by Ann Gosslin
‘Sugar’s on the table. You take milk?’ He removed a carton from the refrigerator and gave it a sniff. ‘I did indeed,’ he said, when they were seated across from each other, the steaming mugs between them. ‘Gilbert’s Hardware. Nineteen years, right smack in the middle of Main Street. It was supposed to be Gilbert & Sons at some point, but neither of my boys wanted anything to do with it. Three years ago, I sold it to a young couple from New York City. Wish I’d known they were going to turn it into a coffee place, or I might not have done it. Poked my head in there a while back, thinking maybe I’d get a cup of joe. But all they’ve got are these godawful… confections that nobody’s ever heard of, least not in my day. Hazelnut swirl delight.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Viennese amaretto thingamabob. Whatever that is. Well, good luck to them.’
A clock chimed the hour. A deeply resonant tone from another age. They drank their coffee in silence.
‘I was eleven when Tim Stern murdered his family,’ Erin said, glancing up to meet his eye. ‘I was staying in Belle River with my family the summer it happened, I didn’t lie about that.’
He looked at her steadily before setting his cup on the table. ‘I’ve got a tin of ginger snaps somewhere,’ he said, hauling himself from the chair. ‘Gift from the ladies at the care home.’ After a brief rummage in the cupboard, he pulled out a round tin, gaily patterned with blue and yellow pansies.
Care home? She took one of the proffered biscuits. Was that where his wife was?
The warm kitchen, a kindly old man, coffee and ginger snaps. Such a homely tableau. When was the last time she’d done anything like this? A spasm of grief passed through her, for what she’d lost, or never had. She turned away and blinked back tears.
‘We bought the place in the winter of ’79,’ he said, dunking a ginger snap in his coffee. ‘Didn’t know about the murders at the time, though Milly and I were surprised the asking price was so cheap. Just a couple of yokels from the Midwest, so what did we know? That realtor lady sure kept her lip zipped. Didn’t take long for us to find out, what with the neighbours busting to spill the news in all its gory detail. They trooped over here with their welcome casseroles and their gossip.’ He added another splash of milk to his coffee. ‘Poor Milly. She wanted to move out before we’d unpacked the boxes, but we’d sunk all our money into the house. And given the history, who would buy it?’
Erin turned her head towards the window. If he’d bought the house in 1979, then she might have passed Mr Gilbert on the street a few years after that. But in those days, newly freed from Danfield and under the protection of her aunt, she had kept close to Olivia’s house, terrified of being plucked off the street and spirited away.
‘But Milly was so spooked by what happened here, she couldn’t sleep,’ Mr Gilbert was saying. ‘The local librarian, a sweet old gal and smart as a whip, understood our dilemma, so she suggested we do some kind of cleansing ritual. If nothing else, it might make Milly feel better. So, Milly got hold of some old gent from the Penobscot tribe. He came in with a lot of gewgaws and whatsits. Burned a bunch of feathers and switchgrass, with plenty of chanting and dancing to go along with it. When he was done, he claimed the spirits of the dead had agreed to leave the house. Agreed, that’s the word he used. Can you believe it? Stuff and nonsense. But after that, Milly did feel better, so who was I to scoff?’
He looked round the kitchen. ‘Funny how the house burned down while we were out of town. A little road trip to Ohio to visit Milly’s family. Got back to find the place charred to bits. ’Course, the police came around asking questions. Did we have any enemies? Shady business connections? The insurance money paid to build this place.’ He cocked his head at the door to the hallway. ‘Sometimes I hear things that go bump in the night, but usually it’s squirrels or raccoons that get into the attic.’ He gave her a sly wink. ‘Scared you, didn’t it, all that hullabaloo up there? Family of raccoons set up camp about a month ago. Don’t have the heart to move them, even though they make a godawful racket when the mood strikes.’ He glanced out the window, as if he’d just remembered his rhododendrons and the threat of rain. ‘My wife’s got the Alzheimer’s now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Yes, well. Our kids visit when they can, but they’ve got their own lives, and their own families to worry about.’ He stood and craned his neck to scan at the sky. ‘I’m going to have to get back to my rhodies soon. Milly loved her garden and I try to keep it going for her sake.’
*
Out front, he examined the sodden lawn. ‘You know, I think about that boy sometimes,’ he said, as he walked her to her car. ‘Wondering what kind of demons drove him to do such a terrible thing. Hard to make sense of, isn’t it?’ He tugged a canvas hat over his head. ‘Back in high school, our younger boy got in with a bad crowd. Drinking, drugs, breaking into houses. There was a time Milly and I thought the best thing that could happen was for him to get arrested. We thought that a spell in juvenile hall, or even jail, would knock some sense into him. But he managed to straighten himself out in the end. When I think about that boy who lived here… there but for the grace of God. It could have been my kid.’
He picked up the shovel and started across the lawn before turning back. ‘You got any children, Miss Carson?’
She shook her head.
‘Well, if you ever do have any, keep in mind that it isn’t always a rose garden. Raising kids, I mean.’ He turned his head away. ‘And speaking of gardens… I best be getting on with it.’
*
On the road back to town, Erin thought about something Mr Gilbert had said. How the local librarian had been a help to them. Ruth Davis it must have been. To Erin, Mrs Davis had been a wellspring of warmth and wisdom, and it was nice to know someone else appreciated her kindness and sharp mind. She’d be retired now, and it was anybody’s guess where she might be living, but if anyone had inside knowledge of the town’s secrets, it would be her. And after a whole day of wandering around town without incident, Erin’s fear she might be recognised had faded to nothing but a whisper.
23
Greenlake Psychiatric Facility
Atherton, New York
April, Present Day
Greenlake’s steel gate swung open to allow Erin through. Two weeks had passed since the ill-fated lunch at the Adirondack Café. With any luck, despite her blunder, Tim wouldn’t have lost the delicate trust she’d managed to foster between them, and they could pick up where they left off. In the morning, she would conduct another unstructured assessment, and in the afternoon complete the final evaluation mandated by the state. That would give her plenty of time to write her report and send it to the review board. Whatever happened after that was out of her hands.
The mild weather put a spring in her step that not even the incessant buzz and clank of the ward could dispel. But after being ushered into Harrison’s office by an attendant, one look at his distracted expression and deathly pallor was enough to puncture her buoyant mood.
She hung back by the door. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Perspiration dotted his forehead. ‘Tim suffered a relapse in the early hours of the morning. A rather severe psychotic episode, I’m afraid. We had to put him in restraints and forcibly sedate him.’ He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s been chaos around here. Just last week, a patient in Tim’s ward was found dead with his throat cut.’
A chill passed through her, and she waited for him to say more.
‘I’ve been up all night,’ he continued, sinking back into his chair. ‘I should have cancelled your appointment today, but it completely slipped my mind.’
Distracted and distraught though he was, it was imperative that Erin hear the details. This new development in Tim’s case could change everything. She set her bag on the floor. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘The death? Or Tim’s relapse?’
‘Are they related?’
‘Possibly.’ He motioned for he
r to sit. ‘It was Darryl who was killed.’
She settled in the chair. ‘Darryl?
‘The man who liked to pretend-steal Tim’s Sudoku.’
Erin felt a wave of unease as she slipped her arms out of her coat. ‘Do you know who’s responsible?’
‘Not yet. Though I have my suspicions.’ He shuffled some papers on his desk. ‘Two of our attendants are being questioned by the police. One might be arrested. He’s a fairly new hire, with a record of violence, apparently, though I’m not sure how he slipped through our vetting procedure.’ He made a note in the file in front of him and snapped it closed. ‘When I took over the reins here fifteen years ago, the first thing I did was to institute a number of reforms. The abuse of inmates that went on in this place would make your blood curdle. Though it hasn’t always been smooth sailing, I’ve been proud of our record since then. But now this.’
She examined the extreme pallor of his skin. If anything, he had grown even paler, as if he’d lost a great deal of blood. ‘So, Tim’s not under suspicion?’
Harrison looked startled. ‘Indeed, no. We’ve definitely ruled him out.’ He paused. ‘Though I can’t say it didn’t cross my mind.’
*
They passed through the ward and its series of locked doors. The air was especially stale, as if the whole place was in lockdown. Erin paused as they walked by the dayroom, where a dozen or more patients milled about, but there was no sign of Tim. In the staffroom, Harrison poured out the old coffee and started a fresh pot.
‘It began last night,’ he said, picking up the narrative he’d begun in his office, ‘when Tim refused to turn his light off. He was quite insistent it stay on. When the attendant switched it off anyway, Tim launched himself off the bed, howling with outrage.’
This was a side of Tim she hadn’t seen. ‘Did he attack the attendant?’
‘Fortunately, no. But he was clearly distressed. And the attendant was rattled, to say the least. He’s never known Tim to be violent. Not in his five years on the ward. In the end, he told Tim he could sleep with the light on. But the attendant who came in for the late shift must have turned it off, because the room was dark when Tim began shouting around two in the morning. It took three attendants to restrain him long enough to get a needle into him. About an hour ago, we moved him to an isolation room.’
Poor Tim. He must be terrified. But Erin’s heart sank at the thought of another delay. As for Harrison, he seemed not only dispirited, but physically ill. Making a mental note of the date and time, she couldn’t help wondering if they were back at square one. ‘Shall I suspend my assessment?’
He finished his coffee and poured another. ‘I think we should proceed as planned. We’ve adjusted his medication, and there’s still plenty of time. Your report’s not due until the end of May. In a week or two, your schedule permitting, we can start again.’ He glanced at the barred window overlooking the car park. ‘Oh, now that you’re here, I heard you accompanied Lydia Belmont on the home study visit.’ He grabbed a sponge to scrub at a stain by the sink. ‘I understand the house is rather isolated. That’s a worry, of course. But at least Stern has a mobile phone and internet access. They won’t be completely cut off.’
Erin said nothing, but she couldn’t help thinking that, given the isolation, the phone and internet would offer little help in a crisis. ‘Would you consider allowing Tim to see the house, before anything is decided?’ If he didn’t like the place, it might have an impact on her assessment.
‘Normally, I would, but what Tim thinks about the house won’t make any difference now.’ Harrison loosened the knot on his tie.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Greenlake has become another fiscal casualty, I’m afraid.
We’re slated for closure at the end of the year. Any patients not fit for release into the community will be transferred to other secure facilities in the state.’ He sat on one of the worn sofas and rubbed his knee. ‘If it were up to me, Dr Cartwright, he would remain at Greenlake for the remainder of his natural life. Since that’s no longer an option, we should all be grateful that Tim’s father has stepped forward.’
The news was like a blow. How long had he known? And why wait until now, when her evaluation was nearly finished, to drop the bombshell? If Tim were declared unfit for release, he would be shipped off to another facility. Even more crowded and grim than Greenlake, surely, with a different warden and staff and a new set of rules. So, regardless of her concerns about sending Tim to his father, she had no choice but to advocate for his release.
The room was stifling and she fanned her face. When her eyes met his, she saw sympathy in his look. In that moment, a light blinked on. Of course, he knew. He’d known all along about her role in the Leonard Whidby case. Hobart must have told him. So, he understood her dilemma, and that a heightened concern for the father’s safety was a significant factor in her decision.
*
As they walked back through the ward, Erin was beset with painful memories of the Whidby case. Two days after Leonard was released, on Erin’s recommendation, from the psych ward of a hospital in Sheffield, she had arrived home at her flat in the evening to find him standing in the bedroom, wielding one of her kitchen knives, blood seeping from a wound on his hand, and his eyes glinting with malice.
Erin had stood in the doorway, frozen in terror, until her training kicked in. She remembered to make eye contact and speak in a calm voice. ‘You seem upset, Leonard. Why don’t you put the knife down so we can talk about how you’re feeling.’ Trying to sound friendly and supportive, while agonisingly aware he might kill her if she made a sudden move. Putting on a bright voice, she had announced she was hungry and would like to order a pizza. He was welcome to share it with her. She’d smiled at him as she dialled the number of a psychiatrist friend. While fake ordering a cheese pizza, she had said their emergency code word, gripping the phone to keep her hand from shaking. That one word, heavenly, had saved her life.
After the police stormed through her door and took Leonard away, she had fallen to the floor in a heap, unable to stop shaking. Later, she learned that after savagely gunning down his parents in their home, he had dismembered the bodies with a butcher’s knife.
As a newly minted doctor, she’d been taken in by Leonard’s winning smile and beguiling charm, too naive to understand she was dealing with a psychopath. A skilled chameleon, he reflected back whatever she wanted to see and believe. After the Whidby case, notorious throughout the country, and her name in all the papers, she’d abruptly ended her career in forensic psychiatry.
No more criminally violent men.
Until now. Stern’s blood on her hands would be more than she could bear.
‘Yours is not an easy position to be in, Dr Cartwright,’ Harrison said, when they reached his office. ‘If it’s any consolation, it helps me to remember that we’re not gods but mere mortals with little control, if any, over the fate of our patients. Particularly after they leave our care.’ He laid a paternal hand on her shoulder. ‘Our best is all we can ever do. Everything else must be given up to fate.’
*
An attendant with a spider tattoo on his neck was Erin’s mute companion on the long trek to the isolation room. The paint on the heavy steel door, once white, had been scratched and clawed away. She stood on her toes to peer through the observation window, no bigger than the width of her hand. Welcome to hell. She closed her eyes, waiting for darkness to descend. But for Tim’s sake, she bit her lip and pulled herself together.
The room appeared empty, and her heart skipped a beat. Could he have escaped? But in the corner, she spotted what looked like a pile of rags. It was Tim, in white hospital garb, curled into a ball, rocking to and fro. A vision of despair.
Behind her, the attendant stood uncomfortably close. She could smell the stink of alcohol on his breath.
‘How long will he have to stay in there?’
The man grunted. ‘That’s for the docs to decide.’ He jangled a fist
ful of keys and unlocked the door.
She hesitated. Her last meeting with Tim didn’t end well. In the grip of a paranoid delusion, he might see her as the enemy, a co-conspirator behind his loss of freedom.
‘In or out?’ the attendant said. On his neck, the spider jerked with each beat of the man’s blood.
She stepped into the room, and the door slammed shut behind her. No going back now. Mould, stale urine, unwashed feet. The smell made her gag.
‘Hello, Timothy.’ The rocking continued. ‘It’s Dr Cartwright.’ She hung back against the closed door. ‘I wanted to make sure you were all right.’
From the corner came a high-pitched, insistent humming, like a wasp.
‘Dr Harrison told me you were upset last night. Would you like to talk about it?’ No response. Perhaps a distraction would help. ‘If you’re feeling up to it, we could play a game. Something with numbers.’ She removed a pencil stub from her pocket and sketched a triangle on the padded canvas. In the middle, she wrote the number nine. ‘It’s called a magic triangle.’
Tim’s face remained buried in his arms.
‘Take a look, it really is like magic.’
Slowly, he raised his head, and she gasped at the condition of his face. Eyes like bruised plums. An angry swelling disfigured his jaw. Did they have to be so rough? His eyes were fixed on a rust-coloured stain on the floor.
‘A triangle…?’Alert, but wary.
‘Yes. I’ve drawn one on the wall.’
Tim tightened the grip on his knees, but his battered face showed a flicker of interest. Whatever had happened, he was still in there.
‘This one’s easy,’ she said. ‘All you need to do is come up with three numbers on each side that add up to nine. Do you want to try it?’ She held out the pencil. Too short to be used as an effective weapon. But still. If she cried out, no one would hear her. She could only hope someone was watching them on the monitor.
His eyes flicked from the pencil to the floor. She stayed still, though her arm was beginning to ache. Like a wax figure coming to life, he loosened his grip on his knees and staggered upright. The room, no more than ten by twelve feet, was worryingly small, and she tensed. When she stepped forward and placed the pencil in his palm, her fingers grazed his skin. Gripping the pencil stub in his fist, he shuffled to the wall. In a matter of seconds, the puzzle was completed, the numbers jagged as chicken scratches on the dirty canvas.