The Dead Room

If Ben had shot me, she thought, placing the Glock back on the desk, I wouldn’t be alive right now.

Standing inside the kitchen, she stuffed all of her clothing and the spent brass inside a rubbish bag. She tossed the bag inside the garage. She’d find a place to dump it later. She walked back down the hall to use the shower. Scrubbed clean, she grabbed a pair of cotton shorts and a T-shirt from the dryer and went upstairs to see the kids.

Michael’s room first. She kissed him on the forehead. Michael, with his sandy-brown hair and lean swimmer’s build, looked so much like his father it was painful.

Carter wasn’t in his bedroom.

She found him sleeping in her bed.

Jamie crawled underneath the sheets and cuddled up next to her six-year-old. He smelled clean. Good. Michael had remembered to give him a bath.

She wrapped her arm around Carter’s small waist and pulled him close. The blond stubble of his buzz cut tickled her chin.

She was too wired to sleep. She stared out of the window at the dark sky and rubbed her fingers across the thick lines of scars covering his stomach – permanent reminders of the scalpels that had cut him open to save his life. The ER doctors had managed to stem the bleeding and repair the damage to his stomach and lungs.

‘Dead,’ she whispered against Carter’s ear. ‘Killed him.’

Her son breathed softly beside her. He didn’t suffer from nightmares any more, not like he had the first year, when he’d wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Sometimes he’d crawled into bed with her. Sometimes she’d woken to find him standing at her bedroom window, chewing the corner of his ratty blue blanket. She’d asked him what was wrong but the answer was always the same: I’m watching for the bad men, Mom. Do you think they’ll come back?

Jamie hugged her son.

‘I will… find… find… partners,’ she whispered. ‘Kill… them.’ She said the words to Carter. To the cool air inside the locked house. To God. ‘I will… kill them to… to… keep you and Michael safe.’

Day 2

15

The following morning, at half past eight, Darby sat in her office chair with her feet propped up on the corner of the desk. She stared out of the windows overlooking another grey sky while listening to Dr Aaron Goldstein, a Boston-based neurologist brought in to treat the boy, John/Sean Hallcox. The man spoke in a dry monotone, as though he were reciting from a medical textbook.

‘The bullet entered underneath the boy’s chin,’ Dr Goldstein was saying. ‘Instead of traversing the cranial cavity and leaving through an exit wound, the bullet ricocheted inside the skull, with massive tearing caused by the shock waves. This resulted in –’

‘Doctor, I don’t mean to be rude, but I was in the hospital room when John Hallcox shot himself. I know the bullet didn’t pass through the skull. I want to know his condition.’ She popped a couple of Advils in her mouth and washed them down with cold water fizzing with Alka-Seltzer.

‘We performed a debridement,’ Goldstein said. ‘The procedure involves removing bone and bullet fragments from the brain. We removed a good majority of them, but I’m sorry to say there were some fragments that were so deeply imbedded near sensitive areas that I had to leave them behind. I’m more concerned about what we refer to as secondary effects.’

‘Swelling and bleeding from ruptured blood vessels.’

‘Yes.’ A bright tone in the man’s voice, surprised that she knew such things. ‘With gunshot wounds to the head there’s always a high risk of oedema and, in Mr Hallcox’s case, infection. We’re treating him with strong antibiotics, but these kinds of infections – the ones involving the brain – are extremely difficult to overcome. Fortunately, he hasn’t experienced a seizure, but he’s still in a coma.’

‘Where does he fall on the Glasgow Coma Scale?’

‘I can’t give you an accurate GCS score at the moment. Because of the intubation and severe facial swelling, he can’t talk and I can’t test his eyes’ responses.’

‘Do you think there’s a chance he’ll be able to talk?’

‘To you?’

‘To anyone, Doctor.’

‘There’s always a possibility, but I’m inclined to say no. I doubt he’ll survive – not from the gunshot wound but from the infection. Does he have any family in the area? My understanding is the mother died rather tragically.’

‘She was murdered.’

‘Well, if you find any family members, please let us know. Certain arrangements will need to be made. That’s all I can tell you right now, Miss McCormick.’

‘Would you call me if there’s any change? I’d like… I want to know how he’s doing.’

‘Of course. What’s the best way to reach you?’

They exchanged numbers. Darby thanked the doctor, swung her legs off the desk and dialled directory inquiries to ask for the number of the FBI’s field office in Albany, New York.

She introduced herself to the woman who answered the phone and asked to speak to SAC Dylan Phillips.

‘Let me connect you to his office,’ the woman said.

Phillips wasn’t in his office yet. Darby left a message with the man’s secretary.

Pine had told her he was working on locating the owner of the house, Dr Martin Wexler and his wife, Elaine. Darby didn’t want to wait. She turned to her computer. When she had the information she needed, she started working the phone.

An hour later she had tracked down one of Wexler’s children – his eldest son, David, who lived in Wisconsin. He had the number for his parents’ home in the South of France. The names Amy and John Hallcox didn’t mean anything to him.

Darby called the number. A machine picked up, the voice in French. She left a detailed message along with her office and mobile numbers, and asked them to call regardless of the time.

Darby hung up and sat in the silence of her office, her thoughts drifting to John Hallcox – Sean, she reminded herself. The twelve-year-old was lying in a coma. Her father had lain in a coma for a month. His GCS score had been 1. He never opened his eyes, never made any verbal sounds or physical movements. He was brain dead.

She remembered gripping his hand in her own while the doctor explained to her mother what would happen to Big Red after his life-support machine was turned off. Darby remembered digging her fingernails into his callused palm and drawing blood. She remembered hoping – no, believing – the pain would wake up her father. Then the machine was turned off and they waited for his body to die. Darby propped her elbows on her desk and looked at her hands. They were bigger now, the callused skin on her palms and fingers stained with dried blood. Sean’s blood. She had held him while screaming for help.

A soft knock on the door. She looked up and saw Police Commissioner Christina Chadzynski.

‘May I come in?’

Darby nodded. Chadzynski took one of the chairs across from the desk, crossed her legs and folded her hands on her lap. This morning she was dressed in a stylish black suit. It was the only colour she seemed to wear. The woman was thin and trim – she was an avid runner – but no amount of exercise, sleep or makeup could hid the fatigue etched in the skin around her ice-blue eyes.

‘It’s quiet in here,’ Chadzynski said.