'Willyou come back on Halloween?' she had asked. 'I want to show you a special placein the country. Well make a day of it. We'll have such fun.'

    Aspecial place.

    Christa-Mariewanted him to come here for a reason.

    Byrneknew he had to take the chance.

    Oncethey crested the hill the ground leveled off, but the fronts of the buildingswere still somewhat obscured by pines, evergreens, and barren maples. The walkwayswere crosshatched in rotting branches, matted with fallen needles. The archedentrance was flanked by two massive rows of Palladian windows. The roof boasteda main cupola, with two smaller watchtowers.

    As heparked the van Byrne heard the call of larks, announcing an impending storm.The wind began to rise. It seemed to encircle the stone buildings like a frigidembrace, holding inside its many horrors.

    Byrnegot out of the vehicle, opened Christa-Marie's door. She gave him her delicate hand.They walked up the crumbling steps.

    Thetwo immense oak doors were secured by large rusted hinges.

    Overthe years the doors had been marked with epithets, pleas, confessions, denials.To the right of the entry was an inscription carved in the weathered stone.

    Christa-Marieturned, an animated look on her face.

    'Takea picture of me,' she said. She smoothed her hair, adjusted the silk scarf ather neck. She looked beautiful in the pale morning light.

    Takinga photograph was the last thing Byrne had expected to do. He took out hiscellphone, opened it, framed Christa-Marie in the doorway, and snapped.

    Amoment later he pocketed his phone, put a shoulder to one of the huge doors,pushed it open. A cold breeze rushed through the atrium, bringing with it yearsof mildew and decay.

    Togetherthey stepped over the threshold, into Christa-Marie Schönburg's past, into theinfernal confines of Convent Hill.

Chapter 72

    Thedead walk here. The dead and the insane and the forgotten. If you comewith me, and hear what I hear, there is much more than the whistle of the wind.

    Thereis the young man who came here in 1920. He had been wounded at St. MihielSalient. He bleeds from both wrists. 'I am going home,' he says to me. 'Firstto Pont-a-Mousson, then home.'

    Henever left.

    Thereis the solicitor from Youngstown, Ohio. Twice he has tried to take his life.His neck is deeply scarred. He cannot speak above a whisper. His voice is a drywind in the night desert.

    Thereare the two sisters who tried to eat each other's flesh, found in the basementof their Olney row house, locked in an embrace, wrapped in barbed wire, blooddripping from their lips.

    Theygather around me, their voices lifted in a chorus of madness.

    Iwalk with my lover.

    Iwalk with the dead.

Chapter 73

    Theystrolled arm in arm through the hallways, their heels echoing on the old tiles.A powdery light sifted through the windows.

    Overheadwas a vaulted ceiling, at least thirty feet high, and on it Byrne saw threelayers of paint, each a dismal attempt at cheerfulness. Lemon yellow, babyblue, sea-foam green.

    Christa-Mariepointed to a room off the main entry. 'This is where they take you on arrival,'she said. 'Don't let the flowers fool you.'

    Byrnepeeked inside. The remains of a pair of rusted chains, bolted to the wall, layon the ground like dead snakes. There were no flowers.

    Theycontinued on, deeper into the heart of Convent Hill, passing dozens of rooms,rooms pooled with stagnant water, rooms tiled floor to ceiling, grout stainedwith decades of mold and long-dried blood, drains clogged with sewage anddiscarded clothing.

    Oneroom held six chairs still in a semicircle, the cane seats missing, one chaircuriously facing away from the others. One room had a three-tiered bunk bedbolted to the floor over a decayed Oriental rug. Byrne could see where attemptshad been made to tear away the rug. Both ends were shredded. Three brownfingernails remained.

    Oneroom, at the back of the main hallway, had rusted steel buckets lined againstthe wall, each filled with hardened feces, white and chalky with time. Onebucket had the word happy painted on it.

    Theytook the winding staircase to the second floor.

    Inone meeting room was a slanted stage. Above the stage, on the fascia, was alarge medallion made of crisscrossed black string, perhaps anoccupational-therapy project of some sort.

    They continuedthrough the wing. Byrne noted that many of the individual rooms had observationwindows, some as small and simple as a pair of holes drilled into the door.Nothing, it seemed, went unobserved at Convent Hill.

    'Thiswas Maristella's room,' Christa-Marie said. The room was no larger than six bysix feet. Against the wall, a long-faded pink enamel, were three threadbarestretchers. 'She was my friend. A little crazy, I think.'

    Themassive gymnasium had a large mural, measuring more than fifty feet long. Thebackground was the rolling hills surrounding the facility. Scattered throughoutwere small scenes, all drawn by different hands - hellish depictions of rape,murder, and torture.

    Whenthey turned the corner into the east wing, Byrne stopped in his tracks. Someonewas standing at the end of the wide hallway. Byrne could not see much. Theperson was small, compact, unmoving.

    Ittook Byrne a few moments to realize, in the dim light, that it was only acutout of a person. As they drew closer, he could see that it was a plywoodpattern of a child, a boy perhaps ten or twelve years old. The figure wore ayellow shirt and dark brown pants. Behind the figure, on the wall, was painteda blue stripe, perhaps meant to mimic the ocean. As they passed the figure,Byrne saw pockmarks in the plywood, along with a few holes. Behind the figurewere corresponding holes. At some point the figure had been riddled withbullets. Someone had drawn blood on the shirt.

    They stoppedat the end of the hall. Above them the roof had rotted away. A few drops ofwater found them.

    'Youknow at the first note,' Christa-Marie said.

    'Whatdo you mean?'

    'Whethera child has the potential to be a virtuoso.' She looked at her hands, her long,elegant fingers. 'They draw you in. The children.

    AtPrentiss they asked me a hundred times to teach. I kept refusing. I finallygave in. Two boys stood out.'

    Byrnetook her hand. 'Who are these boys?'

    Christa-Mariedid not answer right away. 'They were there, you know,' she eventually said.

    'Where?'

    'Atthe concert,' she said. 'After.'

    Therewas a sound, an echoing sound from somewhere in the darkness. Christa-Marieseemed not to notice.

    'Thatnight, Christa-Marie. Take me back to that night.'

    Christa-Marielooked at him. In her eyes he saw the same look he had seen twenty yearsearlier, a look of fear and loneliness.

    'Iwore black,' she said.

    'Yes,'Byrne said. 'You looked beautiful.'

    Christa-Mariesmiled. 'Thank you.'

    'Tellme about the concert.'

    Christa-Marieglided across the corridor, into the semi-darkness. 'The hall was decorated forthe holidays. It smelled of fresh pine. We debated fiercely over the program.The audience was, after all, children. The director wanted yet anotherperformance of Peter and the Wolf:

    Byrneexpected her to continue. She did not. Her eyes suddenly misted with tears. Shewalked slowly back, reached into her bag, retrieved a piece of paper, handed itto Byrne. It was a letter, addressed to Christa-Marie and copied to herattorney, Benjamin Curtin. It was from the Department of Oncology at theUniversity of Pennsylvania Hospital. Byrne read the letter.