Chapter 8 - the iron gates of green valley
By 3:00 AM, Jonathan’s private Gulfstream jet had landed at a small airfield in Burlington, Vermont. A convoy of three black armored SUVs, accompanied by two Vermont State Police cruisers with flashing blue lights, sped through the winding, snow-dusted mountain roads toward the secluded Green Valley Facility.
Inside the lead SUV, Jonathan sat in the rear seat with little Emily resting her head against his leg, fast asleep. Sarah sat across from him, staring out the tinted window at the passing dark pine trees, her hands clasped in tight prayer.
Dr. Reynolds sat beside Jonathan, reviewing a faxed medical ledger provided by the state prosecutor.
"If Clara has been kept under heavy sedatives for three years," Dr. Reynolds warned quietly, "her psychological state may be extremely fragile, Jonathan. You need to prepare yourself for the possibility that she might not recognize anyone."
"She will recognize her sister," Jonathan said firmly, looking at Sarah. "And she will recognize her daughter."
Ten minutes later, the convoy pulled up to the massive wrought-iron gates of the facility. High concrete walls topped with razor wire surrounded the stone institutional building.
Two state troopers stepped out of their cruisers, walking up to the security booth with the federal emergency writ. Within minutes, the heavy gates groaned open, and the vehicles parked outside the main stone entrance.
Jonathan stepped out into the freezing mountain air, buttoning his navy coat. He picked up Emily, wrapping her in a thick wool blanket, while Marcus and Sarah followed close behind.
The facility director—a nervous, balding man in a suit named Dr. Vance Miller—met them in the stark, white tile lobby, trembling as he looked at the armed state troopers trailing behind Jonathan.
"Mr. Carter!" Dr. Miller stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "We... we were not informed of an official state inspection tonight! There must be some misunderstanding—"
"Where is Room 104?" Jonathan cut him off, his voice flat and unyielding.
Dr. Miller swallowed hard, looking at the state troopers' badges. "Down... down the west wing corridor, sir. But the patient in 104 is under strict medical isolation—"
"Lead the way," Marcus growled, stepping forward with his broad shoulders.
Dr. Miller scrambled forward, pulling a heavy keycard from his pocket and leading the group down a long, sterile hallway lined with reinforced metal doors.
They reached the far end of the corridor. Outside Room 104, a heavy iron padlock secured the door latch.
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Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. She stepped forward, her hands touching the cold steel door. "Clara?" she called out, her voice cracking. "Clara, can you hear me?"
From inside the dark room, a tiny, faint rustle of bedsheets echoed through the door.
