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
