The Shadow Bird

by Ann Gosslin

  As Ray turned to look at the far side of the park, a muscle twitched in his cheek. ‘Okay. But why tell me now?’

  Because I’m tired of lying. She was ready to blurt it out, but what would be the point? He wouldn’t want to see her again, not after today. ‘I’ve completed my assessment.’

  ‘So, you’re done with the case?’

  ‘In principle, yes.’ Her cheeks felt hot. ‘I recommended that Tim be released.’

  ‘Released? To what… some kind of halfway house?’

  Above their heads, the leaves rustled in a passing gust of wind. Her skin prickled from a sudden chill. ‘No. If the state agrees to release him, he’ll go live with his father.’

  Ray’s chin jerked up. ‘Why would he do that?’

  She plucked a leaf from a nearby shrub and rolled it between her fingers. ‘That’s a question I’ve been trying to answer myself. And I can’t get it out of my mind. I mean, Tim killed the man’s wife and daughters. Who’s to say, once he’s under his father’s roof, that he won’t finish the job?’

  Show him the floor plan. What do you have to lose? That voice, a sibilant whisper. ‘Go away.’

  ‘What?’

  Had she spoken out loud? ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean you.’ A white-hot pain stabbed her temple. The flickering light, coming through the leaves, bothered her eyes. She shifted to the shady part of the bench before pulling the floor plan from her bag. On the backside of the paper, she’d copied some notes from the police report. ‘You’ve been inside Tim’s house, right?’

  He hesitated. ‘Once or twice. For that science project, remember?’

  A group of tourists, squinting skyward, bumbled past as they pointed their cameras at random objects and people. Erin waited until they were on the other side of the park before continuing. ‘Did you know that the original house burned down?’

  ‘Did it?’ He shook his head. ‘I never heard about that. But I’ve hardly been back since leaving home.’ His voice was flat, and his face shut down. Here they were, on a beautiful spring day, and she was forcing him to remember a time and place he’d put behind him long ago.

  ‘This is the layout of the house,’ she said, handing him the floor plan. ‘Could you walk me through the rooms?’

  He gave her a searching look before squinting at the sketch in his hand. A ripple of irritation crossed his face. If he wanted to get away from her as fast as possible, she wouldn’t blame him. As soon as he gave her the information she sought, Erin would head for the train station and leave Ray in peace.

  ‘So, the police are suggesting… what?’ He ran his index finger along the arrows. ‘That Tim killed his sisters in their bedroom, and then went downstairs and murdered his mother in the kitchen?’ When he looked up, his face was pale. ‘Seems very methodical to me.’

  ‘The deaths were close together in time,’ Erin said. ‘Which makes sense if Tim was in the grip of psychosis. A psychotic breakdown, or drug-induced psychosis, might have triggered a violent response to a perceived threat.’ She shifted her legs on the bench. ‘From the time he was picked up until now, twenty-seven years later, Tim claims not to remember anything about that night, or the three days afterwards when he went missing.’

  ‘Tim’s psychosis was drug-induced?’

  ‘Possibly.’ A gust of wind blew a loose strand of hair across her face. ‘The brain is complicated. A drug-induced psychosis can mimic a psychotic disorder, such as schizophrenia. No drugs were found in Tim’s blood or urine when he was tested, but they could have cleared his system in the three days he was missing. Or he could have taken something a few days, or even a week, before the killings. Delayed reactions are common with PCP.’

  ‘PCP. You mean angel dust? That can cause a delayed reaction?’ He leaned back and ran his hands through his hair. ‘Plenty of drugs floating around back then. LSD, mushrooms, speed. Not to mention truckloads of marijuana.’ His attempt at a smile quickly faded. ‘Could Tim have taken PCP without knowing it?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Clouds moved in, blocking out the sun. For a moment, neither of them spoke. She shivered and pulled on her cardigan.

  ‘Shall we get something to eat?’ Ray stood. ‘Midtown’s dead on Sundays. But we could take a cab up to my neighbourhood.’

  She hesitated, surprised by the invitation. But not quite ready to head back to Lansford, she was happy to follow his lead.

  When he took her hand, his palm was warm, and she sucked in her breath, enjoying the feeling of being cared for. After coming clean about her name and profession, and her connection to Tim, she had expected him to send her packing. That he still wanted to spend time with her seemed a mark of character. As they left the park to hail a cab, she felt lighter than she had in years.

  *

  Ten past midnight. By the time Erin pulled up to the kerb in front of her building in Lansford, all was dark. Even the porchlight was switched off. She sat in the car and listened to the engine cool, scanning the deserted street for signs of life. In the silence, she could hear the blood pulsing in her ears.

  Inside the flat, she made the usual rounds. Closing the blinds, flicking on the lights, checking inside the cupboards and under the bed. Only then did she collapse on the sofa in the front room, too wired to sleep. A draught crept along the floorboards and rustled the curtains. The lights from a passing car cast shadows on the wall.

  The day, which began with such promise, had morphed into a full-on train wreck. After a stroll through Central Park and an early dinner at an Italian bistro, Ray had invited her back to his flat, tucking her arm into his as they walked up Broadway. The glow of the street lights filtered through the leaves, and the sound of their footsteps rang out in the soft air. After opening the door to his flat, and ushering her inside, he’d pulled her into his arms.

  Woozy from the wine she’d drunk at dinner, she followed his lead as her coat slipped from her shoulders and onto the floor. Ray had switched on some Cuban music, samba or merengue, and danced her down the hall and over to the bed, kissing her neck and shoulders.

  Riding the wave of his touch, his mouth on hers, she grew limp in his arms, until he unbuttoned her blouse and his fingers found the scar. He’d traced its length with his fingers before she realised what he was doing.

  ‘What happened to you?’ His voice was soft, but there was a note of something else. Fear. Suspicion. Here was one more thing she’d chosen to hide.

  With a start, she pulled away and yanked her blouse closed.

  ‘I can’t talk about it,’ she whispered. Then she had fled.

  But there was nowhere to run.

  Even now, alone in her flat, clutching a mug of camomile tea, anxiety flowered like a weed. Her fingers slid under her shirt, seeking the scar, familiar as her own face and hands. The terror of that awful time was locked in the past, or should be.

  Using an old trick to calm her nerves, she focused on the items in the room, naming each one aloud in turn. Table, chair, fireplace, window. But instead of the desired sensation of calm, the floor plan of the Stern house flashed in her mind, the red arrows pointing out the path of the crime, the lifeless bodies, the walls stained with blood. When an errant thought wriggled to the surface, her hands shook so hard she spilled her tea.

  What if it was Stern?

  33

  Matlock, Vermont

  June, Present Day

  Twelve miles west of Stern’s farmhouse, Erin idled her car at a stop sign. Hanover, Vermont boasted a white-steeple church and tidy clapboard houses clustered round a village green. It was as good a place as any to base her operations. A sufficient distance from Stern’s house to avoid running into him, but close enough to get an idea of the local area.

  ‘First time staying with us?’ A woman in a pink cardigan placed a room key in Erin’s hand. ‘In the lounge, you’ll find all kinds of information on the area. Hiking trails, local history, and scenic points of interest. We’ve got an award-winning chef, but if you’d rathe
r dine out, there are two other options in town. Nothing fancy, but popular with the locals. Enjoy your stay, Ms Cartwright.’ She snapped her fingers at a uniformed boy skulking in the corner, waiting to carry her bag.

  Her room on the top floor boasted a canopy bed and a large bathroom with a claw-foot tub. A world away from the motorway motel in Atherton. For a moment, Erin considered ditching her plans to spy on Stern and treat herself to a relaxing weekend.

  In the lounge, birch logs were stacked in the fireplace, ready to be lit. A selection of paperbacks lined the oak shelves. Dark green damask drapes were drawn against the midday sun. After making a cup of tea from the machine on the sideboard, Erin examined the glossy maps and tourist pamphlets. Stern’s village was a tiny dot on the county map and she circled it with a pen. Her online search for details of Stern’s life had yielded little. Whatever he might have done out in California, he’d kept a low profile. Later on, she planned to drive over to Matlock and have a look around. What she hoped to find was yet unclear, but she would know it when she saw it. This time, unhampered by Lydia’s restraining hand and Stern’s determined enthusiasm, she’d like to get a clearer picture of Tim’s future surroundings.

  Fortified with a cup of sweet, milky tea and two lemon biscuits, she headed east in the direction of the mountains. After twenty minutes of driving on a narrow road that snaked through the forest, she reached the town of Matlock, population 628. Tiny, as towns go, but big enough to support a general store, a lunchroom, and a roadside tavern. Before leaving the Black Horse Inn in Hanover, she’d pulled a shapeless grey jumper over her jeans, and shoved her feet into ratty plimsolls. With her hair tied into a long plait and her head covered with a baseball cap, it was unlikely Stern would recognise her, should she be unfortunate enough to run into him.

  In the time since her last visit, when the ground was crusty with frost, a transformation had taken place. An impressionist’s palette of green and gold bestowed colour to the fields and farmland, and the air was full of birdsong. A lunchroom called the Brightside Café sported pink and white petunias by the door. In front of the food market, the adverts were bleached in the sun.

  The village hardly made a dent in the surrounding countryside, with the green hills flowing to the horizon. After twenty-seven years of life in a locked ward, how would Tim cope in this vast open space? Would he accompany his father into town and sit at a table in the lunchroom to eat a grilled cheese sandwich and fried onion rings? Or would Stern choose to keep his son tucked away at home, far from prying eyes and village gossip? If confined to Stern’s property, Tim might be happy enough to play with the dog, feed the ducks and collect eggs from the henhouse. A good enough solution in the warm months. But during the long, dark winters, with the land blanketed in snow, how would the two of them cope?

  In the gravel lot behind the market, Erin parked her car at an angle so that anyone driving by wouldn’t see the out-of state licence plate. Though New York plates on a weekend in June might not be a strange sight, she didn’t want to advertise her presence. From the boot, she lifted out the hired bicycle and locked it to a fence post.

  Inside Garry’s Food Mart, a shaggy bear of a man dropped the plastic-wrapped cheese sandwich, apple and bottle of water into a paper bag. ‘Going on a hike?’ His face was easy to read. City girl, not equipped for the rugged outdoors. ‘Don’t get lost out there. Could be a long time before anyone found you.’ He took her money and handed her the bag.

  Stern’s farmhouse was nearly five miles out of town, but the road was mainly level and on the bicycle she made good time. Three hundred yards from the house, she pulled onto the verge and propped the bike against a towering oak. With the high-powered binoculars she’d bought at the mall in Lansford, the Stern farm, pristine in the sunlight, swam into view.

  She’d crossed a line now. Spying on a patient’s family was an egregious breach of ethics. If she were caught, she could lose her licence. But if anyone were to wonder what she was doing, lurking on the edge of the forest with a pair of binoculars, she could claim to be a bird enthusiast, on the lookout for… what, a red-tailed hawk, an eagle? She’d seen a number of birds of prey soaring overhead, scouting the stubbled fields for voles and mice, but lacked the knowledge to name them. Other than the common garden varieties, what she knew about birds would fill a teaspoon. As of yesterday, though, she could add one more name to her list. The one that Tim had mumbled under his breath. Scopus umbretta, or hamerkop, a native of southern Africa and Madagascar. A large brown bird with an anvil-shaped head and mysterious habits. Scopus, from the Greek for shadow, and umbretta, brown.

  A slow pan of the property revealed nothing of interest. The yard was empty, and the windows shut. Nothing to suggest anyone was home. Though Stern could be out in the barn or sipping one of his machine-made cappuccinos on the patio behind the kitchen. A dark blue Audi was parked out front. Stern’s other car, perhaps, or it could belong to the housekeeper. She couldn’t remember what kind of car the woman drove.

  She lowered the binoculars and rubbed her eyes. Having got this close to the house without being seen, her breath came easier. A mosquito buzzed in her ear and she swatted it away. As she turned to mount the bike and pedal back to town, the front door of the house opened, and a man stepped out. Ducking behind the oak, she focused the binoculars on his face, but it wasn’t Stern. This man had salt-and-pepper hair and a distinct stoop to his shoulders. His bulky jumper, the colour of porridge, looked too warm for the weather, and the khaki trousers bagged at the knees. Stern stepped through the doorway after him, his face like a slab of granite. He appeared to be shouting.

  The man in the beige jumper said nothing, just headed straight towards the Audi. As he climbed into the car, Erin got a good look at his face. Puffy cheeks, ruddy nose, heavy bags under the eyes. Her palms prickled as she scrambled to adjust the focus. Something about the slant of his neck, and the way he lifted his hand with an air of defeat to smooth back his thinning hair. Could she have seen him before? An old crony of Stern’s, perhaps, from his Belle River days?

  As the man turned the car around, the plates came into view. Massachusetts. But before she could memorise the number, he sped down Stern’s drive, scattering gravel as he spun the wheel. Instead of turning left towards town and the road to Massachusetts, he pointed the car in the direction of the distant hills, and whatever lay beyond the ridge of mountains to the east.

  Stern stood on the front stoop, arms crossed, shoulders tense. Only after the Audi disappeared from view did he go back inside the house.

  What now? She couldn’t follow Stern’s visitor on the bicycle. And lurking in the shadow of the oak, spying on Stern with the binoculars, was beginning to feel absurd. She straightened her legs from her awkward crouch and headed back to the village. The road had been empty all morning, but as she rounded a curve, a car coming up rapidly behind her honked twice and careened past, nearly running her into a drainage ditch. She squeezed the brakes and bumped to a stop on the grassy verge, looking up in time to see Stern’s silver SUV flinging gravel as it roared away.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. Where was he going in such a hurry? She hoped someplace far away. With her car parked behind Garry’s Food Mart, it would be easy for their paths to cross.

  By the time she reached the village, it was nearly three, and a few locals were out on the streets. She stowed the bike in the boot of her car and drove towards Hanover, keeping a steady eye on the rear-view mirror. But there was no sign of Stern’s SUV, or the dark blue Audi.

  *

  Back in Hanover, a farmers’ market was in full swing. Around the village green, trestle tables stacked with jams and maple syrup and cranberry bread made a lively sight. From her room on the top floor of the inn, with its view of the street, Erin scanned the green with her binoculars, on the lookout for Stern. Was he mingling with the townsfolk, filling a canvas shopping bag with pots of honey and home-made strawberry jam, as he chatted with his neighbours? That’s what she wanted to b
elieve. But the rage on Stern’s face as he watched his visitor drive away told a different story. Clearly, the man in the Audi hadn’t been trying to sell Stern a magazine subscription. There was a history there.

  Seated at a table in the Morning Glory Café, engrossed in an article on a local case of arson, she nearly failed to look up when the door swung open, and a woman sailed in, bringing with her a rush of fresh air. Cropped blonde hair, figure-hugging black trousers. It was Stern’s housekeeper.

  Erin hid behind the newspaper as the woman carried her coffee to a table by the window. In her suede loafers and peach linen blouse, she clearly hadn’t come from cleaning Stern’s home. That the housekeeper might recognise her was unlikely, but just when Erin thought it was safe to slip outside, Stern breezed through the open door, his face flushed, his jaw tense. As he joined the woman at her table, he leaned in to kiss her on the mouth. Her expression softened, and she stroked his cheek. Not his housekeeper, it would seem. But lying about his love life was hardly a crime.

  The counter girl arrived to clear away Erin’s empty mug. ‘Anything else for you? We’ve got some nice sandwiches today and a delicious veggie soup.’

  The housekeeper glanced over as Erin shook her head and raised the newspaper to hide her face. Would she have to wait for them to leave? Perhaps, if she was lucky, she might be able to breeze past them undetected. But Stern seemed the type of man who noticed the smallest detail. As a lawyer, he’d be good with faces and body language. Bad luck that she’d removed her baseball cap and sunglasses when she came inside. It would look odd now if she put them back on. During the home study visit with Lydia, she’d worn a charcoal-grey trouser suit and her black-framed spectacles. Dressed as she was now, in jeans and a jumper, and her hair in a messy bun, she could easily pass for a college student. He might not make the connection.

  Trapped behind the newspaper, she tried to focus on an article about local politics, but failed to take in anything. As the minutes ticked by, she felt like a mouse trapped in its burrow. When Stern and his companion finally finished their meal and pushed away from their table, she lowered her head and rummaged in her bag. If Stern glanced her way, at least her face would be hidden. He made a big show of joking with the girl behind the counter and turning to call out something to a younger man across the room. Playing the man about town, even in this small village in rural Vermont. Perhaps he was trying to seed the ground with an abundance of goodwill. Splashing money about and patronising the local merchants to show what a good citizen he was. How else was he going to explain to the townsfolk that his schizophrenic murderer son would be living in their midst?