The Reticence

by Levi Fuller

  “Roger that.”

  Later that day, Marcia ladled gravy onto the mash potatoes before adding a chicken breast and placed it in front of Becky, sitting at the kitchen table.

  “When Mandy was growing up, she loved Kentucky Fried Chicken,” Becky said. “We had it at least once a week. After she… after that, I stopped eating it. Every time I did, I cried.”

  “We love it too,” Margo said. “Our mother can make better, but that’s a lot of work. The Colonel does just fine.”

  “You know, I can’t eat all this,” Becky said. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that food doesn’t smell or taste good anymore.”

  “You have to eat something,” Marcia said. “You’re not a fern. You can’t live on air alone.”

  Becky chuckled at her words. “In the hospital, we would sometimes get an anorexic girl. You know, someone who looked like a twig. We would bring her food, but she generally wouldn’t eat. She had this idea that she was fat. Once a girl thinks she’s fat, it’s hard to convince her that she’s too thin. So, I would show them photos of actual starving children. Then, I would put their picture side-by-side. They could see that they looked like starving children as if they lived in some poor, foreign country.”

  “That worked?”

  “Not every time, but often. When you realize you look like a starving refugee, you can start eating again.”

  Becky forked some mashed potatoes into her mouth, which lightened Margo’s heart. It was hard to watch someone die.

  “We saw Mr. Cummins today,” Marcia said. “He’s a very nice man.”

  “I know,” Becky said. “In a way, it was too bad that he was stuck here in the backwoods of North Carolina. He had the heart and mind of a cosmopolitan.”

  “We discovered that. He told us that the night Mandy disappeared, she was not practicing her volleyball serves. She was waiting for someone. Any idea who?”

  “No. I have no idea. It wasn’t me. And I always thought it wasn’t her father. Although, we now know he was close enough to do it.”

  “Mr. Cummins didn’t know either. He told us that Michael Kosinski was someone capable of murder. Did you know him?” Margo asked.

  “I knew of him, but from what I gathered, he wasn’t one to keep his hands off Mandy if he took her. He could have done something to her.”

  “I agree. He likes women. At least, he says he likes women.”

  “Mr. Cummins would be a good judge of men. Women, I’m not so sure of.”

  “We’re not finished,” Margo said. “We have several people and leads to pursue. On that note, do you know how we can reach Charlie, your ex?”

  “I have a Christmas card list. It’s on my computer. Search for Christmas cards, and you’ll find it. That’s where I send Charlie a card every year.”

  “Ever get one back?”

  Becky shook her head. “Some people can wipe their hands clean and move on. I thought… We had some good years,” she murmured.

  “Keep eating,” Marcia encouraged her.

  They left soon after. Once they arrived at their cabin, Marcia locked the door and looked around, but everything looked exactly as it should. That was a good thing. Margo came back after checking the loft and bedrooms.

  “All clear.”

  “Great. Glass of wine?”

  “I’m ready for it.”

  Marcia poured two glasses and handed one to Margo.

  “Successful day,” Margo said. “We didn’t get shot at.”

  Marcia laughed. “You have a point.”

  Outside, the owl hooted.

  CHAPTER 4

  Marcia sipped coffee while reading her email. The morning was cold, by Florida standards, and her hot coffee tasted just right. Her email was mostly junk mail, with all the spam that had slipped through the filters. Spam was a game of cat and mouse. Every time the filters blocked some unwanted mail, the senders devised new ways to get past them. Marcia suspected that clever spam senders paid the people who maintained the filters, which made sense. No need to engage in an escalating war. Just buy your way past the filters.

  “Did you hear that stupid owl last night?”

  Marcia looked up as Margo came down the steps.

  “No, I wore earplugs. I have extra ones. Want some?”

  “You brought earplugs? Why would you do that?”

  “All part of my packing list. I have a sleep mask, too, if you need that.”

  “No, I’ll try the plugs. Why don’t I hear things back home?”

  “You hear it. At home, your brain automatically decides if the sound is dangerous or not. But here, your brain hasn’t adjusted yet. Give it a week, and you’ll stop hearing the owl.”

  “We’re not going to be here a week. We’re running out of leads. What’s up this morning?”

  “I have a message from Becky. She needs someone to take her to the hospital for a treatment. You don’t need to go.”

  “Then, I won’t. I’m staying away from hospitals till I get back home, and even then, only in an emergency.”

  Margo brought her coffee to the table and yawned.

  “I’ll drive Becky’s vehicle,” Marcia said. “You have our car.”

  “In that case, I think I’ll pay a visit to Mrs. O’Brien.”

  “The coach’s wife?”

  “Just to verify what he told us. He dropped off Tanya and went home.”

  “He lives out of town, I think.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “How’s your head?”

  Margo stretched her neck. “I need a new pillow too. My head is fine. It’s a cut, not a concussion.”

  “When you get back, we should tackle Randy Nokes. I know no one thinks he could have done it, but he was her boyfriend. He might know something about someone else.”

  “That’s the way these things work. Daisy chains. You find someone who knows something about someone. And that person knows something about someone...”

  “I’m going to do a load of laundry when I get back from the hospital. Throw your stuff over the washer.”

  Marcia noticed Margo’s tired eyes, a sign that she hadn’t slept well at all.

  “You can take a nap later,” Marcia suggested. “While I’m doing laundry.”

  “I might take you up on that.”

  Marcia stood. “I have to get going. You know the way?”

  “GPS. A driver’s best friend.”

  “I thought that was cruise control.”

  “That’s a drunk’s best friend.”

  They laughed together at her joke.

  ***

  Becky huddled inside of her coat, with her knit hat pulled down over her ears. She shivered despite the heater fan going at full blast.

  “Anything I can do?” Marcia asked.

  “No, it’s just how things are. I hate the hospital. I hate the treatments. I know they’re important. I know I need to have them, but they’re so… draining. After one, I feel like a cooked noodle. I have no strength for anything else.”

  “After, you can sleep. In fact, you can join us in our cabin and take a nap. I’m going to do laundry, anyway.”

  “I can’t do that. All my meds and equipment are in my cabin.”

  “Then I’ll come to you. I’ll stuff our laundry in a bag and do it at your cabin.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ll be all right.”

  “Of course, you will. But since I’ll be stuck inside anyway, I might as well be stuck with you.”

  Becky let out a small, dry laugh. It sounded raspy, like leaves rubbing against each other during the fall.

  “That’s not part of our contract.”

  “It’s part of our friendship. It can’t all be about chasing down leads and suspects. That would make the job boring.”

  “We both know better. But thank you very much.”

  “Someday, I hope someone will do the same for me.”

  “I do too.”

  Marcia spotted the hospital in the distance. Beside her, Bec
ky sighed. The hospital was not a welcome sight for her. Marcia reached out and squeezed Becky’s hand once.

  ***

  The coach’s house was three miles outside Havermill. Margo had no problem finding the drive that led back through the trees. The house was dark green and looked like it might have once been a farmhouse. A modern, red, steel barn stood behind it, making her wonder what the coach kept there. Since deep woods surrounded the house, she doubted he kept any farm equipment. She didn’t see any animals either. She expected a dog or two, as dogs were excellent companions and alarm systems. No dog trotted or barked its way to her, however. As she parked, she noticed a woman coming out of the barn.

  The woman looked frail in her puffy, gray coat. Her boots were halfway up her shins. Her checkered cap had little flaps to cover her ears, and she wore yellow leather, working gloves. She shuffled toward the house, paying no attention to the car or Margo. It was as if Margo wasn’t there at all.

  “Hello,” Margo called to her as she slipped from the car.

  The woman stopped in her tracks and stared at her in surprise. Then, she started up again, heading for the back door of the house.

  “Excuse me,” Margo said and started rushing after the woman. “My name is Margo Fleming. Can we talk?”

  The woman didn’t answer. She disappeared into the house, leaving Margo on the back stoop. For a moment, Margo didn’t know what to do. Then, she knocked.

  “Mrs. O’Brien, I’m investigating the murder of Mandy Salter, the old murder. I’ve talked to your husband. And I’d like to talk to you.”

  Margo received no answer. Feeling frustrated at being ignored, she knocked once again, banging loudly on the door. Nothing happened.

  Margo sighed before yelling, “Mrs. O’Brien, I’m coming in.”

  The kitchen was dated but spotless. The cabinets had been white at one time but were now yellowed. The stove was black, the fridge stainless steel, and the counters Formica. The floor was a pattern of black and gray squares. Several were cracked and needed replacing. Despite the age, everything was clean and neat. A modern coffee machine on the counter was blinking. It needed water. There was a calendar on the wall, and next to it, a large cross with was a picture of Christ, his hand raised in blessing. Margo slowly turned, taking in everything. She spotted a Bible on a stand and an image of Mary. She’d entered a Christian home.

  “Sit down,” someone said behind her.

  Margo turned. The woman in the doorway was still dressed in her coat, hat, and boots. But she was now holding a shotgun, pointing straight at her.

  ***

  Hospital waiting rooms always depressed Marcia. Human misery came in all ages and sizes. Cancer treatments weren’t reserved for the old and infirm. Broken bones were not only the province of children. Beatings and cuts arrived in various colors. Pain was the common denominator. Everyone in the room suffered from some sort of pain. Patient and companion each had their own issues. She couldn’t help but feel down. Being in this depressing room would get to anyone.

  “You don’t belong here.”

  Marcia looked up as John Males sat down beside her.

  “I could say the same to you,” Marcia replied.

  “Oh, I do belong here. I have an old man’s disease.”

  “And that is?”

  “Prostate cancer. My type isn’t particularly virile or threatening, but it’s there. It affects my life. I have to have it inspected regularly. It will kill me eventually, but that is probably years down the road. I hope it is. What are you doing here?”

  “I brought Becky Salter for her treatment.”

  He nodded. “She has the bad kind of cancer. Fast and deadly. She might have a year or two, but I don’t think she has a decade left.”

  John was dressed in country style—cowboy boots, jeans, corduroy coat, and a baseball cap in his hands. His veiled eyes were slippery as if he was not looking at her when he was looking at her.

  “How’s your sister? I heard she had a run-in with a bullet.”

  “She’s fine. A cut, nothing more. We talked to principal Cummins yesterday.”

  “Assistant principal. What did that old queen have to say?”

  “He thinks you’re one of the few men around Havermill who would be capable of murdering a teenage girl. Any idea why he would say that?”

  John chuckled. “Cummins thought a stern word and a cuff on the back of the head meant that a man was violent. I guess in his world; any form of aggression would be seen as abnormal. That was his problem with the kids. He could never bring himself to discipline them the way they needed. Spare the rod and spoil the child, as the good book says.”

  “Whoever spares the rod hates their children, but the one who loves their children is careful to discipline them. Proverbs, thirteen, twenty-four.”

  “You know your Bible.”

  “Some people think the words mean that they need to beat their children, but that’s not true. They need to discipline their children, and discipline comes in many forms.”

  “I have always believed that there is no discipline but self-discipline.”

  “Oh?”

  “When you get down to it, no one can make you do anything you really don’t want to do. Oh, they can impose all kinds of sanctions and physical pain, but if you’re willing to bear the pain, you can tell them to pound sand.”

  “That’s an interesting take. Has it helped you in your dealings with criminals?”

  “It has, I think. Because, once they buy into it, they understand that discipline comes from inside, not out. You don’t need a rod if you can convince someone that they have control.”

  “It’s just a matter of getting them to accept what it is they have to do?”

  “I’ve found that most people know what they should do. Not all of them can get themselves to do the right thing, but they know what it is.”

  “Do criminals follow your theory?”

  “The smart ones do, the ones who take responsibility for what they’ve done. Unfortunately, criminals almost always blame someone else for their crimes. You would be surprised at how many murderers say the victim had it coming or didn’t leave the killer any choice.”

  “But we all have a choice, correct?”

  “If you’re willing to accept the consequences. Lots of folks don’t like them. Well, here comes your patient.”

  Marcia looked up to find a hospital volunteer pushing Becky in a wheelchair.

  “I have to go,” John said as he stood. “And I mean that in several different ways.” He snickered before leaving.

  Marcia moved to Becky. “I’ll get the car,” Marcia said.

  “Was that Sheriff Males with you?” Becky asked.

  “It was.”

  “I thought so.”

  Marcia patted Becky’s shoulder and turned for the exit. The ride home wouldn’t take long. She hoped Becky would doze. A question rolled back and forth in Marcia’s brain. Did Sheriff Males really believe that discipline couldn’t be imposed? Would such a man burn a teenage girl with a cigarette?

  “I’ll have you home in a jiffy,” Marcia told Becky.

  “You shouldn’t talk to him,” Becky said.

  “Talk to whom?”

  “The sheriff.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s not a good man.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Tanya,” Becky mumbled. “Ask Tanya.”

  With those mysterious words, Becky’s head slumped to the side. Marcia knew Becky had slipped into some sort of sleep, or it was only exhaustion. As they drove toward Becky’s cabin, Marcia wondered about Becky’s last words. Why did she want her to talk to Tanya? What had Tanya hidden? Did she know something about John Males, something no one else knew? Marcia wondered for another minute before she pushed the questions from her mind. Her next task was a simple one. She had to get Becky inside the cabin.

  CHAPTER 5

  Margo looked across the room, and a chill ran up her spine. The shotgun
didn’t waver, which meant the woman knew what she was doing. She was no novice.

  “If you don’t mind, could you point that in another direction?” Margo asked.

  “You have maybe a minute before I shoot off one leg. That’s to keep you still till the sheriff gets here.”

  “My name is Margo Fleming. My sister Marcia and I came to Havermill to investigate the murder of Mandy Salter. We have already talked to your husband, and I’m here to chat with you. We mean no harm. If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. I’ll leave.”

  “You talked to my husband?”

  “That’s correct. You are married to Terry O’Brien, the volleyball coach, right?”

  The woman nodded.

  “I realize the murder is twenty years old. I’m sure it was upsetting then and might still be troubling for you today. I’m not here to accuse anyone. We’re only here to gather facts.”

  A tear ran down the woman’s cheek. Margo noticed the redness around her hazel eyes as if she had been crying—for a long time. Taking a deep breath, Margo stepped forward, even as the woman began to shake. Afraid that she might accidentally fire in her distressed state, Margo gently grabbed the barrel and pushed it to the side.

  “It’s all right,” Margo said. “Sometimes, memories are more powerful than the present. Let me take this.”

  Margo pulled the shotgun away from the woman. Then, Margo broke open the single shot and removed the cartridge. She put the cartridge on the counter and snapped the barrel shut before leaning it against the wall.

  “Now,” Margo said. “How about a cup of coffee. I don’t know about you, but I could certainly use one.”

  The woman pointed to the coffee machine and the rack of pods to feed it.

  “Decaf or high octane?” Margo asked.

  “Octane,” the woman murmured in a low voice.

  As Margo fixed the coffee, she could hear the woman whispering. When Margo turned, the woman hadn’t moved, still in her outdoor clothes. As Margo approached, she discovered that the woman was, in fact, praying.

  “Here,” Margo said. “Let’s get you out of your winter stuff before you overheat.”

  They spent the next minute removing her outer layers. A gray-haired, older woman, whose lined face and dull hair testified to a harsh life, was revealed. Margo knew that in the current world, wrinkles could be minimized, and hair could be enhanced. The woman’s hands were rough and raw, most likely from hard work. The woman wrapped her hands around her cup and nodded, whispering a prayer that Margo could not quite understand.