for someone to help him. He made no move to pick the pen back up, and before long he rested his head against the pillow and stared at the ceiling as if we weren’t there.
“Jacob, who attacked you?” I asked. When he didn’t respond, I waited a heartbeat and then tried to keep my voice level but firm. “We need information. Tell me who came to the ranch on Monday morning. Who hurt you?”
Jacob’s head rolled back down, and he lowered his chin toward his chest, but then jerked it back. His face twisted in agony.
“Was your friend at the ranch Monday morning? Carl Shipley?” I asked.
Jacob showed no emotion and little interest.
“What about Myles Thompkins? Did you see him there?” Max asked.
Suddenly, Jacob had a glimmer of recognition. Concern flashed across his eyes and he had a visceral reaction, his body tensing. But he wrote nothing down. He didn’t nod or shake his head.
“If Myles was there, give me a thumbs up,” I said, demonstrating with my right hand.
Instead, Jacob picked up the pen and wrote: WAS HE SUPPOSED TO BE THERE? WHY? As soon as he showed it to us, he dropped the pen.
I watched him, worried, and before long I felt the long, thin fingers of a headache unwind behind my eyes. I felt suddenly weary, spent. This wasn’t going as we’d hoped, not at all. Not ready to give up, I picked up the ballpoint and placed it back in Jacob’s hand, wrapped his fingers around it. “Please write down the last thing you remember before waking up here in the hospital. Whatever it is.”
I counted off the minutes on my watch as Jacob toyed with the notebook and pen. Then, it appeared that something occurred to him. As we watched, he wrote: OUR FAMILY WENT TO SUNDAY SERVICES AND ANNA MADE SPANISH OMELETS FOR LUNCH.
Max and I smiled, encouraging. “Yes, that’s it,” Max said. “Now, Jacob, write down what you remember after that.”
I tried so hard to be patient, but I wanted to shake him, to shout, “Tell us what happened!” But I bit my lip, smiled, and did my best to be calm. I thought about what the man in the hospital bed had been through, and I told myself that he deserved time to digest it. I took a step back, letting Max take over.
Jacob held the notebook by the metal spiral, making a triangle-shaped tent of it, but he made no attempt to write anything. I wondered if this could be a reaction to the anesthetic, that it wasn’t completely out of Jacob’s system yet. Max reminded him: “Jacob, please, think hard. Write down the first thing you remember after Sunday services and lunch.”
Jacob swallowed and his face convulsed. I couldn’t imagine how much the severed muscles in his throat must hurt. My hopes rose as he once more picked up the pen. They plummeted when he wrote: I REMEMBER SEEING NAOMI JEFFERIES STANDING NEXT TO MY BED SMILING AT ME.
Nothing, I thought, from Sunday lunch until he woke up in the hospital and saw Mother Naomi at his bedside.
Max shook his head, and I drew in my lips to stop myself from scowling, struggling to hide my disappointment. The headache intensified, and I wondered if I could talk the nurse into giving me an aspirin. I wondered how far we dare push this man, in his condition. We needed answers. “Jacob,” I pleaded. “Please, think hard and tell us who hurt you and your family.”
At that, he sat up higher in the bed, and I had the feeling every nerve stood at attention. He glanced from me to Max, then back at me again. He picked up the pen and wrote: SOMEONE HURT MY FAMILY?
Michael and Reba had said that they’d tried to tell Jacob about Anna and Laurel, the two children, but the look on their son’s face was one of utter confusion. Did Jacob truly not remember? Could his mind be blocking the horror of what he saw, protecting him from the pain of watching his family slaughtered?
Max and I shared a glance, and he said, “We’re going to let your parents come in now and talk to you. We’ll be gone for a while, but we may try to stop by later.”
Worry lines etched across Jacob’s brow. Then he wrote on the notepad: PLEASE SEND IN LAUREL AND ANNA. I WANT TO SEE THEM. I WANT TO SEE MY CHILDREN.