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.’
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
