Hood. The twin spires of the convention center. And then there was the fifty-foot neon portland, oregon sign erected on
an Old Town rooftop. For much of its existence, the sign had advertised White Stag sportswear. Archie remembered it from his childhood trips to the city, an outline of the state of Oregon with a
white stag leaping over the company’s name. Back in the fifties, someone got the idea to add a red Rudolph nose to the stag every Christmas. The sign was bought and sold, and the product
being advertised changed. But anytime anyone talked about dismantling it, Portlanders rallied. They loved their composting, renewable energy, and recycling, sure, but they also loved that gaudy
neon sign. The city had finally acquired it a few years ago, and had changed the lettering to portland, oregon, leaving the stag and state outline intact, ensuring that Rudolph would visit
Portland’s children for generations to come.
Now the sign was smoldering.
“There’s a body,” Henry said. “And another lily.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Archie said. He lifted his face to the sun for a moment before he turned and headed into the shower.
CHAPTER
12
S usan Ward parked her Saab in a visitor’s parking spot outside the Oregon State Hospital. She had a knot in her
stomach, and the start of a headache. The hour-long drive down to Salem had been brutal. She had thought she could beat the heat by going early in the morning. No such luck. Her air-conditioning
had been broken for years, and even with both the front windows rolled down she had sweated through her T-shirt. The thermos of hot coffee she’d downed on the way probably hadn’t
helped. She flipped down the visor and inspected her reflection in the mirror. The wind had done a number on her hair. She tried to get her fingers through the tangled thatch of tangerine, wincing
as she worked out the snarls. Her lipstick was rubbed off on the mouth of the water bottle she’d been sucking on to keep hydrated, so she wiped the rest off on her hand and reapplied a shade
of orange that almost matched her hair. Then she added mascara. She inspected her reflection again. Better. She saw a tiny coarse hair between her eyebrows, took hold of it between her thumb and
forefinger, plucked it out, and flicked it out the window.
She squinted out of the car up at the main building. It had opened in 1883, and looked like an asylum from a gothic horror movie. They’d filmed One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest here, which pretty much said it all. The state had given it a coat of cream-colored paint since then and refurbished some of the structures. During the remodel they stumbled across a storage room
stacked with what looked like copper soup cans. Turned out they were the cremated remains of more than five thousand former patients.
The hospital had done a lot of PR gymnastics in an effort to get out of that one.
Susan was satisfied that there were only a few people around, prowling the paved paths that knitted the hospital campus buildings together, and no one was looking at her, so she peeled off her
T-shirt right there in the car. It felt good, the sting of air on her sweat-dampened skin, and she sat there for a moment, outside the nut-house, topless except for her purple bra, before she
tossed her sweaty shirt in the backseat and pulled on the clean one she’d brought to change into. She smeared a new layer of deodorant under her arms and checked her reflection one more
time.
She was ready now.
She got out of her car and trudged up the curved path to the hospital’s main entrance. A frigid blast of air-conditioning hit her when she pushed open the door, and Susan shivered. The
entry opened up into a lobby. The carpet was an alarming shade of electric blue. The walls were incredibly white. All the moldings and other original architectural accents appeared to have been
long ago ripped out or painted over. Ahead, a large set of thick wooden double doors led
an Old Town rooftop. For much of its existence, the sign had advertised White Stag sportswear. Archie remembered it from his childhood trips to the city, an outline of the state of Oregon with a
white stag leaping over the company’s name. Back in the fifties, someone got the idea to add a red Rudolph nose to the stag every Christmas. The sign was bought and sold, and the product
being advertised changed. But anytime anyone talked about dismantling it, Portlanders rallied. They loved their composting, renewable energy, and recycling, sure, but they also loved that gaudy
neon sign. The city had finally acquired it a few years ago, and had changed the lettering to portland, oregon, leaving the stag and state outline intact, ensuring that Rudolph would visit
Portland’s children for generations to come.
Now the sign was smoldering.
“There’s a body,” Henry said. “And another lily.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Archie said. He lifted his face to the sun for a moment before he turned and headed into the shower.
CHAPTER
12
S usan Ward parked her Saab in a visitor’s parking spot outside the Oregon State Hospital. She had a knot in her
stomach, and the start of a headache. The hour-long drive down to Salem had been brutal. She had thought she could beat the heat by going early in the morning. No such luck. Her air-conditioning
had been broken for years, and even with both the front windows rolled down she had sweated through her T-shirt. The thermos of hot coffee she’d downed on the way probably hadn’t
helped. She flipped down the visor and inspected her reflection in the mirror. The wind had done a number on her hair. She tried to get her fingers through the tangled thatch of tangerine, wincing
as she worked out the snarls. Her lipstick was rubbed off on the mouth of the water bottle she’d been sucking on to keep hydrated, so she wiped the rest off on her hand and reapplied a shade
of orange that almost matched her hair. Then she added mascara. She inspected her reflection again. Better. She saw a tiny coarse hair between her eyebrows, took hold of it between her thumb and
forefinger, plucked it out, and flicked it out the window.
She squinted out of the car up at the main building. It had opened in 1883, and looked like an asylum from a gothic horror movie. They’d filmed One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest here, which pretty much said it all. The state had given it a coat of cream-colored paint since then and refurbished some of the structures. During the remodel they stumbled across a storage room
stacked with what looked like copper soup cans. Turned out they were the cremated remains of more than five thousand former patients.
The hospital had done a lot of PR gymnastics in an effort to get out of that one.
Susan was satisfied that there were only a few people around, prowling the paved paths that knitted the hospital campus buildings together, and no one was looking at her, so she peeled off her
T-shirt right there in the car. It felt good, the sting of air on her sweat-dampened skin, and she sat there for a moment, outside the nut-house, topless except for her purple bra, before she
tossed her sweaty shirt in the backseat and pulled on the clean one she’d brought to change into. She smeared a new layer of deodorant under her arms and checked her reflection one more
time.
She was ready now.
She got out of her car and trudged up the curved path to the hospital’s main entrance. A frigid blast of air-conditioning hit her when she pushed open the door, and Susan shivered. The
entry opened up into a lobby. The carpet was an alarming shade of electric blue. The walls were incredibly white. All the moldings and other original architectural accents appeared to have been
long ago ripped out or painted over. Ahead, a large set of thick wooden double doors led
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