The Shadow Bird

by Ann Gosslin

  A scared rabbit, she’s frozen to a spot on the floor. Poor kid.

  The lyrics of a pop song, about a girl adrift in the night, ping through his head. Eyes closed, he sweeps his fingers over the levers on the soda dispenser, tapping out the beat. Dr Pepper. She’ll like that. Dark liquid foams into the paper cup. The sweet stench prickles his nose, the ceiling lights dazzle his eyes. One of those weird headaches is coming on.

  He sets the cup on the counter. ‘Here you go. But you’d better hurry, the movie’s starting.’

  A mottled flush, like a port wine stain, creeps up the girl’s neck. She takes the cup and lifts it to her lips, but the embryonic smile vanishes at the sight of a green sedan pulling up to the kerb.

  ‘I have to go.’ A strangled whisper. She drops the cup on the counter and bolts.

  ‘Get your fat ass in the car!’

  A woman with a face like a raptor reaches across and yanks the girl into the passenger seat before screeching away, red tail lights dissolving in the rain. He digs his thumb into his temple, closes his eyes. Crap family. He can relate. But he’s glad the girl is gone. With that scared-rabbit look, she’s a dead ringer for his sister Izzy. Creeping about the house like a wraith, subsisting on air. As if all she wants is to disappear.

  Three hours and forty-nine minutes till he can switch off the popcorn machine and head home. Don’t forget the lights, son. And lock up the doors. You’re in charge. Mack’s voice. Good old Mack, his cheeks flushed the high colour of a dedicated boozer. Clumsily patting Tim’s shoulder, as if he were the son Mack never had. Though he’s wary of such fatherly overtures. One old man impossible to please is enough.

  Five minutes before the movie ends, he busies himself with wiping the counter and sweeping up the smashed popcorn underfoot. Anything to avoid seeing Angela draped around that boy again. Rumour has it that instead of crawling back into whatever hole he’s come out of, that jerk will be going to the high school in September. Senior year will be hell.

  The jabbering crowd surges into the wet street, dashing for the shelter of their cars. The air blowing through the door is ripe with the peculiar mix of pine sap and fish brine he’s known all his life. At the sound of the Viking’s honking laugh, his head snaps up. The gang are in high spirits, hopped up on something. Adrenaline maybe, or the latest cocktail of drugs.

  ‘Where to next?’ Someone suggests Ted’s house, whoever that is. ‘Yeah, he’ll have some decent weed.’

  They pile into a blue Camaro, with Angela curled in the passenger seat, her hair luminous under the street lamp, and roar away.

  The thought of something happening to her is like a punch to the gut. A violent crash, her bloodied body flung to the side of the road. Or that psycho, Mister Golden Hair, forcing himself on her.

  A sharp pain blooms behind his eyes. He’s desperate for sleep. But there’s one more film to roll before he’s released into the night.

  *

  The rain is coming down in buckets. He splashes through puddles to reach his mother’s blue Pontiac, borrowed for the night so she won’t have to pick him up. The blasted thing’s as big as a boat, but soon he’ll have enough dough saved to buy his own set of wheels, something sleek and sporty, built for the open road. On a calendar in his bedroom, he’s marking off the days. Soon, very soon, he’ll hit the highway and leave boring old Belle River in the dust.

  The streets are deserted. The only other driver on the road some lady in a silver Dodge, idling at the intersection. The lit end of her cigarette flares in the dark. As she turns onto the beach road, he accelerates past her, sluicing through a puddle.

  *

  At home, the lights are out, everyone asleep. He shrugs off his sodden coat and flops onto the couch, too tired to kick off his mud-spattered shoes, though there’ll be hell to pay tomorrow. Rain drums on the roof. What a washout the summer’s been. He roots around in the pocket of his jeans for the pills he filched from his mother’s night table and rattles them in his hand. Bright orange Seconal. Quaaludes, bluer than blue. The old lady’s got enough pills in there to stock a pharmacy. He pops them in his mouth, swallows them dry, too tired to get a glass of water. Closing his eyes, he awaits the blessed void.

  *

  Scritch, scratch.

  Through layers of sleep, he swims upwards, surfacing in the swampy air. Scrabble, scrabble, scratch, whine. Must be the dog, clawing at the door.

  How long has he been out? Ten minutes? An hour? His head feels stuffed with cotton. Rain hits the roof like buckshot. He checks his watch. Not yet midnight. What’s Maggie doing out in the storm?

  He lurches upright and stumbles to the kitchen, slips and falls. There’s a puddle of something on the linoleum. The dog is frantic, clawing at the door to get in.

  His foot bumps against something soft. The laundry bag? He reaches for the light, switches it on.

  Blood, everywhere. On the walls, on the floor. A body lying in a crimson lake. Shaking, he crouches against the wall, arms hugging his knees. Thunder rumbles overhead. He inches forward, pats the matted brown hair soaked in blood. Blank eyes stare at nothing. He scrabbles for the light, switches it off.

  A creak on the stairs. His blood freezes. Was that a footstep?

  Rain lashes the window. His head throbs with the crack of thunder. In the electrified air, the molecules seem to vibrate in a minor key. On the stairs, the scrape of a shoe. He holds his breath. Run? Or stand his ground?

  Blood. On his hands, on his clothes. He crawls to the kitchen door, prepared to flee, when a branch hits the roof and a flash of lightning sears his eyes. The light above the stove grows dark, as if a great carrion bird is passing overhead. Or the shadow of a pterodactyl stretching its wings. He hears a rustle of feathers as the sharp beak pierces his neck, and the massive wings enfold him in a choking embrace, dragging him down to the centre of the earth.

  7

  Greenlake Psychiatric Facility

  Atherton, New York

  March, Present Day

  Two miles before the turn-off to Atherton, the engine emitted an unusual noise that grew into a furious screech, like a rodent caught in a trap. When the oil light blinked twice and stayed on, Erin pressed the accelerator, urging the car, purchased second-hand from a dodgy dealer in Lansford, to reach the next exit.

  The last thing she needed was to break down out here. When the sign for the off-ramp appeared through the gloom, she veered from the motorway, fighting to stay in her lane as a lorry thundered past, and coasted onto an industrial estate.

  Amidst the jungle of neon, she spotted a potential saviour: Reggie’s Jiffy Lube, jammed between a pizza joint and a used-car dealer. As she pulled into the forecourt, the engine, right on cue, seized up and died. Her appointment at Greenlake was in thirty minutes. Whatever was wrong with the car, it would surely take longer than that to fix. Could she get a taxi out here? Despite the jarring neon, the barren estate, pockmarked by winter storms, looked desolate and abandoned.

  A blast of wind shook the car. Sleet hammered the roof. She tapped on the horn and waited. A kid with grease-stained hands slunk out of the garage and peered at her through the windscreen. When she didn’t react, he motioned for her to pull into the service bay. She hesitated before rolling down the window.

  ‘The engine’s stopped.’

  The boy’s grin revealed a mouthful of crooked teeth, and he had a nervy look about the eyes.

  ‘What’sa matter? Car died?’

  A shadow appeared in the frosted glass door of a walled cubicle. A man with a military buzz cut and two-day stubble on his chin stepped outside and jerked his thumb at the boy. ‘Scram.’

  Quick as a weasel, the kid vanished into the shadows of the service bay.

  Erin pulled up the hood of her parka before stepping into the driving sleet.

  The man exhaled noisily. ‘Whatever the kid said, just ignore it.’ He held open the door to the office. ‘Come on in out of the weather. I’ve got coffee on if you need a warm up.’

&nb
sp; She slid past him and into the overheated room. A metal desk and row of filing cabinets took up most of the space. On the pocket of the man’s grimy overalls, the name ‘Reggie’ was stitched with scarlet thread.

  ‘Pull up a chair,’ he said. ‘How about that coffee?’ ‘

  Actually, I’m going to be late for an appointment.’ Erin tugged off her gloves and fanned her face. The cramped office was like a sauna. ‘What I really need is a taxi. I’ve got to be on the other side of the city in half an hour.’

  ‘Where on the other side?’ He pinched the bridge of his nose, his nails rimed with grease. ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Atherton.’ She paused. ‘There’s a psychiatric facility—’

  ‘The nuthouse?’ He tossed her a surprised look. ‘So, you’re what…’ his face took on a sly cast, ‘visiting someone? Husband, boyfriend?’

  ‘I’m a psychiatrist.’

  ‘A shrink? Say no more.’ He held up his hands. ‘But you won’t get there on time with a taxi. Those guys hate coming out here.’ He twisted round to squint at the wall clock. ‘Hey, kid.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Kenny! Get yer butt in here. I’m going to run this lady into the city.’ He fixed the boy with an ‘I-mean-business’ stare. ‘Don’t go scaring off the customers while I’m gone. And no messing around on the computer, either.’

  Kenny looked shifty, Reggie aggrieved, as he hustled her out of the office and herded her in the direction of a battered pickup.

  Erin stuffed her hands in her pockets, her shoulders hunched against the wind. ‘Are you sure it’s no trouble?’ It was a long way, and the roads were slick with ice.

  ‘Nah, I can tell it’ll be slow today. Besides, I wouldn’t feel right keeping a doc from her patient.’ He let the words hang in the air, as if hoping she’d reveal a salacious detail he could repeat to his mates.

  Strapped in the passenger seat, she studied the skeins of ice forming on the windscreen as the truck fishtailed on the macadam. Reggie turned on the defroster and switched the radio to a pop station.

  ‘It’s not often I get away from the garage.’ He wiped the fogged glass with his hand. ‘Most days you’ll find me under the chassis like a regular grease monkey. Not for long, though. I’ve got my eye on a little place in Florida. Right on the water, where the fishing’s good,’ he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘About time I retire. My back’s shot, and the economy’s all gone to hell.’ He peered through the gloom. ‘We’re dying up here.’

  Too keyed up to respond, she let his words pass over her.

  He flipped the dial on the radio and glanced at Erin.‘Visiting a patient, huh? That must be something. Regular folks like me can only imagine what goes on over there.’

  Silence filled the cab. Long silences were her stock-in-trade, though he wouldn’t know that. Naturally, he was curious. They all were. In any town with a psychiatric hospital, especially one for the criminally insane, rumours about what went on behind the razor wire must run wild. Nuthouse. Loony bin, psycho ward, insane asylum. She wondered what the other good citizens of Atherton called it.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ she said, holding her chilly hands close to the heating vent. ‘The patients are usually well cared for, even in a state facility like Greenlake. Straitjackets and manacles… those things are only in the movies.’

  ‘If you say so.’ He scratched the stubble on his jaw. ‘Sure was a panic around here a few years back. One of those, waddya call ’em, inmates escaped. Took the cops more than a week to find him. Axe murderer, was what I heard. Some of the parents wanted to keep their kids home from school till he was found. Finally caught the guy skulking around some lady’s garbage cans at night. Not a half a mile from my house. Gave my wife the whim-whams. It all turned out okay in the end, but folks were pretty shook up at the time. I thought the crazies were locked up for good, but turns out they can get out on a day pass and roam around the city, just as they please. Who knew?’

  She shifted in her seat. An escapee from Greenlake? She could only hope it wasn’t Tim Stern. They passed a cluster of derelict buildings on the side of the motorway, faintly illuminated by the yellow glow of the sodium lights.

  Her fingers were still cold, and she pulled on her gloves. ‘How long will it take to fix my car?’

  Reggie made a sharp turn to the right and coasted down the exit ramp through the gloom. ‘Can’t say till I look under the hood.’ He pulled a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. ‘Give me a call when you’re done. With any luck, you’ll be back on the road this afternoon.’

  A red light appeared in the mist, and Reggie braked hard as a huddled mass of pedestrians, shapeless in their parkas, shu?ed across the intersection. When the light changed, he turned right and skirted around the fag end of an industrial estate. In the distance, a crenulated shape emerged in the mist. Shipwrecked in the middle of a wasteland, the gothic edifice couldn’t be anything other than what it was: an asylum for the insane. But not in the good sense. Nothing about the place suggested sanctuary. More like the end of the road in a madman’s vision of hell.

  ‘Almost there,’ Reggie said. ‘Didn’t I tell you I’d getchya there on time?’

  *

  At the massive front gate, a guard examined her ID with exaggerated care before waving her through. It was a good hundred yards from the guardhouse to the main entrance, and by the time she traversed the gritty path, Erin managed to complete a relaxation technique she liked to do before entering a locked ward. A few minutes of focused breathing and mindful visualisation designed to shield her psyche from whatever madness awaited.

  We’re all mad. Did you think you could escape?

  She jerked around. But there was no one there. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, trying to calm the thump in her chest. At the base of the stone steps, she refastened the knot of hair at the back of her neck and approached the steel doors, reminding herself she was a doctor consulting on a case, not a woman about to meet a man who had a connection, however remote, to her past. The blackened bricks and barred windows towered over her, blocking out the sky.

  With any luck, she’d be finished in an hour and back on the road to Lansford. If her car was up and running, that is, and the forecasted snowstorm failed to arrive. She didn’t relish the thought of spending the night here.

  8

  In the narrow entry hall, not much bigger than a coffin, Erin showed her ID to a guard seated behind two inches of Perspex. Before passing through a metal detector, she emptied her pockets and placed the contents in a plastic tray. An attendant in a stained smock with a face the colour of boiled beef arrived to escort her to the office of Dr Robert Harrison, Greenlake’s director and the psychiatrist in charge of Tim Stern’s case.

  Last night, unable to sleep, Erin had gone online to ferret out whatever details she could about this man who claimed to know her. Not a fan of surprises, she wanted to arm herself with as much information as possible. In the pre-dawn darkness, she had dressed with care. Grey trousers and a plain navy jumper. Bright colours and patterns could be disturbing for some patients. No jewellery, except for her quetzal pendant, hidden underneath her clothes. Anything that could be grabbed was just asking for trouble.

  The attendant led her through a rat cage of tunnels that must have been added to the original nineteenth-century building. Each time they passed through a locked door, an ear-splitting buzzer shattered the air and rattled her teeth. Erin’s heart beat faster and her palms prickled with sweat. Patches of mould bloomed on the plaster walls. Moisture from a ceiling pipe dripped onto the back of her neck. Two right turns and then a left. Where was he taking her? An unearthly shriek split the air, followed by shouts and the drumbeat of running feet.

  At last, they entered what looked like a ward. A large dayroom, opposite a Perspex-enclosed nursing station, was filled with a dozen men, clad in the motley cast-offs of the asylum. A few were positioned round a television like potted plants. Others had staked out various sites around
the room. Crouched in a corner, a man with dirty blond hair and glittering eyes gabbled wildly, snapping and flicking his fingers before his eyes. On the far side, near the windows, a skeletal man, naked but for a grubby tunic, stood on one leg, shrieking like an enraged ibis.

  As Erin passed in front of the nurses’ station, a woman with cat-eye glasses glanced at her through the partition. She was led through another locked door and into a narrow corridor, this one with better lighting and a fresh coat of paint. The attendant rapped on a half-closed door. He had yet to say a word.

  ‘Dr Cartwright, do come in.’ A tall man with a long thin nose and a halo of grey hair dashed from behind the desk to remove a stack of files from a worn leather chair. At the sound of his voice, Erin stopped short. He was an older version of the man she’d found online, but the Oxbridge accent was a surprise. Her sleuthing had revealed a medical degree from Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. But nothing about being British. Her cheeks flushed. Would her Home Counties accent be good enough to fool him? It was one thing to fob herself off as English in a city like London, with its cauldron of accents and ethnicities, but quite another to fool a native Englishman on foreign ground. If she slipped up, she could always blame it on the corrupting effect of four months in America.

  Over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses, he gazed at her with an air of confusion. Perhaps he’d realised his mistake and didn’t know her after all. On the wall behind the desk, three framed photos of snowy Alpine peaks, dazzling in the winter sunshine, provided a personal touch to the otherwise austere room.

  He gestured to the leather chair facing the desk. ‘Thank you for coming. I realise I’m taking you away from your regular duties, but it’s our policy to convene a panel that includes outside experts.’ He tapped a file on his desk. ‘And you come highly recommended.’

  She hesitated before taking a seat. Recommended by whom? Had she met Harrison at a conference and simply forgotten? Though it was unlikely. Names sometimes slipped her mind, but never faces.