The Dead Room (8 page)

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.

‘The entire lab is in Belham processing the house. Did you read my report?’ Darby had filed it late the previous night before crashing on the office sofa.

‘I read it first thing this morning,’ Chadzynski said. ‘It’s all over the news, what happened in Belham, the hospital, all of it.’

‘Did the news mention anything about the FBI trying to take over the investigation?’

‘No, they didn’t.’ She seemed to be drawing out her words, measuring each one carefully before she spoke. ‘Those men you saw in the woods – have you heard anything?’

‘Nothing’s come over the wire about any hospitals treating a white male for a gunshot wound, but Pine and his men are calling around just to be sure. He’s on his way to Vermont to meet with the police to go through Amy Hallcox’s apartment.’

‘You mentioned the woman’s parents were murdered but you didn’t list any details.’

‘Her son didn’t give me any, and I can’t find any homicides involving the name Hallcox.’

‘Do you have any news on the boy’s condition?’

‘I just got off the phone with the neurologist,’ Darby said, and told Chadzynski about her conversation with Dr Goldstein.

‘How did the Hallcox boy get the gun?’ Chadzynski asked. ‘It wasn’t mentioned in your report.’

‘I didn’t find out until this morning. He had a thigh holster. His baggy shorts covered it.’

‘I can’t believe no one noticed it.’

‘He wasn’t a suspect, so there was no reason for anyone to pat him down. When the EMTs brought him to the hospital, the kid refused to let anyone touch him. Threw a fit, the doctor told me. He was in shock, so they gave him some space to calm down. Based upon what the boy told me last night, I wouldn’t be surprised if the mother gave the revolver to him.’

‘What’s this business about him requesting to speak to your father?’

‘I don’t know.’ Darby rubbed her face, then ran her fingers through her hair. She couldn’t remember a time when she had felt this tired. ‘Right now your guess is as good as mine.’

‘Did you get any sleep?’

‘Maybe a couple of hours. Every time I shut my eyes, all I can see is that kid slamming the muzzle underneath his chin. If that Fed hadn’t come into the room, Sean wouldn’t be in a coma.’

‘The boy was in shock, Darby. The commotion alone –’

‘Sean was talking to me. I’d finally got him to a place where he trusted me – he told me his real name was Sean. He was going to tell me the truth about his grandparents – why they were killed, the names of the people who did it. He was going to tell me everything and then that prick came in waving his badge and saying he was taking over the investigation and moving the kid. He scared the shit out of him.’

‘That might very well be true. But, with all due respect, your professionalism can be called into question.’

Darby leaned back in her chair, waiting for the rest of it. Chadzynski might have a cop’s blue blood running through her veins but she had the heart of a politician. She was quietly assembling people to help plan her campaign to run for governor. The real reason for her visit was damage control.

‘I understand you assaulted him,’ Chadzynski said.

‘Is that what he called it?’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘We had a minor confrontation. I mentioned that in my report.’

‘Yes, I know. I also know about your personal history with the FBI. Tell me what happened.’

‘Did you read the part where Special Agent Phillips didn’t stick around the hospital? That he bolted along with my tape recorder?’

‘You’re positive about that accusation?’

‘I checked with everyone who was there. Except Phillips, of course. When I get through with him, he’ll be shitting bones for a week.’

‘Eloquently put, as always. I haven’t spoken to Special Agent Phillips or anyone from the Albany field office. I need to know how to handle this, so tell me
exactly
what happened.’

Darby’s phone rang. She looked at the caller-ID.

‘Speak of the devil,’ she said, and picked up the phone. ‘Darby McCormick.’

‘This is Dylan Phillips returning your call. How can I help you, Miss McCormick?’

Darby didn’t answer.

The voice on the other end of the line was deep, husky. The Federal agent she met last night had had a slight lisp and a voice that wasn’t as deep. It was lighter, almost effeminate.

‘Miss McCormick?’

‘I’m here. I take it you don’t know who I am.’

‘Should I?’

‘We met last night at St Joseph’s Hospital.’

‘I think you have me confused with someone else. Last night I was at dinner with my daughter and her fiancé.’

‘Are you looking for a fugitive named Amy Hallcox?’

‘I don’t recognize that name. What’s this about?’

‘I don’t know yet, but someone impersonated you last night. I’ll call you back when I have more details.’

‘Please do.’

Darby hung up and turned to her computer. She logged on to the National Crime Information Center.

‘
Shit
.’

Darby scooped her keys off her desk.

Chadzynski stood. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘NCIC didn’t have a listing for Amy Hallcox. There is no fugitive warrant.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To the hospital,’ Darby said, coming out from behind the desk. ‘I need to pull last night’s security tapes.’

16

Jamie woke up to bickering voices. Her bedroom door had been shut and Carter was no longer beside her.

‘Stop bossing me around,’ Carter said from behind the door.

‘
Keep your voice down
,’ Michael hissed. ‘You’ll wake up Mom.’

Too late
, she thought, and looked at the alarm clock. It was going on eleven.

Shit
. She had overslept and the kids had missed the bus for camp. She’d have to drive them. She whipped off the covers and got out of bed, her head groggy, pounding.

‘I’ll get dressed when I want to,’ Carter said. ‘You’re not the boss of me, pancake balls.’

‘Dumb-dumb, how many times do I have to tell you “pancake balls” doesn’t make any sense?’

‘Oh, yes, it does.’

Jamie opened the door. Her two boys were huddled at the end of the hall in front of the dead room – Carter barefoot and dressed in his Batman pyjamas, a black Batman mask covering his face; Michael wearing baggy shorts, sneakers and another one of Dan’s old Bruce Springsteen concert T-shirts. They were too big for Michael’s slender frame but he wore them anyway – to stay close to his father, she suspected, to try to keep him from fading.

‘Jesus, Mom,’ Michael said, coming closer. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘Fell. I… ah… tripped in… ah… ah… hospital. Garage. Hit… ah… bumper. Car bumper.’

Michael stared at her the way Dan used to, with that X-ray vision glare that told her he’d caught her in a lie.

She looked at Carter and said, ‘Get… ah… dressed.’

‘Okay, Mom.’ He grinned at his older brother before ducking into his bedroom.

Jamie went into the master bathroom and started brushing her teeth. A moment later she saw Michael’s reflection in the mirror. He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

‘How’d the hospital tests go?’

‘Fine,’ she said around her toothbrush. ‘You… ah… eat?’

He nodded. ‘I fed Carter too.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You were gone a long time.’

She spit out toothpaste. ‘Fine. Honest.’

‘You didn’t get home until after three in the morning.’

A mild irritation crept its way through her. Michael was always monitoring her comings and goings, clocking the time of her arrivals and departures.

Why are you getting angry at him, Jamie? You were gone all day, then you called and fed him that lie about having to stay late at the hospital to have another MRI and now here you are with the right side of your face swollen. He’s worried about you. For Chrissakes, go easy on him.

‘Mom, I’ve been doing some thinking, and I don’t want to go to sports camp any more.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m too old for it. And I was thinking I could help you around the house for the rest of the summer. Mow the grass, do some cleaning. The garage could use it. The house hasn’t been cleaned since… you know.’

Since your father was murdered
.

It was a tempting offer, having both Michael and Carter close to her now. She might have indulged the idea if it wasn’t for Ben. She needed to devote her time to finding his two partners. After she dropped off the kids, the plan was to head to Ben’s Boston address. She wanted to see what was in his house, if anything.

‘I’m not scared staying alone at the house – I was fine yesterday while you were at the hospital,’ Michael said. ‘I can watch Carter for you too. And we can spend some time together before school starts.’

Jamie rinsed out her mouth and shut off the water. She turned to him and said, ‘You… ah… need… ah… need… to, ah… be with… ah… friends.’

‘What friends? They avoid me. It’s like I’m invisible.’

‘Have… ah… you… talked… ah –’

‘Mom, I just said they
avoid
me. They don’t call me to hang out or do anything. Even their parents avoid me. Remember last week when we were at the grocery store and saw Tommy’s mother? Remember what happened?’

Unfortunately, she did.

Standing in the cereal aisle with Michael and Carter, she saw Tommy Gerrad’s mother, Lisa, turning her trolley into the aisle. Jamie waved hello and then, in her broken, fragmented speech, suggested that Tommy should come over and hang out with Michael, play on the Xbox or maybe even make a plan to see a Pawtucket Red Sox game. Both boys loved baseball.

Lisa Gerrad made up some excuse about how booked the summer was with camp and holidays. She checked her watch, said she had to get to an appointment and moved past them as if the shop had suddenly caught on fire.

‘Think about the money you’ll save,’ Michael said. ‘I know money’s tight.’

Jamie sighed, not wanting to think about money right now, how Dan’s meagre investments, and her disability and SSI payments, barely covered the monthly bills. She had used the payout from Dan’s small life insurance policy to put a serious dent in the mortgage, but even after refinancing at a lower rate, she still had to pay Wellesley’s property taxes, which just kept going up year after year.

‘Thank… ah… you, but… ah… ah… you… ah… need to… ah… go. To camp.’

Michael didn’t speak, but the fight hadn’t left his eyes.

She didn’t have time to argue. She brushed past him and went downstairs to gather Ben’s things, reminding herself to dump the bag of bloody clothing in the back of the minivan.

The kids didn’t talk during the twenty-minute drive to Babson College. Carter played a game on his Nintendo DS. Michael sat in the front seat, earbud headphones connected to the iPod resting on his stomach, and stared out of the window as if he were on the way to his funeral.

Jamie pulled up to the main building, a massive brick structure with white pillars in the front. Kids ranging from as young as five to as old as sixteen bounded up the steps and ran around the lush, green campus shaded with trees.

‘Take… ah… bus… ah… ah… home, okay?’

‘Okay, Mom.’ Carter kissed her on the cheek.

‘I… ah… may… ah… home late.’

Carter grabbed his backpack and opened the door. Michael didn’t move. He was looking out of the front window at Tommy Gerrad, who was standing with a group of other thirteen-year-olds near the steps. They were all whispering to each other, staring at the minivan.

Jamie debated about whether to say something to Tommy. She had known him since pre-school. Spoiled and sometimes bratty, but all and all a good kid.

‘Mom, why do you hate me so much?’

She spun around on her seat, her stomach clenching. She tried to speak but couldn’t get the words out.

‘Okay, maybe hate was the wrong word,’ he said. ‘But you don’t like me. You feel
something.
Is it because I look like Dad?’

Yes, Michael was a spitting image of his father, and, if that wasn’t painful enough, Michael, just like his father, always asked complicated emotional questions in this nonchalant way, as if they were speaking about mathematical equations instead of feelings. Like Dan, Michael kept his true emotions bottled and locked away on some shelf to gather dust.

‘I know I remind you of him,’ Michael said. ‘What he did to us.’

I still don’t know what your father did to us
, Jamie wanted to say.

‘Forget it,’ he said, and opened the door. ‘You’ll just go on pretending.’

‘Pre… ah… ah… Pretending?’

‘That you wished I was dead.’

A cold, sick sweat broke out across her skin. ‘I… I… ah… don’t… ah… ah…’

‘Ever since he died, it’s like you can’t stand being around me – and don’t say you don’t because you and I both know it’s true. I’m more like Dad, and Carter’s more like you. If I was dead, you would have moved on.’

To what?
Jamie wanted to say.
To where?

‘I know you wouldn’t have kept the house,’ he said. ‘I know you wanted to leave here but didn’t because of me. I had to beg you to stay.’

‘Not… ah… not true.’

‘About the house or that you wished I was dead?’

She started to speak, stammering the words as usual.

Michael, either sick of waiting or not wanting to hear what she had to say, opened the door. She tried to grab his arm but he had already stepped out of the car.

‘Michael, don’t… ah… wait –’

He shut the door and walked away. She stared after him, blinking back tears.

She
didn’t
hate him and she
didn’t
wish he was dead. Jesus! How could he have said such appalling things? Yes, after Dan’s murder, she had wanted to pack up and move. Michael had put up a fight, but even if he had wanted to move, it wouldn’t have mattered. The house couldn’t be sold. She had called a number of real estate agents. They were interested until they recognized the address.

But you don’t like me. You feel
something…
it’s like you can’t stand being around me – and don’t say you don’t because you and I both know it’s true
…

Michael had never been a touchy-feely kid, not even as a baby. He had rejected her breast, preferring the bottle. He screamed after he finished eating, wanting to get away from her. Michael didn’t cry when Dan fed him. They had a special connection, Michael and Dan, the two sharing a bond and a secret language spoken mainly through gestures, nods and grunts. And now Dan was gone, leaving Michael marooned in some strange wilderness without a guide or compass.

Jamie needed to be busy. She took Ben’s mobile phone from her pocket, wanting to reconnect the battery and take a closer look at what was stored on it. Maybe there would be something –

A knock on her window startled her.

She whipped her head around and saw a tall, lanky man with short white hair and thick-framed glasses. Her 68-year-old parish priest, Father James Humphrey.

She rolled down the window. ‘What… ah… why… ah… you here?’

‘I help out with the sports programme.’ His soft voice still carried traces of his Irish brogue. His grandparents had come over on the boat, and all the Humphrey children – nine brothers scattered across the north-east – had kept the accent alive.

He seemed to be waiting for her to say something – or maybe he didn’t know where to start. She hadn’t seen him or gone to church since Dan’s murder.

‘I… ah… can’t talk… ah… now. Got… ah… busy day.’

‘What happened to your face?’

‘Accident,’ she said. ‘Fell.’

‘Against a man’s fist?’

Her face flushed.

‘My brother Colm, God rest his soul, was a boxer. I recognize a shiner when I see one.’ Humphrey’s kind and gentle eyes were free of judgement. ‘What happened, love? Who hit you?’

‘Accident,’ she said again. ‘I have… ah… go. Appointment.’

He nodded and shifted his gaze to Carter’s car seat. ‘Are you still seeing the therapist?’

‘Yes.’ Humphrey had given her the name of a therapist who specialized in helping victims of trauma. The woman, Dr Wakefield, agreed to work pro bono. Jamie had visited the woman for a month and then stopped going.

Humphrey looked back at her.

He knows
, she thought.
He knows I’ve lied to him, I can see it written all over his face
.

‘Have to… ah… go. Goodbye… ah… Father Jim.’ Jamie put the minivan in gear and drove away.