It was quiet in the car on the way to Trenton.
Jennifer hadn't come along. Alicia had said there were some places women just shouldn't go.
Russell Crowe sat shotgun, saying nothing. He just stared out the window at the trees blurring past, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on his knee like Morse code. That usual volatility of his seemed tamped down by something heavier.
"What do you think we're gonna see?" he asked suddenly, his voice raspy.
Link kept his hands on the wheel, eyes on the road ahead. "Maybe nothing. Or maybe... everything."
Russell grunted in response and turned back to the window.
The car exited the highway and turned onto a side road. The houses on either side grew fewer and fewer until there was nothing left but gray sky and bare trees.
Trenton Psychiatric Hospital.
The main building was still in use, but the old wing was separated by a rusted chain-link fence.
Link pulled over to the curb.
They got out and walked up to the gate, which was secured by a heavy iron chain. Link took out the key Alicia had given him and slid it into the lock.
Click.
The lock popped open. In the empty yard, the sound was jarringly loud.
They pushed the gate open and stepped inside.
The weeds in the yard were taller than a man. Large chunks of plaster were peeling off the main building, exposing the raw red brick underneath. Half the windowpanes were shattered, leaving dark, gaping holes that looked like the hollow eyes of a skull.
Russell's pace slowed.
He looked up at the building, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.
"Alicia said it's on the third floor. Room 307," Link said.
They entered the building. The hallway was long and dim, and every step kicked up a thick cloud of dust. Faded patient rules hung on the walls, the text barely legible.
Third floor.
At the end of the hall was 307.
The door wasn't locked; it was slightly ajar. Link pushed it open.
A wave of mildew hit them instantly.
The room was tiny. Just an iron bed, a nightstand, and a flush toilet in the corner. The walls were painted a nauseating pale green and covered in scratches.
The window was barred shut, the iron welded in place.
Sunlight streamed in from outside, sliced into strips by the bars, falling on the floor like the shadow of a cage.
Russell walked in slowly, pacing a circle around the room. He ran his fingers over the scratches on the wall.
Link didn't disturb him. He walked over to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer.
It was empty.
No, there was one thing left.
A medical chart with a brown paper cover.
Link took it out, blew off the dust, and handed it to Russell.
Russell took it and opened it.
The first page had Nash's name, date of admission, and a diagnosis: Paranoid Schizophrenia.
He flipped through the pages.
The paper had turned yellow and brittle, covered in scrawled, handwritten notes.
"Patient refuses medication, claims the drugs are stealing his thoughts..."
"...Conversed with hallucinatory roommate 'Charles' for over eight hours, refusing to communicate with staff..."
"...Patient attempted to ram the window bars with his body, repeatedly reciting a sequence of prime numbers..."
Russell's finger traced the paper, then froze. His throat worked; he seemed to forget to breathe.
Attached to the end of the record was a small slip of paper in a different handwriting—likely a nurse's.
"Administered 5th insulin shock therapy today. After the seizure subsided, patient grabbed my hand and asked: 'Did you see them? The stars... they're singing.'"
Snap. Russell slammed the chart shut.
His chest heaved violently. In those blue eyes, for the first time, all traces of performance were gone.
All that remained was a kind of... shattered awe.
He suddenly whipped his head around, staring into the empty corner, and whispered:
"Charles, you're here too?"
Link's stomach dropped.
Shit. This is bad.
Russell ignored him. He walked to the welded window, gripped the cold iron bars with both hands, and pressed his face against them, staring out at the gray sky.
He stood there, motionless, like a statue.
Link didn't try to pull him away. He knew it was pointless. The maniac had gone deep. He was fully in it now.
It took a full ten minutes.
Only then did Russell slowly let go.
He turned around. The rage on his face had faded, replaced by a tranquility Link had never seen before.
It was a... dead calm, like everything inside him had burned to ash.
"I saw it," he told Link, his voice rough as sandpaper.
"I saw the cage."
Link nodded.
"Let's go," he said. "It's freezing here."
They walked back down the stairs and through the overgrown weeds.
Back in the car, Russell didn't say a word. He leaned back in the passenger seat, eyes closed, looking like he was asleep. But Link could see his eyes darting rapidly beneath the lids.
Link didn't speak either. He started the engine and turned the car around.
The atmosphere in the car was even heavier than before.
Just then, the brick phone in the center console started chirping cheerfully.
The ringtone felt completely out of place in this hellhole.
Link frowned and checked the ID.
It was Cameron.
He hesitated for a second, then picked up.
"Hello?" he said, keeping his voice low.
"Hey!" Cameron's voice on the other end was like California sunshine, instantly cutting through the gloom in the car. "What are you up to? I just wrapped. Kim almost twisted her legs into a pretzel on set today..."
Link listened to her ramble about funny set stories and cracked a smile. The weight on his chest seemed to lift a little.
"I'm out handling some business," he said.
"Oh..." Cameron drawled, her voice teasing. "Really? I thought maybe you were on a date with your 'Miss Beautiful Mind'."
Link rubbed his temples.
"I'm in New Jersey."
The line went quiet for two seconds.
"New Jersey?" Cameron sounded surprised, then her voice spiked with excitement. "Isn't that really close to New York?"
"Yeah, close enough."
"That is too perfect!" Cameron laughed, sounding like the cat that got the canary.
"I just got off the plane."
"New York. JFK Airport."
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