Dead Silence

by Kimberly Derting

  But he wasn’t that same frightened little boy anymore.

  And unlike his mother, he knew Colton would come out. This wasn’t the kind of place that took kindly to junkies crashing on their couch. This was a place of business, and they couldn’t have tweakers littering their floors. No, Colton would get his fix and leave.

  He ducked when he saw the boy emerge from beneath the neon sign that cast a blue pallor over his skin. It was that familiar shit-eating grin plastered on Colton’s face that nearly made him reveal himself too soon. He knew that look, it told him that he’d already used. He was already high.

  Good for him. Bad for Colton.

  Colton never even glanced his way. Of course he didn’t. He had no reason to suspect he was being followed. He had no reason to suspect he’d overstepped his boundaries and needed to be taught a lesson.

  Sauntering down the sidewalk, taking wide, zigzagging steps, Colton didn’t bother to hide that he was stoned. Yet another strike against him. How many times had Evan warned them, those in his family, that they needed to be discreet? That drawing unwanted attention would only cause trouble, would only bring them one step closer to getting caught?

  Colton was a liability.

  He tamped down the urge to strike now, right here in the open. To beat the stupid grin off Colton’s face.

  A couple walking hand in hand saw Colton coming their way and crossed to the other side of the street to avoid him altogether. Smart. Apparently they could see what he had, the lack of inhibition, that wasted-ness about him that said he didn’t care what anyone else thought, and decided they didn’t want to tangle with him.

  Colton called after them, “S’matter with you? Where ya goin . . . ?” His words were slurred as he listed toward them, nearly staggering off the curb before catching himself and shaking his fist in their direction.

  The woman dropped her gaze and they both sped up their pace. It didn’t matter really, Colton could never catch up with them, not in the state he was in.

  He yelled again, but it was almost impossible to tell exactly what he’d said. It sounded something like, “You think you’re too good for me?” But it might have been, “Y’fin yer two goo fer me?” It was that distorted.

  He didn’t exactly feel sorry for the couple; they had no business being out here, not in this neighborhood at night. This wasn’t the kind of place people went out for a casual midnight stroll.

  Once they were past though, Evan sped up, closing the distance between him and Colton. He could feel his blood pounding, could hear it pulsing in his own ears now.

  It was the same way he’d felt the night they’d gone into Butterfly’s house, the same rush of adrenaline that had taken him over . . . taken them all over when he’d set his plans in motion . . . when he’d set his children loose. As they stabbed and sliced and drew messages with the blood of that other family. Butterfly’s family.

  Yet even then it had been Colton who’d escalated things when he cut the boy’s chest open.

  But like any good father, he’d cleaned up after them, positioning the bodies just so, setting the scene. Creating the image of the ideal family.

  And now he had to clean up again, a different sort of mess.

  He waited until Colton turned the corner, just past a house with boards across the windows and front door. Like so many houses in this neighborhood it was either condemned or had been foreclosed on. Something about seeing this particular house though, here and now, made him move faster, made his rage almost unbearable. He might have waited a few more blocks if he hadn’t remembered what it had been like, all those years ago, waiting behind those very bushes for a mother who might, or might not, come out to retrieve him.

  “Colton,” he ground out. “Colton, wait!”

  The boy in front of him swayed. It might have been comical to watch, except this was no laughing matter. “S’up, man?” Colton’s words were sluggish as he turned and saw who it was who’d called out to him. “Wha’re you do’n ou’ here?” He backtracked, taking long, lopsided steps over the cracked sidewalk.

  “We need to talk.” He didn’t wait for Colton to respond, as he looped his arm around Colton’s waist and dragged him toward the bushes. The same ones where he’d once taken cover. The same ones that would hide them now.

  But that smile was still there. Stupid and cocky and . . . there.

  “We shoul’ go out,” Colton drawled and then poked him in the chest, as if emphasizing his point. “We shoul’ stay out all night, jus’ like the ol’ days.”

  He wanted to hit him, to unleash all of his pent-up fury on him now. Instead he grabbed a handful of the other boy’s shirt, trying to make him understand. Hoping there was still a chance for reason. “No, we shouldn’t. That’s exactly why I’m here. You can’t do this shit. You can’t stumble all over town, just waitin’ for the cops to come and pick you up. Stop acting like an idiot, Colton. This isn’t just about you anymore.” Spittle flew from his lips as he shrieked in Colton’s face. He would’ve worried that someone might overhear them, that he might be the one drawing attention, but this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where others paid attention. This was a place where people kept to themselves.

  Shock, and then understanding, changed the planes of Colton’s face, and his smile mutated, becoming something less than cocky, less than smug. He bared his teeth, showing his true nature. Even his words were clearer now. “Then who’s it about, Evan? You?” He slicked his hand over his greasy hair, shoving it out of his eyes as he stood upright. “I’m not one of your mindless followers like that moron Boxer or that cunt Kisha. What’re’ya gonna do, dope me up like Bailey? Make it so I don’t have a thought’a my own anymore?” There was a flash of fear behind his mud-colored eyes, almost as if he’d realized he’d gone too far, but it was gone almost as fast as it had appeared. Replaced by defiance. “You can’t tell me what to do, Evan. You’re not my father.”

  And that was it, everything he’d been holding inside, everything he’d held back was unleashed. Those four simple words: You’re not my father.

  Because he was. And Colton needed to understand that. Needed to realize he had to respect him as such.

  His first blow was enough to drop Colton to his knees, and blood began immediately gushing from his nose. Evan’s knuckles ached, but it wasn’t satisfying, so he hit Colton again. And again. And again.

  He felt removed, almost euphoric, as he released his anger, as he let it go on the boy beneath him. He pounded until his fists hurt, and then he pounded some more. He was only mildly aware of a whimpering sound, coming from somewhere far away, and of the words I am your father being repeated loudly—hoarsely—over and over again.

  When he was out of breath, and his shoulders and back and arms ached so badly he couldn’t possibly lift them even one more time, he slumped forward, collapsing onto Colton. Only then did he realize that the whimpering was coming from his son—from Colton. But it wasn’t whimpering, it was wheezing.

  He raised his head then, and surveyed the scene. He dropped the bloody rock he’d been holding, clutching, in his fist.

  “You made me do this,” he said. “Why couldn’t you just behave?”

  He waited for a response, for Colton to say, or do, something. But there was nothing. Just stillness . . . and wheezing. And blood.

  He thought about the first time he’d seen Colton at the park, bruises under both of his eyes and a chip on his shoulder. He was just thirteen. Yet even then, Colton had looked up to him, had needed the older boy to watch his back out on the streets.

  And he had. And when Colton had run out of places to stay, he and Bailey and Kisha and Boxer took him in.

  He didn’t like that Colton had pushed him to this, that he’d given him no other options, but it was what it was. Sometimes parents had to make the tough decisions. Sometimes they had to do things for the greater good.

  He leaned down, peeling away the hair that had fallen back over Colton’s eyes, hair that was now wet and sticky and r
ed. He smoothed it away and caressed the boy’s forehead, and then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss there. He wanted Colton to know that, even though he’d had to be punished, they were still family . . . no matter what.

  This happened in families sometimes. They fought and they made up.

  And this was one of those times.

  CHAPTER 15

  “AW, GEEZ, WHAT’S HE DOIN’ HERE?” SAM ASKED petulantly as he eyed Rafe with apprehension.

  “Take it easy,” Rafe told Sam, trying to sound as friendly as Violet had ever heard him. It was completely false, like Mr. LeCompte’s accent, but she appreciated the effort nonetheless. It was her one caveat when she finally confessed what she and Sam had been up to . . . that Rafe try to at least set Sam at ease. She didn’t want him scaring the younger boy with his surly attitude. Sam had, after all, been doing her a favor.

  “Don’t worry,” Rafe said, putting up his hands. “I promise not to get in the way. I’m just here to make sure no one gets hurt.”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “So you don’t think I can protect her?”

  Rafe laughed, but it wasn’t bitter and mocking, like his usual laugh. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” And then he chucked Sam in the arm, playfully.

  Sam might not have wanted to, but he couldn’t help smiling back at the older boy. Rafe could be sorta charming when he wasn’t being a total jerk, Violet realized.

  “Whatever, man,” Sam said, rubbing his arm. Then he tossed his head toward the entrance. “There’s been a steady stream of people going in already. Whoever this band is, they seem pretty popular.” He looked at Rafe. “And from what I can tell, you’ll fit right in.”

  Violet took in Rafe, in his worn jeans and threadbare T-shirt, his leather jacket and black boots.

  Then Sam’s gaze fell on her. “We’re gonna stick out like sore thumbs.”

  As she glanced toward the entrance, Violet realized what he meant. There were other girls there, but none were dressed like her, and suddenly she felt out of place in her jeans and fleece jacket and sneakers. Sam was just as bad, wearing a button-down with a collar and khakis. Already they were drawing unwanted attention.

  Rafe looked at the two of them and rolled his eyes. “Here,” he said, stripping off his jacket and handing it to Sam. “At least try not to look so . . . collegiate. And you,” he said to Violet, shaking his head. “Throw your North Face in the car and lose the ponytail. Try to look like you’re here for a good time.”

  Inside the club it was just as bad . . . if not worse. They were so obviously out of place it was almost laughable. At least her and Sam.

  Everyone around them seemed to be wearing black. Or leather.

  Or black and leather.

  And there were piercings and tattoos, and a sea of dyed hair and heavily lined eyes . . . not all of them belonging to the girls.

  Even wearing Rafe’s jacket, Sam didn’t look like he was a day older than twelve.

  The only plus side of the club was that it was dark in there. And the strobing white lights that pulsed from the stage made it hard to focus on any one thing for too long. The music was also distracting. It was fierce and nearly ear-shattering, but that was the reason everyone was there, wasn’t it?

  Violet studied her surroundings with the same cautious eye she would any potentially dangerous scenario, carefully trying to assess if there was anything out of the ordinary. Anything in the pulsating, alternating light and dark flashes, among the screams and pounding beats of the music, that didn’t belong in this place.

  Any echoes or imprints.

  “That’s the opening band,” Sam shouted above the noise of the cheering crowd, drawing her attention. The band on the stage was just finishing up. “Safe Word’s up next.”

  Violet nodded, still glancing around her. She caught a giant man watching her. Glaring was more like it. His head was shaved and practically polished, his scalp shone beneath the flashing lights. His neck was wide—nearly as wide as his head—making it hard to tell where jaw became neck, and neck became body. His massive arms were crossed in front of his chest as he stood against the wall by a doorway.

  He looked like a bouncer, and probably was, Violet realized, as she guessed that the doorway might lead backstage. Or maybe outside, to another club entrance, and the giant was meant to keep stragglers from sneaking in the back door without paying their admission.

  Violet couldn’t imagine anyone trying to sneak past him, though.

  She smiled at the enormous man, and was just about to raise her hand—to wave possibly—when Rafe nudged her. “Knock it off, V. I thought the point was to go unnoticed.”

  The bouncer frowned at first, and Violet wondered if she wasn’t supposed to bother him while he was working, but then his expression changed, and he flashed a huge grin back at her. There was nothing menacing about him then. He was just a guy, a big guy, standing by a door.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Rafe muttered, dragging her away. “What kind of detective are you?”

  Violet shrugged, letting Rafe lead her toward the front, near the stage, as the next band was setting up. “You never know who can help.” And then her eyes widened and she lowered her voice. “Besides, maybe he knows something . . . about the symbol.”

  She felt Rafe’s grip on her wrist tense. “What symbol?” he asked, and for the first time she realized she hadn’t told them, either him or Sam, about the brimstone cross she’d noticed on the flyer.

  “That one,” Violet said, drawing Rafe’s attention away from her as she pointed at the drum set already onstage. It was there too, in the center of the large drum that faced outward. That very same symbol . . . the brimstone cross.

  She heard Sam draw in a sharp breath from behind her.

  “Violet,” Rafe said, using her full name now, his voice quiet and filled with warning. “Tell me what you feel. Right now, when you’re looking at those guys up there . . .”

  He didn’t point, didn’t move so much as a single muscle, he just held on to her, his fingers clamped around her wrist. But she knew who he meant.

  Them . . . the band.

  She turned her gaze upward, her eyes roving over each and every one of them as they took their positions, taking in everything about them. She spent time on each of them, studying them individually, making sure to separate them not just from one another, but from anything around her that might interfere. It was easier now, with just the prerecorded track playing in the background—still loud, but not shattering her eardrums.

  There were five of them in all. Five possible suspects wearing leather and spikes and chunky boots and tight jeans. They looked like everyone else in the club.

  Everyone but her. And Sam.

  She took a step back, Rafe’s hand still clutching her as she shook her head. “Nothing,” she whispered at first, and wondered if they’d heard her. “I don’t feel anything at all.”

  Violet washed her face and changed out of her smoke-infused clothes. For a nonsmoking club, there’d been a lot of smoke in the air. Short of showering, there was nothing she could do about the smell that clung to her hair, so she pulled it back into an elastic, keeping it as far from her face as she could.

  In her room, she huddled in her bed, nesting in the jumble of blankets as she started poring through the pages of her grandmother’s journals once more. She’d already read these entries—in fact, she’d already read all of them now—but she hoped against hope that maybe she’d missed something the first time through.

  After nearly an hour of scanning the same entries and not learning a single new bit of information, she slammed the book she was holding shut.

  It was useless. There was no more mention of the Seven in her grandma’s diaries.

  In fact, after that ominous entry about Muriel, Muriel is dead, she’d never mentioned her team again.

  Not once.

  Ever.

  It was the strangest thing, Violet thought, trying to imagine what possible reason her grandmother c
ould have had for not writing about them.

  Had she quit the team? Had it disbanded after Muriel’s death?

  Had she been too afraid to put anything else on paper?

  Whatever her reason, there was nothing more about them, just page after page of mundane entries about her everyday life, including Violet’s mom’s graduation and her move to college, her wedding to her dad, and the birth of Violet herself.

  Okay, so it wasn’t all mundane.

  There was another section that interested Violet as well—or rather a non-section. A large chunk of Violet’s grandmother’s life that seemed to be missing, when she’d stopped journaling . . . just after Violet’s grandfather had died.

  It was nearly a year before she’d journaled again, and when she did it was just a quick entry about a doctor’s appointment she’d had that day. They were all quick and sporadic after that, nothing significant or interesting, until it was more like looking at a calendar than a diary.

  As if she’d lost that passion she’d had for documenting her thoughts and emotions and the events that shaped her life.

  Violet finally gave up and laid the diary on her nightstand. As she did, her hand brushed the silver turtle Jay had given her. She picked it up, holding it up and inspecting it.

  As strange as it seemed, she sometimes missed the intrusive imprint that used to fill her every waking thought. Times like now, when it was quiet. When her mind was restless, flitting from one place to the next.

  The imprint had at least given her a place to land.

  She turned the silver key at the turtle’s belly and lifted the silver lid, closing her eyes as the first lyrical notes of Moonlight Sonata enveloped her.

  And her thoughts, which had been harried, tripping over one another uneasily, settled at last, onto the musical bough of the familiar song.