by Ann Gosslin
What else could she do but drive up there and help sort things out? If Tim had gone off his meds, paranoid delusions were just one of the many possible effects. It was only later that another, more frightening, thought occurred to her. That Tim wasn’t delusional at all. And there was a grain of truth to his claim of attempted bodily harm. Especially if Stern had behaved in ways, both large and small, that Tim viewed as a threat. For all she knew, a hair-trigger temper lurked behind Stern’s easy-going smile.
*
With a little juggling of her schedule, Erin managed to be on the road to Burlington by four. Three hours alone in the car would give her plenty of time to think. As she wound through the Green Mountains, miles upon miles of dark forest that shifted in and out of the golden afternoon light, the potential scenarios of what had gone wrong piled up in her head. When she pulled into the car park of the Burlington hospital, it was a few minutes after seven.
As the big glass doors slid open to let her in, she wondered if she’d find Stern there, hovering in the lobby like a concerned parent. Or perhaps he was at home in Matlock, rethinking his decision to house Tim under his roof.
She rode the lift to the psych ward on the top floor. The duty nurse, a woman with a no-nonsense expression, glanced at her ID.
‘He’s out of restraints now,’ she said, consulting a chart on her desk.
‘Could I speak with the attending physician on call when Tim Stern came in?’
Distracted by a beeping monitor, the nurse tilted her head. ‘Who? Oh, sure. Dr Larsen. There he is now, coming out of Room 603.’
Erin hurried to intercept him, aware she looked a mess, with her shirt untucked and her hair limp from the long drive in the heat. ‘Dr Larsen?’
The man’s eyes swam behind a pair of thick glasses. He blinked as he hitched his belt over a considerable paunch. Erin cleared her throat and asked about Tim.
‘Are you a family member?’
‘I’m a psychiatrist,’ she said. ‘His treating physician couldn’t get away, so he asked me to represent him.’
Larsen slid a notepad from the pocket of his white coat and flipped through the pages. ‘The patient was brought in by ambulance on Sunday, just after two in the morning. He was highly agitated and disoriented. Possibly psychotic. He knew his name, but not what day it was. After taking a blood sample, we administered a sedative as a precaution. His labs showed no evidence of antipsychotics. As of seven this morning, he’s back on his prescribed meds. My guess is he stopped taking them soon after he was released from, where was it… Greenlake?’
Stopped taking them. How was that possible? Stern would have been schooled on the importance of Tim’s meds, and the consequences of his failure to take them.
‘I was about to go off my shift,’ Larsen said. ‘But I can stay on a while, if you think it’ll help.’
Through the observation window in the door, Erin could see Tim lying flat on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. ‘Thank you, but there’s no need for you to stay.’ She remained at the window for a few minutes, hoping to see some movement, but not even a twitch emitted from the figure on the bed. Except for the eyes, fixed but clearly alive, he might have been a corpse.
She knocked softly and opened the door. ‘Timothy? It’s Dr Cartwright. May I come in?’
When he didn’t respond, she entered and tiptoed towards the bed.
‘How are you feeling?’ She pulled up a chair.
The faint rise and fall of his chest provided a hint of life, but nothing suggested he was aware of her presence.
‘You’re safe, Timothy. You’re in a hospital in Burlington. Your father isn’t here, and he won’t be allowed to see you without your permission. No one will hurt you.’
Her shoulders tensed as she waited for a response.
Breathe in, breathe out. She counted ten breaths as she held herself perfectly still, until they resembled two statues in the waning daylight.
A tiny movement, a shift of air.
He shut his eyes. ‘Go away.’
She waited for him to say more, but when nothing came, she continued. ‘I’m on your side, Timothy.’
A ragged intake of breath. ‘I have no one.’ His voice was a croak. ‘Everyone… gone. Hummingbird.’ His hand twitched. ‘Broken.’
Hummingbird?
Erin pulled the chair closer. Tim’s wrists were chafed red from the restraints. How long had they kept him tied to the bed?
‘Can you tell me what happened?’ A dinner trolley rattled along the corridor. ‘Are you thirsty? There’s a soda machine downstairs. I can get you a Coke if you’d like?’
His eyes stayed closed, but his mouth twitched. It was something.
She stood and stepped away slowly so as not to startle him. ‘I’ll be right back. It’s so warm in here. A cold drink will make us both feel better, don’t you think?’ She was babbling, trying to find the switch that would jolt him from his stupor.
The machine in the waiting room was out of Coke. But there was Sprite and Dr Pepper. When was the last time she’d had one of those? She rummaged in her bag for change and carried two Dr Peppers back to Tim’s room, pressing one of the chilled cans against her cheek.
Standing at the foot of Tim’s bed, she cracked open the flip-top and filled a paper cup, but he showed no interest. She sipped the cold liquid, sickly-sweet, and closed her eyes as it slid down her throat. Something about the taste rattled her vault of stored memories. Marquee lights, popcorn, red velvet curtains… A boy in a red and white striped hat handing her a paper cup, fizzing with bubbles.
I was there.
Her eyes snapped open, and she leapt from the chair, spilling the soda on her clothes.
‘Heat. Hot. Hat.’ The words erupted from his lips. ‘Flask. Cask. Mask.’
She stiffened. Mask? ‘Did you say something about a mask?’
‘Space. Race. Face.’ Tim levered himself upright and swung his legs to the side of the bed.
She jumped back as he lurched to the window and placed his hands on the glass. The mountains beyond had darkened to purple.
He slid his fingers along the window’s edge. ‘Nailed shut. Door locked.’ He turned his head from side to side, each movement painfully slow, every word an effort, as he fought the deadening effect of the drugs. ‘Key turns. Door opens.’ Tim was panting now, fighting for air. ‘My father, not my father. His face…’ He squinted at his upturned palms. ‘Pretend to sleep. Can’t breathe. Something dead on my face. Front door locked. Smash window, run to barn.’ Sweat streamed down Tim’s face. His hands jerked, his eyes rolled back in their sockets.
Erin took a step forward. ‘You’re okay, Timothy. Try to breathe. Deep breaths, in and out.’
‘Blood on his face. Blood on his hands.’
Blood? Lydia didn’t mention anything about blood. ‘Who was bleeding, Timothy?’
‘Blood on his face, blood on his hands.’
‘Was someone else in the room besides your father? Did he say anything to you? Ask you if you needed help?’
His eyes flicked, his hands clenched. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.’ With a spasm, he slumped to the floor and curled into a ball, trembling so hard his teeth rattled.
Erin ran into the hall and called for the nurse. ‘I need some lorazepam in here!’
An orderly rushed to hold Tim down while the nurse stuck a needle in his arm. In a moment, he was quiet, and they guided him into bed. Tim’s eyes closed, and his face went slack.
‘He’ll sleep now,’ the nurse said. ‘It would be best if you came back in the morning.’ Her mouth was set, and her voice held a hint of annoyance.
Not quite ready to leave, Erin hovered in the doorway, watching Tim breathe. Her thoughts galloped ahead. Whatever happened at the farmhouse had triggered something in Tim’s mind. A primordial fear or a deep-rooted memory, long buried in the recesses of his brain. Reflexively, her fingers sought the amulet round her neck.
I was there. Friday night. She had snuck ou
t of the house in her best cotton dress to go to the movies. Flouting the rules, but she didn’t care. For once she wanted to feel like a normal kid, to be like other girls her age, with their movie nights and lip gloss and long, shiny hair.
She traced the outline of the quetzal with her thumb.
Bloody hands, a broken hummingbird. The glass hummingbird. The one in the crime scene photos, smashed on the living-room carpet.
Tim was starting to remember.
38
Burlington, Vermont
August, Present Day
In the hospital cafeteria, Erin bought a large coffee and a chicken sandwich and carried her tray over to a window. Except for two orderlies sharing a table in the corner, the room was empty. She shivered in the chilled air. The coffee was weak and the sandwich stale, but she was too tense to eat anyway.
Whatever happened three days ago at Stern’s home had caused Tim’s brain to skip back in time. He must be remembering details of the original crime. Otherwise, why would Tim say there was blood on his face and hands? Though it could have been a nightmare, a trick of the light, or the delusions of a diseased brain, it was possible Tim was remembering his own actions on the night of the murders. After slitting his sisters’ throats, he could have looked in the mirror to see his hands and face covered with blood. Years later, during a panic attack in a farmhouse in Vermont, he’d confused his own face with that of his father’s.
She tossed the remains of the sandwich into the bin and stepped outside to call Harrison. When he didn’t pick up, she left a message on his voicemail. The soft air was alive with the hum of insects in the tall grass. She sat on a nearby bench and closed her eyes, trying to make sense of the thoughts cartwheeling through her head. That night at the movies, her trepidation and terror, Vivien screeching up to the door, her face black with fury. Get your fat ass in the car. What happened afterwards was harder to recall. So many of her memories from that time were smashed into fragments by the doctors and their drugs at Danfield.
Of all the scenarios she’d worried about when recommending Tim for release, she had never imagined that Stern might be an object of terror to his son. During the assessment process, her only fear was that, once the two of them were alone in the house, either Stern would lash out in frustration, or Tim would finish what he’d started that rainy August night in 1977.
Next to her on the bench, her phone vibrated.
‘Dr Cartwright? How’s our patient doing?’ It was Harrison, sounding more upbeat than concerned.
‘He’s asleep. And heavily sedated. When I arrived, he was awake and alert but extremely agitated.’
‘Psychotic?’
‘I don’t believe so.’ She debated whether to tell Harrison that Tim might be remembering the murders. But it wasn’t a conversation to have over the phone.
The silence lengthened before Harrison spoke again. ‘Did he tell you the same story, that his father tried to smother him with a pillow?’
‘Not in so many words.’ She hesitated, trying to gauge Harrison’s mood by the sound of his breathing. ‘With your permission, I’d like to question Tim under hypnosis.’ A new approach to a therapy that had been attempted before. She had an argument ready if he insisted it was useless to try.
Harrison cleared his throat. In the background, she could hear the shuffling of papers. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm, though I’m sure I mentioned before that we tried several times in the past with little success. The last attempt was about twelve years ago, I believe.’ The sound of a window closing, the rattle of keys. ‘I can’t get away this evening,’ he said. ‘And tomorrow I have to drive to Albany for a critical meeting about Greenlake’s closure.’ She could hear the sound of paper being torn in two. ‘I do agree it’s best not to send Tim home until we get to the bottom of this,’ he said. ‘It could be something as simple as night terrors or a bad dream, but until we know for sure…’
Erin confirmed she could remain in Burlington for another two days. It would mean admitting to Niels she was still involved in the case. And someone would have to cover her patients for a day or two, but that couldn’t be helped.
*
After a night of restless sleep at a nearby hotel, Erin fortified herself with a cup of weak tea and a soggy pastry before returning to the hospital. Tim was in bed, exactly as she’d left him, flat on his back and staring at the ceiling.
‘How are you feeling this morning?’ She hung back by the door. ‘I spoke with Dr Harrison yesterday. He’s worried about you.’ She stepped into the room and pulled up a chair. ‘He suggested we try something. It might help you remember what happened the other night.’
Nothing moved. Tim might have been carved from stone.
‘It won’t hurt. It feels like going to sleep. All you need to do is lie quietly with your eyes closed and listen to my voice. If you don’t feel comfortable, we can stop at any time.’
When Tim tried to speak, it came out as a croak. ‘You’ll put thoughts in my head, like a… seed. Alien seeds.’
She shifted to the foot of the bed, so he could see her. ‘I’m only going to ask you a few questions. No alien seeds. I promise. Okay?’
Was that a nod? For ethical reasons, she needed his consent. It looked like a nod, or close enough. In the hallway, a nurse was waiting with a syringe of sodium amytal. Its effect as a so-called truth serum had long been discredited, but it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try. If nothing else, it would help Tim relax.
When Erin motioned to the nurse, she approached the bed and smiled. ‘A little something to help you feel better, Timothy.’ The needle was in and out before he could react.
A slow drip would be more effective, but this was all she had. Erin gave the drug a few minutes to do its work, before moving the chair out of Tim’s line of vision. In her lap, she switched on the mini-recorder that would capture anything Tim said while under hypnosis. First, she’d take him through the recent events at the farmhouse and, if the questioning went well, attempt to coax him all the way back to August 1977, and the night of the murders.
‘Okay, Timothy, I’d like you to close your eyes now. In your mind, I want you to visualise your arms and legs and imagine how relaxed they are. Now I want you to pay attention to your breath as it moves in and out of your lungs. Your arms and legs are heavy, your breathing is steady. Your whole body is relaxed. Imagine you’re floating on a big white cloud. Breathe in… breathe out. Relaxed and floating. Floating and breathing. Your limbs are heavy and completely relaxed.’ She went on like this for another minute or so. ‘Focus on my voice, Timothy. You’re safe here. No one will hurt you.’
She held her breath and waited. Tim’s eyes were closed, his breathing steady.
‘Now, I’d like you to think of a pleasant place, somewhere you feel safe. In this place you’re surrounded by a golden healing light, and nothing can harm you. Are you in that place now?’
‘Light. Golden.’
‘Yes, that’s good. Think about how nice it feels to be surrounded by this warm golden light. You can go back to that place any time you feel frightened.’
With a click and whoosh of air, the ventilation system came on. Erin tensed, but he didn’t stir.
‘Now, Timothy, I want you to go back to last Saturday. A light rain was falling all afternoon, but it’s evening now and the sky is clear. You’ve finished eating supper in the kitchen at your father’s house and have gone to your bedroom. Can you describe it for me?’
‘Blue. Door locked… music… window shut. No air.’
‘What happens next, Timothy?’
‘Footsteps. Door opens. A man with something white… a laundry bag.’ Tim’s hands twitched.
She held her breath. Nothing about a mask. Or blood. ‘It’s okay, Timothy. You can go back to your safe place now.’
She waited for him to settle.
‘Slow, even breaths, in and out. Arms and legs relaxed.’ She hesitated before taking the plunge, but this might be her only chance.
�
��Let’s go further back in time. It’s a Friday night in late August. You’re seventeen years old and working behind the concession counter at the movie theatre. Can you tell me what you see?’
Tim’s face had gone slack. His chest rose and fell.
Erin waited as she listened to him breathe.
‘Friday night. Movie night. Sad girl, frightened eyes… I gave her a soda. The Viking… History Girl, arm around her neck. Rain hitting the roof like stones.’
Erin held her breath, her spine so rigid she was afraid it might snap. At last, a connection. Her brother Graham with his arm around the girl Tim liked.
‘Your shift has ended,’ Erin continued, ‘and you can finally go home. You’ve turned out the lights and locked the door. Now you’re driving home through the rain.’
Tim’s face contorted, his hands clenched.
‘Breathe in, breathe out. Relax your arms and legs.’ She waited. ‘Now you’ve arrived at your home on Easton Road. What do you see?’ She tried to synchronise her breathing with his.
‘House… dark. Everyone asleep.’
‘Your mother isn’t waiting up for you?’
‘No lights. Tired. I lie down on the couch. Thunder wakes me. No lights. Maggie scratching at the door. Who let her out? Poor Maggie. I go to let her in. Something wet on the floor… lightning flash… blood. Blood on the floor. Blood on my hands. Overhead, a shadow. Rustle of wings. Shadow bird. The beak stabs my neck. Can’t breathe.’ He clutched at his throat.
Tim’s eyes snapped open. ‘Face in the mirror. Him.’
39
Matlock, Vermont
August, Present Day
The leaves of the big white oak in Stern’s front yard hung limp in the heat. Erin cut the ignition and stared at the house as the Toyota’s engine pinged and cooled in the silence. Next to her, Lydia released the clasp on her seat belt. Her face looked drawn and her shoulders slumped.
‘Shall I wait here?’ Erin shifted her legs, hot and sticky from the long hours in the car. ‘I don’t want to antagonise him.’