The pair of runaways were separated, sent in two different squad cars to two different locations.

Tate was taken back to Briarcliff, to an awaiting throng of reporters and curious onlookers. Cameras flashed. Microphones were batted aside by the officers escorting the shackled prisoner from the paddy wagon to the manor. They hustled him inside where the Sisters barred the large oak doors against the prying public.

Violet was brought to court where a man who introduced himself as a doctor asked her a series of strange questions, like whether she'd seen faces on walls or heard voices. He took her temperature and pulse. Listened to her breathe. He thumped on her back a couple of times. She asked for her parents but was put off. The police had contacted her parents, she was told. They gave consent to her psychological evaluation.

After the doctor left, Violet was taken before a judge where an officer held onto her upper arm the whole time, even though she was handcuffed behind her back.

"Tell us truthfully," the droopy-jowled old man said to her. He had a craggy face but his tone seemed kind. "Why did help an inmate escape from Briarcliff Manor? Did he threaten you?"

The teen girl could tell the man wanted her to tell him that was indeed the fact of the matter. His caterpillar brows arched high above his rheumy eyes. "No," she answered simply.

The man waited expectantly. When she didn't explain herself, he prompted: "Why did you do it?"

Violet pressed her lips together briefly while she decided how best to answer that. "They were going to do surgery on him against his will."

The judge scowled thoughtfully and rifled through the papers on his stately desk. He looked down his nose at a few, lips parted in an 'o' of concentration. "Ah-huh," he said finally and laid the papers down again. "Well, Miss Harmon, the fact of the matter is Mister Langdon's doctors know what's best for him and his health care is best left to them." He focused on her then. He folded his hands and the topmost thumb tapped out some of his next words. "What you've done is a very serious thing. It's the opinion of Doctor Lambert and of this court that you are not of sound mind. You're sick, dear, and you need help."

He scribbled some things down on his yellow legal pad then addressed her again. "You're to be remanded to Briarcliff's care. You poor, demented thing." His words would've seemed patronizing but for the genuine pity his watery gaze held.

"You're sending me to Briarcliff?"

Violet couldn't believe what she heard but his sad expression and single nod confirmed it.

"You may be transferred to Parker Hills Women's Asylum later at their discretion," said the judge. "But that will be for the doctors to determine."

She was led away from the judge's bench by the officer gripping her arm. They were almost to the door when the numbness of the verdict thawed and realization set in. If they put her in Briarcliff as a patient, she'd have another chance to help Tate.

She couldn't help laughing at their mistake, an act which only made her look even crazier in the eyes of the court. The judge deemed her hysterical and, clucking his tongue at the shame of it all, signed the order to have the girl committed.

...

While the judiciary system dealt with Violet, Tate was given less than a hero's welcome on his return to the asylum. He was given hypodermic sedation as soon as the doors were shut. He was out before they could strap him to the waiting gurney.

The room Tate found himself in was uniformly drab, despite being filled with old theater props and miscellany. The walls, the floor, the fainting couch draped in old clothes were all varying shades of bluish gray. But if the cluttered room bore the hues of a drowning man, Tate's clothes were no better, being what looked to be an acrobat's outfit from the mid-1920's. The cloth was an unattractive bone, stained and moth-eaten. Tattered lace decorated the cuffs at his wrists and throat, making him itch.

Looking around, the teen supposed he was in some sort of storage room backstage at a theater. The room's contents could have been interesting but there was a creeping sense of doom growing that Tate couldn't ignore. He could hear voices somewhere near, drawing closer. He didn't want the voices to find him.

Casting about, there didn't seem to be anywhere to hide. The room was cluttered but nothing was big enough to hide him. Then he heard a hiss of a voice trying to catch his attention from the shallow closet.

He looked inside and saw only darkness. He heard a child's soft voice urging him to look up and when he did he saw three young faces peering back at him through a square hole in the ceiling. He wasted no time in scrambling up to the shelf that supported the clothing rack. From there it was an easy climb up into the hole. He pulled his legs up and one of the children slid a panel of wood back into place and not a moment too soon: Tate could hear people entering the storeroom as the panel shut.

Curled in the darkness, Tate waited for his eyes to adjust. He thought everyone was staying quiet so they wouldn't give themselves away but as he grew accustomed to the gloom, he realized he was alone. The black was so complete, he could feel it on his skin like fog. He had to touch his face to make sure he still existed at all.

He was just beginning to think he should try crawling in search of the children when the nearby trap door exploded inward. Hands were all over him - so many hands - dragging him back down through the hole, fighting all the while. Bright light seared his eyes and hollow voices echoed all around him. He tried to fight but found himself paralyzed. The world wrenched violently and everything started to spin so fast he felt like he was going to turn inside out.

The spinning slowed but he couldn't see anything because his eyes were sealed shut somehow. He could only sense things. He could tell there were people around him, in a tight ring. He could hear their whispery chanting. They wanted to take his musty old clown clothes away. Cut them up. The scream of twisting metal tore at his ears.

Tate fought as hard as he could to free himself but he couldn't move. As he struggled, he felt himself weakening. Slipping away. The blackness crept in again, blanketing everything in silence.

"Well?" Sister Jude asked.

Dr. Heath tugged his facemask off. He'd already removed the bloody surgery apron and gloves before he came out of the operating theater. "The procedure was a success. The mass wasn't nearly as invasive as we'd feared. He'll still be under for a while but he's stable."

The nun's expression soured. The doctor looked surprised.

"Not the news you wanted to hear?" he asked.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," she responded loftily. "It's beyond me why he'd spare a life like that over others. I suppose He has his plans but it wouldn't have hurt my feelings any if your hand had slipped while you were working."

If the remark sounded callous, Dr. Heath didn't care. "I'd like to keep him in my ward while he recovers," he said. "For observation."

With the wards overcrowded, Sister Jude didn't mind that one bit. "I'm sure that can be arranged, Doctor."

...

Violet was roughly hustled down long, dreary passages by a big man in a white uniform. The guy had a nasty scar above his lip that made him look like a mobster. His grip on her upper arm was painfully tight and the pace he kept was so quick, she had to hurry along to avoid being dragged.

She was taken to a shower room where the man left her in the care of two women, a skinny older nun and the other, a middle-aged nurse with stringy brown hair. The nurse had a build similar to that of the man who'd escorted Violet.

"Take off your clothes," the nun said as the nurse started the shower in the open stall they stood near.

Violet was already cold and didn't relish the idea of stripping in front of these strangers. At that point she didn't see much to be gained from resisting, though, so she stripped. She suffered a brief moment of self-consciousness but it was plain neither of the women with her cared about her body.

The nurse handed her a sliver of soap to wash herself with. Stepping into the shower was a new type of misery as the water was freezing. Washing was difficult because she was shaking so bad. The experience was made even worse when she was made to wash her hair with the bit of Ivory soap. Once she was clean she had to dry off in front of the nurse. The coarse towel was immediately confiscated afterward.

Then the stocky woman cut the girl's fingernails, short and blunt, and not gently. After that the nurse took a comb to her, despite her protests that she could do it herself. The unsympathetic woman raked the comb through the teen's long, wet hair in brutal yanks that tore out snarls in alarming balls. When Violet hollered, the nun slapped her.

"Be silent!" the older woman said.

Violet was so surprised, she just sat there blinking at the skinny woman in the black habit. The teen's cheek burned where she'd been struck.

"You're in a place of God," the nun continued, sounding personally affronted. "You will behave yourself!"

Too shocked to respond, Violet just stared at her. The nurse resumed torturing the girl's hair with the comb. Violet winced but sat as still as she could, digesting the situation. Was this how all the inmates were treated on intake? Or was she being treated harshly for betraying the institution? Did they even know who she was? She wasn't familiar with either of them so she doubted they knew she'd worked for the hospital briefly.

After the crude grooming, Violet was given a baggy ward nightshirt to wear and a pair of ill-fitting cotton underwear that were clean but obviously not new. After she dressed, she was handed a bundle that contained a stiff wool blanket and a flat pillow. She was then hauled down more dark hallways till they reached one she was familiar with: The women's ward.

The nurse opened up one of the cells and gave Violet a push when the girl didn't enter fast enough to suit her. The door slammed shut behind her and the lock slid into place. The teen stood there for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. In a few seconds, she could make out the outline of the bed and moved that way but she stopped short of climbing in when she saw there was already somebody in it.

She moved back to the window in the door and pressed as close as she could. "Hey," she called, trying to find a balance in volume to catch attention without disturbing the other inmates too much. "I think there's been a mistake!"

"Shaddup!" someone down the hall shouted back.

The nurse didn't come back. The person on the cot rolled over and muttered in her sleep. At a loss, Violet wrapped herself in the blanket and found a spot near the wall where she sank down. After a bit she put the pillow down on the floor and curled up tight to preserve what warmth she could. She didn't sleep much that night.

...

Early the next morning, Dr. Thredson met with the press on the front steps of the asylum. He had a statement written in his hand but he didn't need to look at it.

"The patient was apprehended late last night without incident," he was telling the array of cameras and microphones that poked up out of the throng of expectant faces. "Yes, someone did help him escape. That individual was also taken into police custody, also without incident."

Immediately some members of the press started to ask questions but Oliver held up a hand to stave them off. "I'm afraid I don't have more information for you at this time. Thank you."

The brush-off didn't please the reporters. They hounded more, demanding to know what Briarcliff was planning to do to increase security and what was going to be done with the person who assisted the psycho to escape? But all were ignored. The doctor and the other two hospital staff who'd accompanied him outside - the head nurse, Mildred Caldwell, and Sister Jude - retreated back into the sanctuary of the manor.

Outside, the Channel 3 news camera stayed on the ornate front doors till they closed. Watching from home, Constance Langdon lay on the sofa, glassy-eyed. A nearly-empty bottle of liquor dangled from one hand. The television clicker was in the other. As the news cut to the reporter on the scene Constance lifted the remote and, with a sharp click of the button, the TV screen went black.

xxx

Author's Note:

Roll credits to this music: I'm Right Behind You by Ray Smith

Like Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk, the creators of Amercian Horror Story and Glee, I'm very specific about the music I listen to and ask you to play during this fic. It really does bring another amazing layer of immersion and ambiance to the experience. For me, it heightens the emotional response to what I'm writing/reading/watching.

Next episode: We've cleaned up the blood. Now it's time to cut into the Skin and Bones as Violet discovers what life is like as a patient at Briarcliff.