Ever So Silent

by Christopher Little

  “Based on our first meeting, you seem to know plenty about me. I don’t need to say anymore, other than I’m enjoying this evening.”

  “Do you still love Will?”

  “That’s a complicated question,” she said truthfully. “But if you are asking if I am going to sleep with you tonight, the answer is no.”

  Mark closed the short distance between their lips and kissed her. She didn’t mind. It felt great. Mark had learned more in Jamaica Plain than he’d let on. The tip of his tongue flirted with hers. She opened her mouth a little wider and returned the kiss. In the long months of Will’s depression, Will had not felt any desire for sex. For her, it had been over six months of abstention.

  After a few more minutes of blatant barroom necking, she gently pushed him away.

  “Enough of that.”

  They each had a third Guinness before Mark drove Emma and Pepper back to the Route 7 Motel. Mark seemed to take the rejection in stride.

  They stopped at the front desk, and Emma introduced Mark to the Ambassador. Mark stepped behind the counter. The kid said, “Hey, you can’t be back here.”

  Mark took the Ambassador’s arm and led him, protesting, into a small office behind the check-in desk and closed the door. Emma heard a loud ooof and a cry. Peppers hackles went up. Presently, Mark returned. In his hand was a room key and a fifty-dollar bill. On his face was a smile.

  “The kid hasn’t seen Will.”

  Mark politely escorted Emma to her room and said, “Breakfast at seven?”

  The threesome spent the next three days canvassing Berkshire County. They stopped in stores and restaurants, showing Will’s photograph over and over again. They tried hunting and sports stores. They stopped at pet stores to see if anyone resembling Will had bought fish food. Leaving one, Emma observed, “Will didn’t even like to eat fish, let alone want to raise them.”

  They even made another stab at the Pittsfield Walmart.

  They ate their breakfasts and lunches at diners. They ate their dinners at nicer places. Emma paid for all the meals. There was no more kissing.

  On Friday morning, they drove back to Hampshire. Emma had to babysit Vanessa.

  Mark, offering “backup protection” said he would be glad to join her for the weekend at Vanessa’s house.

  Emma turned him down, showing him her dad’s Beretta. On the ride home she said, “I have an idea, though. Vanessa’s husband is allergic to dogs, so Pepper has to stay home. Why don’t you stay at my house and look after her?”

  Saying he’d have to go home and get some more clothes, Mark agreed.

  “Which bed should I sleep in?” he asked mischievously.

  “Don’t worry, I have a very comfortable guest room.”

  “Sounds lonely,” he said. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

  “I have one more stop to make,” she answered ambiguously.

  Mark dropped her off in front of her house on Deerfield Street and drove home to grab some weekend clothes. Emma fed Pepper, took a shower, and dressed.

  Considering the vitriol that Will had spewed in his text, the only person Emma could think of that he would contact was his twin sister. As kids, they had been extremely close. Georgia, she knew, adored Will. Emma also knew that in recent years Will had carefully distanced himself. As sympathetic as he was to her, he found her “fixation” troubling.

  Emma knew all about Georgia’s distressing history. Beginning when Georgia was fourteen, her uncle, her mother’s brother, had repeatedly molested her. Georgia, after more than a year of sexual abuse, had finally told her parents. Instead of protecting her, they had punished her. In Will’s view, they preferred protecting their country club reputation rather than protecting their daughter. Eventually, Georgia had shared her secret with her twin. Will had confronted Uncle John. When the uncle told him to butt out, Will had threatened him. The abuse stopped. That was when, according to Will, Georgia “sort of fell in love with me.”

  Next stop, then, Georgia Foster’s house. Emma wouldn’t call in advance and give her a chance to duck a visit.

  “Who is it?” Georgia shouted through the locked front door.

  “It’s Emma.”

  Nothing happened.

  “For chrissakes, let me in.”

  The door opened. “What do you want?”

  “To talk to you.”

  Beyond the hallway, Emma could see into the living room. On the floor, there were dozens of neat stacks of DVDs. Standing amidst them was Georgia’s goddaughter, Sophie King.

  “Hi Sophie, how’re you doing?” She wondered if Sophie had mentioned their recent phone call. For some reason, she hoped she hadn’t.

  Sophie gave Emma a friendly wave.

  Georgia said, “My sister-in-law is apparently paying me a social call. Sophie, why don’t you head home and let us talk?”

  Sophie looked surprised. She said, “Can’t I help you some more?”

  “What are you guys doing anyway?” Emma asked.

  “Sophie spent the night, and she got some of my movie DVDs out of order. We’re just re-alphabetizing them.”

  “Wow,” Emma muttered.

  Sophie gathered her things. She was obviously put out by her godmother’s dismissal. At the door she whispered to Emma, “I couldn’t figure out why you called me about Joe.”

  “I just want you to stay away from him. Remember your promise.”

  In a louder voice, Sophie said, “Sure do. Anyway, Joe’s a bastard.”

  “Language, Sophie!” Georgia barking in her low-pitched voice.

  Sophie ignored her. “I wouldn’t have anything more to do with him anyway. He wasn’t the right guy for me. My bad.”

  “That sounds very grown-up,” Emma said, hoping she didn’t sound condescending.

  “I am fifteen.”

  Before leaving, Sophie patted Pepper on the head and gave Georgia a curt nod.

  Georgia frowned. She was still blocking the doorway. Emma eased by her and walked into the living room, uninvited. She scanned the neat piles on the floor. There were too many DVDs to count. She picked one up.

  Ridley Scott’s “Black Hawk Down.”

  “I loved this movie.” Emma said, “I didn’t know you liked war movies.” She replaced the DVD onto its stack of movies beginning with the letter B. Georgia, who had followed Emma into the room, immediately leaned over and re-adjusted the stack so that it was as perfect as it had been before Emma had touched it.

  “I don’t particularly like war movies. I bought it for my boyfriend.”

  “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. That’s great news.”

  Georgia stood up. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Who’s your boyfriend? Do I know him?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Emma could see this wasn’t going to go very well. She hadn’t expected it to. She dropped any further effort to be friendly and got to the point.

  “Has Will been in touch with you?” she demanded.

  “If he had, I wouldn’t rat him out. Least of all to you.”

  Emma swallowed a nasty rejoinder. “I have been searching for Will all over Berkshire County for the last week—”

  “Berkshire County? Why?” Georgia seemed genuinely interested.

  Emma explained, “It was at a Walmart in Pittsfield that a cell phone was purchased which has become part of our investigation—”

  “Your investigation? You are no longer the chief, let alone a cop. What right do you have to search for Will?”

  Emma lost her temper. “Georgia, you are a Class A bitch! You know that? If you have any idea where Will is, for God’s sake tell me. I’m the one who’s suffering. I love that man, no matter what he’s done. So just fucking tell me!”

  “You love him? I’m the one who loves him,” Georgia shouted. “You’re the one who ruined his life and drove him away.” Georgia got into Emma’s personal space. “Get out of my house and out of my sight. I never want to see you again. S
tay out of my life!”

  Her parting shot hit Emma like a body blow.

  Indeed, an instant later—her left eye twitching, combined with that maniacal grin—Georgia shoved her, nearly knocking her over.

  Pepper entered the fray, inserting herself between them. The dog snarled. Just in time, Emma shouted, “Stand Down!” Pepper obeyed.

  Instead of Pepper, Emma snapped. She cocked her fist and unleashed a haymaker. She struck Georgia on the left side of her chin. The blow knocked her backwards onto the floor, sending DVDs skittering all over the room.

  Georgia lay there stunned. There was hatred in her eyes. She rubbed her chin and said, “You will regret that.”

  Emma left. Her knuckles ached, but she was pretty happy about un-alphabetizing Georgia’s DVDs.

  38

  Sleepover

  Mark returned to Emma’s house late in the afternoon carrying a bag of clothes and a paper bag full of groceries. He said, “Your living alone, I didn’t know what I might find in your refrigerator.”

  She gave him a tour of her house, skipping her bedroom. She showed him how to use the TV remote, and, with a flourish, opened the door to reveal a fully-stocked refrigerator.

  “If you can’t find anything, I’ll have my cell.” She wrote down the number for him. “Thanks for doing this Mark. I appreciate it. And don’t go peeking in my underwear drawer.”

  He looked genuinely affronted. “Not gonna happen,” he said in his idling-chainsaw voice.

  “Just kidding,” she said airily. “Why don’t I cook you dinner on Sunday night to thank you. I can tell you about the super-fun visit I had with my sister-in-law earlier this afternoon.”

  With a wave to Mark, she left. Pepper watched but didn’t seem miffed.

  Emma arrived at Vanessa’s house at 5:30 p.m., the time Vanessa usually arrived home from her job at Hampshire Trust. Emma drove down Vanessa’s long, narrow driveway. When she saw that Vanessa was not yet home, she backed out and parked down the street. Dave went bullshit when somebody parked on his Turf Builder grass. Carrying her overnight bag, she walked back to the house. She waited on the doorstep for less than five minutes before Vanessa drove in.

  Vanessa greeted her with a hug and a kiss. She returned to the car and took a satchel of groceries out of the backseat.

  “I stopped at Luigi’s and bought two filet mignons, which we can grill on the deck, and some bacon to wrap them in. We’ll be really wicked. I also have two expensive bottles of Bordeaux waiting for us inside.”

  “Aren’t you the perfect hostess!”

  Emma briefly wondered if they should rather be filets mignon, but she didn’t say anything.

  A few minutes later, they were on the back deck sipping pre-dinner chilled Chardonnay. Vanessa lit the charcoal. Then, they sat on comfortable lounge chairs with their feet up. Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves.

  They reminisced about Deb, a ubiquitous topic.

  Vanessa poured them more wine, and Emma told her about her encounter with Georgia.

  “Good on you, Em, for decking her. Sounds like she deserved it.”

  “Oh, she definitely did, but I have a feeling, however pumped it made me feel, I may have gone too far.”

  Vanessa, who was not prone to cursing, exclaimed, “Fuck her!”

  Emma then told her about her Berkshire County-wide search for Will and how unsuccessful she and Mark had been.

  Vanessa observed, “If he’s managed to elude everyone for—what has it been?—almost two months, he’s probably pretty good at it.”

  “Seems like it.”

  They never mentioned the reason that Emma was spending the weekend.

  Warmed by the cool wine, Emma told her about The Kiss.

  Vanessa scrunched her face. Emma knew her friend, despite slipping in a fuck earlier, had become more conservative since Hampshire High.

  “Are you sure that was wise?” she asked.

  “Hey, you and Deb were the ones who told me I should be looking for a guy.”

  “Not yet, we said, and that was before we knew Will was still alive,” Vanessa said, not mincing words. “Not sure that was a really good move, Em. You know men, they get ideas, and they get hard to stop.”

  Emma said (with a high degree of uncertainty), “Mark’s not that kind of guy.”

  “He’s a private investigator. Exactly what kind of man becomes a private investigator?”

  “Ouch. Now, I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s change the subject.”

  “Sure,” Vanessa said. “This is making me uncomfortable, too.”

  Over the grill, as the sun was going down, their conversation turned to happier matters. Emma had placed herself in charge of grilling. She considered herself quite the grillmeister, having learned everything she knew about charcoal cooking from Archie. Grilling had never been Will’s forté.

  They ate outside with the mosquitoes.

  Vanessa complimented her on the perfection of the steaks. They were delicious and so was the Bordeaux. They finished a bottle and a half. When they got up to do the dishes, they were both tipsy.

  Emma, who had not forgotten why she was there, wondered how well wine and guard duty went together. But Emma was pooped after her trip, and Vanessa admitted she was always pooped after a week at the bank. After cleaning up, they agreed it was time for bed.

  Vanessa led her upstairs to the bedroom she shared with Dave.

  Emma, raising a mental eyebrow, noted there were two twin beds separated by a bed table with a pair of reading lights. As if reading her mind, Vanessa said, “Dave thinks I’m too hot to sleep with. Unfortunately, he doesn’t mean hot the way I wish he did.”

  Emma smiled awkwardly.

  “You take that one,” she said pointing. “It’s Dave’s, but the sheets are clean.”

  Vanessa changed into a pair of pajamas. Emma got into her bed naked. It was a hot night. Vanessa had her back turned when Emma slipped the Beretta under her pillow.

  With the lights out, they chatted some more.

  “Just like old times. A sleepover. God, I wish Deb were here.”

  “So do I.”

  Moments later, the alcohol lulled them to sleep.

  By her wristwatch, it was nearly 2:00 a.m. when Emma got up to pee. She took the time to recheck the house. There was just enough moonlight to maneuver. Downstairs all the windows, which they had closed and locked in spite of the heat, were all secure. The front and back doors were, too.

  She returned to bed. Vanessa hadn’t woken up.

  It must’ve been about an hour later when Emma awoke with a start.

  She was absolutely positive that something, a wet something, was touching her ankle.

  39

  Ever so Silent

  The only nonstop flight to Cincinnati today is on Delta. The flight is scheduled to take off from Bradley International Airport in Windsor Locks, Connecticut, at 11:45 a.m. The perfect flight for a father traveling with two kids.

  Guess what? I’m right again.

  Since I want to make sure of the departure of Dave Mack, a.k.a. Mr. Bland, and his kids (sans Vanessa), I return to my usual observation post outside Vanessa’s house at 7:30 a.m.

  It takes about forty-five minutes to drive to Bradley, and I figure Dave will want to be at the airport to fulfill the two-hours-before-departure rule. Plus a safety cushion.

  At 7:55 a.m., sure enough, Dave, Dick, and Jane drag rolling suitcases out of the house and load them into a brown Buick Verano four-door sedan, just the make, model, and color I expect an actuarial to own. Dave must be taking a personal day to manage this trip. If all goes well, he’ll be needing a few more.

  Dave hurries the kids into the car. I can hear him say, “We don’t want to be late, kids! We don’t want to miss our flight and disappoint Nana.” And off they go with Vanessa waving.

  I return home to feed my flock.

  All day and all evening I wait inside my house, pacing the rooms with keen anticipation. Tonight, will be anoth
er nail in Emma’s coffin. Crueler than the last because now there will be the combined demise of her two best friends.

  At 2:12 a.m., I arrive on the edge of Vanessa’s lawn on a sweltering, moonlit night. Only Vanessa’s car is parked in the driveway. Once again, my perspicacity astounds me. Vanessa is alone in the house. In the terrorist movies I devour, she would be termed a “soft target.”

  Not a window is lit in her green Victorian. Outside it is easy to see. The moon is waning but still bright. Inside the house will be different. But I am prepared.

  I am dressed all in black. My long-sleeved black T-shirt is already making me sweat, not out of nervousness, though. It’s just hot as hell. I also have black jeans and black sneakers. I haven’t forgotten to apply mosquito repellent either.

  I am fully equipped. I have a night vision goggle device, an Armasight PVS7-3 Alpha Gen 3, head-mountable for hands-free usage. It cost a whopping $3,896.75, and I bought the gadget from, believe it or not, Amazon (“Export of this product outside of the United States of America is not allowed.”). I agree with that prohibition. No sense letting tools of war get into the wrong hands.

  I’ve brought other necessities, too. They are in a black backpack. I have custom-built a number of compartments into my backpack. Each of the additional tools in my quiver resides in a specially fitted space so I can find what I need instantly. I remove a black balaclava from one compartment and slip it over my head.

  I have practiced with the night vision device at home. Tonight, I fit the straps around my head and tighten them. They fit snugly over my three-holed mask. For $3,896.75, they sure as hell better.