Sarah Benadine is Dead

Chapter IV, Part I

David Sheffield would never say it, but he hated visiting this place. The school was one thing; Briargate rarely gave even an illusion of the work that was done there. But this place...this was a gateway to a whole different world, and he didn't need it spelled out for him to know that he didn't belong.

In truth, he should've come sooner. He'd been putting it off. He'd been putting off much of what needed to be done. It couldn't wait any longer; the beginning of the year banquet was being held at Briargate that night. At least Kenfield could see what could be done about Shannon, as long as nothing went wrong before then.

Many times Sheffield had reasoned that that was why he hadn't made it here yet; he was too busy keeping an eye on Shannon. That was too kind, he would be forced to concede. He hadn't wanted to come—especially not when he was rather certain he knew how this conversation would unfold.

There was never anyone around when he came, but that was the point. Every once in a while a story would get out and circle around about people appearing out of nowhere or someone vanishing into thin air. They usually died out pretty quickly, and those that believed them wouldn't have gone within a thousand feet of the place. The old Binder & Moritz law office building was haunted, they said. Had been ever since the fire in 1898 killed twelve people. The building was left abandoned after that.

In a way it was, at least.

He didn't park his car in the lot; no one ever did. It attracted too much attention. Not from civilians, perhaps, but a patrol car always came by once or twice a day. The city had had problems with the trade of heroin out of the pair of tenantless brick houses across the street a few years back, and the police had kept a closer eye on the place since then. They didn't pay much attention to the old law building, though, and Sheffield wouldn't be there for them to see anyway. They'd see his car if it was there, and that would raise suspicion.

As he entered the badly damaged building he wondered, as he usually did when he came here, what would happen if the building fell. It was declared structurally sound but sometimes he wondered. He didn't know what would happen to all the people here, if they'd be protected or not. He'd never had the courage to ask.

He paced anxiously, sweeping his eyes across the floor. He never could do this right, always got the wrong spot. He was getting better; the first time he'd come here alone it'd taken him over a half an hour to get it right. Of course, he wasn't any better at getting the door to actually appear, either.

He decided on a spot that seemed center from the doorway. That's what they always told him, but it barely made it any easier. It was too exact; he needed to be in the exact spot. It gave him a headache most of the time.

Gently, he knelt down and placed his hand on the ground. Stone. It was cold. He looked at the space in front of him and pictured the door as he'd seen it many times before: steel gray with a heavy handle and no other trappings—no window or bolts, just the hinges on which it stood. He envisioned it in the air before him, there then gone again; saw it springing up out of the ground like it had been there since the building was built. He concentrated, tried to see it as clear as he could, and, without fanfare, the door appeared—slightly to his left.

He hadn't done that.

Somewhat frantically, he whipped around, checking to be sure he was alone. The building was as empty as it always was. Past the walls into the parking lot, he could see no one. There was no one else around.

With the caution of a man touching a hot stovetop, he grasped the handle and pulled the door open. There in front of him, almost like a mirage, was the Hopps Prison.