It seemed a luxury to be riding in a carriage for a change, and we made much better time than we ever could have done on foot. In less than 20 minutes we had, in fact, passed by our campsite of the previous night. It was about 8 a.m., and the sun was already warm as we bounced along the rough road heading north out of Nevada City.

It wasn’t long after the turnoff to North San Juan that we spotted a faint track splitting off from the main road. It appeared to lead up toward the mouth of a canyon that was very nearly hidden from the main road by a thick grove of large oaks.

“Whoa,” Lorenzo said, bringing the carriage to a halt. We all looked up toward the canyon, scanning the area for any signs of life.

“There doesn’t seem to be any activity,” Lewis said, “but I’ll wager this is the road we want.”

“If so,” Lorenzo said, “they’re not too keen on revealing their location. No directional signs … not even a building in sight.”

“It’s not the kind of place you’d want to advertise,” agreed Lewis. He’d jumped down from his seat and squatted now in the road, studying the tracks in the dirt.

“Looks as though our friends from last night made it at least this far,” he said. “Four horses passed here not long ago.”

Lorenzo shook his head. “I hope they sobered up before reaching the canyon,” he said.

“This may be a dumb question,” I said, “but isn’t it possible that they managed to accomplish what they set out to do?”

“What, break in and rescue their brother?” asked Lewis.

He headed back over to the coach, brushing the dirt off his hands.

“I suppose it’s possible," he said, climbing back into his seat. “But I can’t believe the security at this place would be so sloppy that four drunken riders could get inside that easily.”

“And if it were that easy,” added Lorenzo, “I don’t think their clients would have much faith in the operation.”

Lorenzo had started the carriage rolling again and we headed slowly up the narrow track leading to the hidden canyon.

“Look,” I said after a few minutes, “there it is.”

Just visible behind the topmost branches of the tallest oak was a single tower, rising above some large structure that was mostly still hidden behind the massive trunks of the trees. As we drew closer, the base of the building became visible, and we could see it was a massive, three-story block foundation. The high walls were broken only by a number of small windows, and these were covered with bars that looked to be bolted to the walls.

The whole building was tan in color and, as we drew closer, we could see it was built out of adobe and as solid looking as a bank vault.

“The building’s security must depend largely on those walls,” remarked Lorenzo. “As thick as they look, they’re probably impervious to bullets or even battering rams.”

“No wonder they call it a ‘Safe House,’ ” Lewis added. “Nothing could break through there.”

When we had come within a hundred yards, we began to lose what cover we’d enjoyed behind the low hills and clumps of small oaks on either side of the road.

“Will and I would be wise to bail out about this point and mosey around back to avoid being seen,” Lewis said.

“You’re probably right,” Lorenzo agreed. “If anyone sees you in the carriage, my newfound credentials may come under scrutiny.”

So Lewis and I jumped out and hunkered down low until we got behind the bank of a dry wash that ran alongside the road for a while. As we moved along, we watched Lorenzo and his carriage move off into the dense grove of oaks that surrounded the huge asylum building. Soon he had disappeared from sight and I said a silent prayer as the canyon walls swallowed him up.

The wash trailed alongside the road for 50 yards or so, then veered away and headed on up toward the hills and another small ravine.

“Let’s head up into that little gulch,” said Lewis as we moved along. “We’ll see if we can’t find us a spot up high where we can look down on the building but they can't see us.”

After several minutes of scrambling, bent over so our heads couldn’t be seen above the bank of dirt and rocks, we finally passed beyond sight of the asylum and approached the opening to the little ravine. The sides of this gully were steeper than we’d imagined, and the floor was overgrown with tumbleweeds and some kind of thorny vine that tore at our pant legs. After five minutes or so, we came across a sight I’ll never forget: piled in a heap, one atop the other, were the bodies of four men – the same four we’d encountered on horseback that morning.

Right away, Lewis and I looked up, figuring whoever had dumped them here might still be around. But we didn’t see anyone, so we turned our attention back to the four dead riders and what we saw turned our stomachs pretty fast. Nearly every inch of their torsos, from waist high up to their necks, had been pierced with small-caliber bullets. So cleanly had they been shot that some of these wounds didn’t even have blood coming out of them. But the men were surely dead, and Lewis pronounced the words before I had a chance to.

“My God, what kind of gun could do that?” he asked.

“Why would someone shoot them so many times?” I added.

“I can’t rightly say,” Lewis said, “because I’ve never seen anything like this. You’d think they just stood there while someone kept loading them full of lead. Or else...”

“Or else?”

“I heard once about a gun that a man back East was trying to perfect – a gun that fires dozens of bullets one right after the other,” he said. “If there is such a gun, you could fire 50 rounds in the same time your victim got off two or three.”

“You think they were shot where they lie?” I asked.

“Probably up top,” he replied, “execution-style. Then the men either fell off or were dumped over the edge.”

“I guess that tells us that someone’s willing to protect the place.”

“And is fully able to do so,” Lewis added.

We weren’t too keen anymore on the idea of climbing to the top of this ravine for a view of the place. There may have been guards at the top, waiting to fill us full of bullets, too.

“I’d like to think those four made one hell of a lot of noise,” Lewis said as we backtracked out of the steep-walled gully. “And that’s probably how the people in that building knew they were coming and had time to get their new-fangled gun ready for action.”

“Or maybe the riders asked too many questions in Nevada City and around the camps,” I added.

“That’s true,” said Lewis. “There’s no telling who all’s in on this thing back in town. Those four were probably spouting their story to anyone who’d listen, and someone connected with this operation heard them and hightailed it out here to warn the operators.”

Making our way out of the ravine, we headed down the wash, stopping just short of the point where the gulley turned to run alongside the road.

“We should be able to spot Lorenzo when he hits the road down there ahead,” said Lewis. “For the time being, I think the best thing we can do is to bide our time out of sight and just wait to see what happens.”

And wait we did, for what seemed days, though it was less than two hours. When we at last heard the sound of wheels coming, we crawled down until we could make sure it was Lorenzo. Even then, when he had seen us and started to call out, Lewis waved him on, just in case he was being followed. Then we hunkered down again and hurried along the wash some more, emerging only when the highest tower of the place was no longer visible.

Lorenzo pulled the carriage to a stop and got out. But instead of walking up to us, he went over to the side of the road and started. While Lewis and I looked on, he stood there bent over, hacking and gagging for a good long time. Finally, he stopped. Then he apologized several times before climbing back into the wagon and giving the horses the whip.

“I’m not normally taken to such fits of disgorging,” he told us in a raspy sort of voice after we had gone a ways down the road. “But what I’ve seen I shall not soon forget.”

“Take your time,” Lewis said. “Get some fresh air and don’t rush yourself.”

That wasn’t exactly my sentiment. I wanted to hear about Becky – if he’d seen her, if he knew what condition she was in, if he thought there was a chance of getting her out. But I held my tongue and waited for Lorenzo to collect himself. Finally, after we’d reached the main road and turned back toward Nevada City, he began to speak. Placing some distance between us and that house allowed him to breathe easier and finally approach the subject.

“I had no problem gaining entrance,” Lorenzo said, “and I believe part of the reason is the deportment of the superintendent, or headmaster, as he prefers to call himself.”

“Headmaster?” repeated Lewis.

“Yes, it’s a strange notion this man has,” Lorenzo said. “Stephen Hadley is his name, and he told me that he feels the goal of asylums should be to teach their insane patients how to live life to the fullest. He sees his institution as a sort of school and himself as the headmaster. If I didn’t know what was going on in that place, I’d have almost thought him a civilized, caring individual. He even quoted Dorothea Dix, a woman who – if you gentlemen are not aware – is probably this country’s strongest proponent of the humane treatment of prisoners and the insane.”

“Are you suggesting this man is actually concerned about the people under his care?” Lewis asked.

“What I believe," Lorenzo said, “is he thinks he’s in charge, and that he reads and appreciates the latest literature on the proper operation of such facilities...”

“But?” Lewis said.

“But his ‘Safe House,’ the place from which I’ve just come, is just the opposite of the sort of asylum he advocates. The truth is, it’s what I saw in the housing units beyond his lavishly appointed office that made me wretch and gag. I only just managed to keep my wits about me and keep from getting sick until I’d driven away.”

“Are you saying the superintendent doesn’t know what’s going on in his own asylum?” I asked.

“That’s how it looks,” said Lorenzo. “When I’d completed my introductions and listened for a while to his theories on the care and treatment of the insane, I indicated the interest of my commission, and he simply rang a bell and summoned some servant to take me to the head physician. He didn’t go with me beyond his office, nor did I ever see him again. And that, my friends, is when I saw what produced the sickening reaction you saw a few moments ago.”

Again, he paused. “Please,” urged Lewis, “go on.”

“When the man arrived to escort me to the doctor, I saw that he was a rather rough-looking character, not at all the sort you might expect to work at a hospital. He took me out of the superintendent’s office and back out into the main foyer, which was thick with velvet curtains and oil paintings and furnishings that looked like they belonged in a museum. Anyway, this oafish servant, or guard, or whatever he was supposed to be, conferred momentarily with another fellow who looked pretty much as scurrilous as himself. Then he led me into a dim hallway of some sort off the main entrance and to a staircase that took us down one flight of stairs and to a heavy oak door with two sets of steel bars padlocked to the wall bracings. It looked like it was built to stand up to some great pressures from the other side.”

Lorenzo swallowed, the continued. “I remember,” he said, “that this man just grinned at me for a moment, though it was more of a leer than a grin. Then he unlocked these padlocks and said, ‘Go to the end of the hallway, then to your right.’ As he was pulling open the door, he added, ‘Stay clear of the maniacs, at least a good four feet away. They got long arms, you see, from straining to grab at folks as they walk by.’ ”

I could see that Lorenzo was almost reluctant to go on. He continued after a moment or two, but almost in a whisper, as if he didn’t want to hear what he himself was about to say.

“The door led into a long chamber, about a hundred feet long and maybe twenty feet wide,” he said. “The space above me was open – the ceiling above me about two stories high. But down the length of the room, on either side and above as well, were long rows of cage-like rooms set about 10 feet off the ground. Many of them were empty, but others contained some of the most pathetic looking individuals you could imagine. Some of these cages had beds, but most of them had only straw. Some of the people were extremely fierce and raving, nearly or quite naked. Others were singing or dancing. Some were in despair. Some were dumb and wouldn’t open their mouths, while others were incessantly talking. A few grabbed for me, as the guard said they might, leering at me and grasping, their fingers opening and closing in the air almost mechanically. It was...”

Lorenzo stopped momentarily, searching for the right words.

“It was as if these men and women were tigers and jackals impervious to reason and therefore not truly human beings.”

Lorenzo paused and I saw there were tears in his eyes.

“I hurried out as quickly as I could, turning at the end of the room and coming to a door on which a sign read: Hans Zeissler, Head Physician. I knocked on the door and a small, slightly built man opened the door for me.

“ ‘You are the inspector?’ he asked me in a thick, Germanic accent. I told him I was and he offered me a seat. Then I repeated what I’d told the superintendent about the territorial commission on lunacy, and he just chuckled for a few moments. Then he said something about the government suddenly getting interested in asylums only when they think there are taxes to be collected or money to be made through fines and levies. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but I talked my way through by telling him the commission was designed to ensure the safety of the occupants and to make sure that physicians like him had the latest equipment and resources to do their jobs. I think I made some points there, because right away he started talking about a man named Jarvis. Edward Jarvis, I think it was. Doctor Zeissler told me he was patterning his treatment techniques after the findings of this man.

“It seems that Jarvis’ theories involved the effects of civilization on increased levels of insanity. Zeissler told me that civilization can give rise to new causes of insanity. Throughout history, he told me, certain factors such as suppression of secretions, convulsions, hydrocephalus, old age, rheumatism and even hemorrhoids have led to mental illness. But industrialization, he claimed, is a product of advancing civilization and has increased the incidence of mental disease by raising the number of occupational accidents and by exposing human beings to noxious minerals, acids, gases and paints. Along with these factors, the varied economic and intellectual opportunities in democratic, competitive societies have produced uncertainty, anxiety, instability and mental disorder.”

“What about those people in the cages?” Lewis said. “Did you ask him about them?”

“To be honest,” Lorenzo said, “since I’m no expert on the state of mental institutions, I can’t say if what I saw was out of the ordinary or not. The doctor seemed to act as though there was nothing unusual about the horrid conditions outside his door. Since I was supposed to be a member of a commission that knows what it’s doing, I could hardly launch an attack against conditions that might be the sort we’d find anywhere. Personally, what I saw was repulsive, but I couldn’t let my feelings out, not then at any rate.”

“What about Becky?” I asked. “I need to know what you found out about her.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Lorenzo said. “I only wanted to give you some idea what I found inside this place, so you could see why my feelings are still leaning toward optimism. First of all, we have every reason to believe that Becky is well and safe for the time being. That’s not to say she isn’t disoriented, for I believe they may be giving drugs to her and every other poor unfortunate in that place.”

“Did you see her?” I asked. “Does she look well?”

“No, Will, I’m afraid I didn’t see her,” Lorenzo said. “But I talked to Zeissler about her, at least I figured it was her we were talking about. When I mentioned my interest in minors, and particularly minor girls, he immediately launched into a discussion of a young lady who seemed to meet your description of her. I couldn’t press too much or act too curious about her specific case, but I learned that the upper floor of the asylum has regular bedrooms, fixed up much like ordinary rooms in an ordinary house, aside from the locks on the doors and bars on the windows, of course. Zeissler said that the subject in question – who was committed, incidentally, under the name Alice Smith – is chiefly suffering from disorientation and memory loss. Considering everything, this is probably a straightforward description of her actual condition. The problem is that the three of us know at least part of what happened to her. The doctor, on the other hand, knows nothing and he’s still trying to find out what triggered her condition. I almost wished I could help him by telling him what I knew.”

“Hasn’t Becky told him anything?” I asked. “Do you think she’s forgotten everything that happened to her?”

“I think she suffered a great shock,” said Lorenzo, “and I think her resulting silence has been perceived as further sign of her insanity. However, this Zeissler, who seems to be a bona fide doctor, says that frequently after being put to bed, she does talk in her sleep ... something about wading a rushing river and fighting off bugs. She apparently has focused on one episode during her journeys and keeps repeating it over and over. During her waking hours, however, she says nothing. She merely sits in a chair and stares straight ahead.”

“Maybe what she says – in her dreams, I mean – has something to do with the place where she was holed up with Skeeter Daniels,” I said.

“It seems likely, Will, if she keeps saying it over and over,” Lorenzo said. “But the whole thing could mean absolutely nothing.”

When we arrived in town, and Lorenzo pulled the wagon to a stop in front of a boarding house. A clock in town was tolling the noon hour, and I found myself yawning as if it were after sunset.

“You’re more than welcome to spend tonight in my room,” he told us. “It’s small, but comfortable.”

“I thank you,” Lewis said, stepping down from the carriage, “but I as for myself, I’ll need the fresh night air to stimulate my mind. Will and I may want to get an hour’s sleep this afternoon, however, if you’ll allow us. We got little sleep last night.”

“Please,” said Lorenzo, “be my guest. I have some business with my Chinese client and won’t need to use the room for several hours.”

He reached into his pocket and handed me the key.

“We value your opinion, Lorenzo,” Lewis said. “Now we’ll need to weigh all the facts and come up with some plan of action.”

“We must indeed,” Lorenzo said. “And I’ve taken the liberty of telling the doctor where I’m staying here in town. It’s possible that I got the wrong impression, but I sensed that if Zeissler could be removed from the asylum grounds, where he’s constantly scrutinized by guards, he may feel freer to talk. I can’t help thinking that the doctor answers to someone higher up, someone who lets him conduct his experiments and care for his patients but who also is the final authority on the disposition of the unfortunates imprisoned there."

“So the superintendent isn’t in charge?” I asked.

“I don't think so,” Lorenzo said. “I think he's nothing more than window dressing, a respectable looking, intelligent sounding administrator whose job is to occupy space in the front wing. He’s someone who can sit calmly in his plush and padded office and say all the right things to people like me. That’s not to say that he’s unaware what’s going on. And if he isn’t aware, he’s probably chosen not to know. I’m not sure what his game is, but I feel sure he’s not the man in charge.”

“So who is?” I asked.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Lorenzo said. “Remember, I’m nearly as new in this town as the two of you. But I intend to spend some time this afternoon looking into any records I can find at the town courthouse. I might even check with our friendly editor down the street. My experience has told me that most journalists have no great love for the wealthy, the political or the long arm of the law. I think if someone else is running this operation, it may very well be someone in a high position in Nevada City.”

“How do you propose to get the good doctor into town?” Lewis asked.

"I told him I had many questions about his methods of treatment,” Lorenzo said. “I also made the point several times that I was impressed with his expertise in assessing cases and handling the number of patients he did. If nothing else, flattery may bring him to our door. I'm hoping we can turn this doctor into an ally, but I have to keep up my charade a bit longer. Getting Zeissler over here will be a start. If he doesn't show, I'll consider a return visit.”

Lorenzo gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “All we can do now is wait,” he said. “In the meantime, feel free to use my room, and get some rest.”

“Thank you Lorenzo, for the help you've given us,” said Lewis.

“Yes, thanks so much,” I added. “You were taking a real risk.”

“Not at all,” Lorenzo said, smiling. “Contradicting my old law professor, now that was a real risk!”

As Lorenzo Sawyer rode off in his carriage, Lewis and I walked up the stairs to the boarding house and down the hall to room 213. Stepping inside, we both eyed the soft feather bed with great relief, and in less than five minutes we were stretched out on the blankets, fast asleep.