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sent a fatal current from the coil directly to the electrodes, but he hesitated explaining this to Hornsby. He unattached the ammeter, weighing the disclosing of information against the gathering of further testimony. It was Hornsby’s devastated eyes that decided him. He had no evidence, but he didn’t believe Dr. Hornsby was to blame.
    He could perhaps lessen some of the doctor’s overwhelming feeling of guilt by revealing this fact with a partial disclosure. “I altered the configuration, increasing the current to the electrodes.”
    “I don’t understand. How could it have made that sound when I ran it? Can it do that all by itself, spontaneously?”
    Not if the machine was in good working order, which it was. He said simply, “No.”
    Hornsby began to tremble. “I thought—I noticed the sound—but I thought it was simply operating efficiently. It sounded so smooth. I didn’t know it might mean—”
    Hornsby sat heavily, dropping his head into his hands. For several minutes, throat painfully tight with emotion, Bradshaw pondered the implication of the change in the spark interrupter’s sound emission, while Dr. Hornsby was swept by grief and Deputy Mitchell stared out the window at the ocean.
    When Hornsby’s sobs quieted, he whispered in horror, “But who? Why?”
    Bradshaw said, “It could not have been David. The evidence has been removed.”
    The deputy’s head snapped around.
    Bradshaw said, “It would be best to keep this to ourselves for now. The sheriff must be told, of course, but no one else.” The deputy nodded his understanding, but Hornsby was too stunned to respond.
    “Dr. Hornsby, I must ask you to mention this to no one, not even your wife.”
    “Not Miriam?”
    “Not yet. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to tell her.”
    “Safe? Oh, yes, of course. I’ll keep her safe. Not a word.”
    “Good. Now, tell me. What happened next. After the incident?”
    Hornsby took a deep breath. “I went into my office. Mr. Thompson was still there, waiting for his session. He asked me what was wrong. I frightened him, I think. I must have been a sight. I told him there’d been a terrible accident and to go get Mrs. Hornsby. He did so. And Martha came…after awhile, after I administered a sedative to Martha, and my wife got her to bed, I locked the door. I left to report what had happened. The tide was high, so I walked to Copalis. By the time I arrived, the tide had dropped, and I got a ride the rest of the way, with the mail. I wired you from Hoquiam after I talked to the coroner. The sheriff and deputy and coroner returned with me.”
    “Before you returned, did anyone leave the sanitarium?”
    “No, everyone is still here. We aren’t many. Just four guests and minimal staff. We were between sessions. Sheriff Graham said we were to go nowhere, but where would we go? We wouldn’t abandon our home. We wouldn’t abandon David.”

Chapter Six
    The color of old paste, the oat groats sat in a congealed lump in Bradshaw’s porcelain bowl with blackberries bleeding rivulets into the crevices. He lifted a spoonful and sniffed. Earthy, sour. Like a barn floor.
    Henry was giving his bowl the same inspection. “They ain’t been cooked, I’d bet a hundred bucks.”
    “Mrs. Hornsby called them fermented.”
    “Only thing I like fermented comes in a bottle.”
    At another table, Justin and Paul were devouring their bowls while Mrs. Prouty took more skeptical bites. Bradshaw braved a taste. Mostly sour, with a tinge of sweet, as it smelled, oaty with a hint of vinegar. Foreign to his tongue, not awful, but he found he could eat very little before a sort of revulsion took hold.
    Henry ladled more blackberries into his bowl, shrugged, and dove in.
    They’d had to serve themselves, following the posted rules, filing through the kitchen past a butcher block table stacked with bowls, plates, a cast iron kettle of lukewarm groats, and cut loaves of a dense, dark bread speckled through with seeds.