Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of Shadows
The St. Jude Sanctuary was situated at the end of a long, winding gravel road, surrounded by dense pine forests and a towering chain-link fence topped with razor wire. To the wealthy families of the state, it was marketed as a "luxury, private retreat for elderly family members requiring specialized, discreet care."
To the people locked inside, it was a gilded cage.
I had spent the last twenty-four hours using the last of my savings to secure a ride on a long-distance cargo truck, traveling north through the stormy Georgia night. I arrived at the perimeter of the facility at 2:00 a.m., my black clothes soaked through, blending perfectly into the dark shadows of the forest.
I crawled through a small gap in the outer fence near the generator shed—a structural flaw I had spotted on the facility’s public zoning blueprints which I had pulled at a local library.
I slipped inside the main building through a heavy, steel laundry chute on the ground floor, my heart pounding as I navigated the quiet, sterile corridors. The hallway smelled of bleach, cheap floor wax, and the heavy, medicinal scent of chemical sedatives.
According to the admission receipt, my father was being held in Room 204—the high-security wing reserved for "severe dementia patients."
I reached the second floor, my footsteps silent on the linoleum. I avoided the security cameras by staying close to the blind spots near the ceiling corners, a skill I had learned during my long, hollow years in prison.
I reached Room 204. The door was heavy oak, fitted with a small glass viewport and a digital keypad lock.
I looked through the glass.
An elderly man sat in a wheelchair near the window, his back to me. His hair was completely white, his shoulders slumped and frail beneath a thin gray hospital gown. He looked so small, so incredibly fragile, compared to the powerful, towering man who had raised me.
"Dad," I whispered, my forehead pressing against the cold glass.
I reached into my pocket, pulling out a small, specialized lock-picking tool I had constructed from a wire hanger in the storage unit. My fingers, practiced and quick, slipped into the keypad emergency bypass lock beneath the digital screen. I turned the tension wrench.
With a soft, metallic click, the door swung open.
I stepped into the room, shutting the door quietly behind me. The elderly man in the wheelchair didn't turn around. He remained staring out at the dark pine forest, his breathing slow and shallow.
"Dad?" I whispered, walking closer.
He turned his head slowly, his eyes cloudy and unfocused, his skin a pale, papery gray. He looked at me for a long, agonizing moment, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to pull a memory from a deep, dark well.
Then, a sudden, brilliant spark of recognition flared in his eyes.
"Finnley?" his voice was a raspy, dry rattle, barely louder than the wind outside. "My boy... you’re here."
I fell to my knees beside his wheelchair, wrapping my arms around his frail shoulders. He felt so light, as if his bones were made of dry wood. He clutched my jacket with his weak, trembling fingers, a soft sob escaping his throat.
"I knew you'd find me," he wept, his hot tears falling onto my neck. "They told me you died in prison, Finnley. Reagan... she came here three months ago and showed me a fake death certificate. She said you were gone."
"I'm here, Dad," I choked out, holding him tighter. "I'm alive. And I have the ledgers. I have the proof of what they did to you."
"We have to go," Camden whispered, his eyes darting toward the door in sudden panic. "They give me the blue pills every morning, Finnley. They make my mind cloudy. They make me forget my own name. If they catch you here, they’ll lock you away too."
"We are leaving tonight," I said, reaching down to unlock the brakes on his wheelchair.
But before I could push him toward the door, the overhead fluorescent lights of the room suddenly flickered on, bathing the space in a harsh, blinding white light.
The door of the room swung open with a violent crash.
Standing in the doorway, wearing a sharp, tailored black suit and a smug, venomous smile, was Carter. Beside him stood two burly, private security guards in dark uniforms, their hands resting on their batons.
"Well, well, look at the family reunion," Carter sneered, stepping into the room. "The ex-con and the crazy old man. Did you really think it would be that easy, Finnley?"
My body tensed, my hands clenching into fists as I stepped in front of my father's wheelchair. "You won't touch him, Carter."
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"I don't need to touch him," Carter laughed, a cold, mocking sound. "He's already legally dead. And as for you... you just broke into a private medical facility and attempted to kidnap a severely demented patient. With your criminal record, Finnley, the judge is going to throw away the key this time."
He nodded to the security guards. "Take him down. And make sure he doesn't walk out of here."
