‘I don’t see how she could have gotten across that in broad daylight,’ I transmitted to Lucy. ‘Not without being seen by someone. But even if she could and did, what next? The police were going to be all over the place, especially on the other side of the bridge. And how did she get to Lehigh County?’
Lucy was doing slow circles at five hundred feet, the blades flapping loudly. There were remnants of a ferry that at one time must have allowed passage from East River Drive at 106th Street, and the ruins of a pier, which was now a pile of rotting, creosote-treated wood jutting out into unfriendly waters from a small open field on Kirby’s western side. The field looked suitable for landing, providing we stayed closer to the river than to the screened-in walkways and benches of the hospital.
As Lucy began a high reconnaissance, I looked down at people on the ground. All were dressed in civilian clothes, some stretching or lying in the grass, others on benches or moving along walkways between rusting barrels of trash. Even from five hundred feet, I recognized the slovenly, ill-fitting dress and odd gaits of those broken beyond repair. They stared up, transfixed, as we scoured the area for problems, such as power lines, guy wires, and soft, uneven ground. A low reconnaissance confirmed our landing was safe, and by now, more people had emerged from buildings or were looking out windows and standing in doorways to see what was going on.
‘Maybe we should have tried one of the parks,’ I said. ‘I hope we don’t start a riot.’
Lucy lowered into a five-foot hover, weeds and tall grass thrashing violently. A pheasant and her brood were appropriately startled and darted along the bank and out of view amid rushes, and it was hard to imagine anything innocent and vulnerable living so close to disturbed humanity. I suddenly thought of Carrie’s letter to me, of her odd listing of Kirby’s address as One Pheasant Place. What was she telling me? That she had seen the pheasants, too? If so, why did it matter?
The helicopter settled softly and Lucy rolled the throttle to flight idle. It was a very long two-minute wait to cut the engine. Blades turned as digital seconds did, and patients and hospital personnel stared. Some stood perfectly still, pinning us with glazed eyes, while others were oblivious, tugging on fences or walking with jerky motions and staring at the ground. An old man rolling a cigarette waved, a woman in curlers was muttering, and a young man wearing headphones started into a loose knee rhythm on the sidewalk, for our benefit, it seemed.
Lucy rolled the throttle to idle cut-off and braked the main rotor, shutting us down. When the blades had fully stopped and we were climbing out, a woman emerged from the gathering crowd of the mentally deranged and those who took care of them. She was dressed in a smart herringbone suit, her jacket on despite the heat. Her dark hair was short and smartly styled. I knew before being told that she was Dr Lydia Ensor, and she seemed to pick me out as well, for she shook my hand first, then Lucy’s, as she introduced herself.
‘I must say, you’ve created a lot of excitement,’ she said with a slight smile.
‘And I apologize for that,’ I said.
‘Not to worry.’
‘I’m staying with the helicopter,’ Lucy said.
‘You sure?’ I asked.
‘I’m sure,’ she replied, looking around at the unnerving crowd.
‘Most of these are outpatients at the psychiatric center right over there.’ Dr. Ensor pointed at another high rise. ‘And Odyssey House.’
She nodded at a much smaller brick building beyond Kirby, where there appeared to be a garden, and an eroded asphalt tennis court with a billowing torn net.
‘Drugs, drugs, and more drugs,’ she added. ‘They go in for counseling, and we’ve caught them rolling a joint on their way out.’
‘I’ll be right here,’ Lucy said. ‘Or I can head out to get fuel, and then come back,’ she added to me.
‘I’d rather you wait,’ I said.
Dr Ensor and I began the brief walk to Kirby while eyes glared and poured out black unspeakable pain and hate. A man with a matted beard shouted out to us that he wanted a ride, making gestures towards the heavens, flapping arms like a bird, jumping on one foot. Ravaged faces were in some other realms or vacant or filled with a bitter contempt that could only come from being on the inside looking out at people like us who were not enslaved to drugs or dementia. We were the privileged. We were the living. We were God to those who were helpless to do anything except destroy themselves and others, and at the end of the day, we went home.