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 out 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
