long,” she said.
    â€œAnd Dr. F is getting heavy,” said Zane. “But if the Keepers don’t know proof certain that he’s dead, they’ll have to deal with more contingencies.”
    â€œDibs on driving!” said Russell.
    â€œThat’s mine!” Zane’s outburst shook the corpse he held. “It’s been 30 years!”
    Their argument brought panic to Eric’s face.
    Hailey held out a calming hand: “It’s OK, Eric. Don’t worry. I’m driving.”
    She glared at Zane.
    Who frowned at her, flicked his eyes to Russell.
    Who watched them both with the intensity of a base stealer dancing on second.
    Zane blinked.
    Hailey ran towards the silver Ford, her dark trenchcoat flapping.
    Russell blasted off after her, his black leather coat billowing like a cape.
    Zane swung Dr. F’s body towards Eric: “Hold him!”
    Eric caught our therapist on his right shoulder like a linebacker slamming into a pass receiver. Eric stumbled with the crash of the corpse on his shoulder, staggered, stood straight so he hefted Dr. F like a rolled rug.
    Zane chased Russell and Hailey, his white Jesus hair flowing in the night.
    The parked silver car seemed to zoom towards their charging mob. Russell and Hailey ran neck and neck, with Zane only three, now two lunging strides behind their flapping coats. Their hands clawed for a handle in the night air.
    Bweep-boop!
    Headlights flashed on the silver Ford and the racers heard door locks thunk .
    Walking to the silver Ford, I jiggled the keys. Ignored their glares, just as they ignored Eric as he staggered behind me with a corpse thrown over his shoulder.
    â€œBesides,” I said, “I know who killed Dr. Friedman.”

11
    The nurse.
    Who wore her hair pinned in a bun.
    Pinned. As in “pin.” No medical staffer—even one on temporary rotation—no one in her right mind would take a sharp object into an insane asylum. Dr. F didn’t even wear a tie for a freak to grab. That was smart and policy.
    So if she wore a hairpin into Crazyville, she did so for a reason.
    Unfold the right kind of hairpin and you’ve got a nifty toy for playing Puncture The Brain Pan.
    Dr. F, sitting in the soft light of the Day Room. Waiting for us to come back. The nurse who rotated in on temporary duty with him hands him files. Stands behind him. While he’s reading a file, she unpins her hair. Maybe other nurses had done that. He was an OK looking guy, smart. If he realized anything, maybe it was a sensation that told him : ‘She’s letting down her hair/we’re all alone/I’m going to get lucky!’ She clapped her left hand over his left ear, put her hairpin in his right ear—shoved it straight up hard, fast and far and he jerked rigid, brain burst. She’d feel that. Pull out her pin. Fix her bun. Then leave him sitting there for us to find and be found.
    We should have realized something was dangerously wrong during Tuesday Morning Group while Russell lied