Listen

by Rene Gutteridge

  “Thanks!” Damien jumped up from the table. “Hold on. I gotta run upstairs and get my briefcase and a tablet and pen. And a recorder.” He raced upstairs and flew into his bedroom, gathering his soft leather briefcase, which contained everything but a recorder. Nearly out of breath, he hurried to Jenna’s room and knocked.

  “What?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Come in,” the sulky voice said.

  Damien opened the door. The first thing he noticed was the room was littered with clothes, shoes, papers, and empty fast-food boxes. It stunned him into silence because Jenna was normally compulsively neat. When was the last time he’d been in her room? How long had it been like this?

  “What, Dad? You’re standing there like a moron.” She eyed his briefcase. “Going to work? At night?”

  “I’m running to a crime scene or something with Frank. He says it’s a big story. I need a recorder. Do you have one?”

  Jenna shook her head.

  “Surely you have one, with school and everything. It usually takes a little tape and you—”

  “They’re digital, and no, I don’t have one.” She sighed loudly, rolled her eyes, and got off her bed, walking toward him. She pulled his cell out of his shirt pocket, pushed a few buttons, then handed it to him. “You can record on this thing.”

  “I can?”

  “Just go to the utilities menu and there’s a recorder under there. It’s so unfair. You hate cell phones, and you’ve got the top of the line.” Back on her bed, she wrapped her arms across her chest.

  Damien set his briefcase down and tiptoed over the junk to join his daughter on the bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Believe it or not, I’m concerned about you. You’re not acting like yourself.”

  “Really.” Deadpan expressions came easy to Jenna these days. As a little girl, her face would light up with all kinds of expressions. Her eyebrows rose high on her head. She blinked when she got very excited. She grinned, even when she was doing something wrong.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” Damien said, daring to reach out and pat her foot, which she quickly retrieved and stuck under her pillow. “You know you can talk to me. You’ve always talked to me about everything.”

  She stared at her pillows. “It’s nothing. Just hormones, as you keep saying.”

  “Do you want to see a doctor for that?” Damien asked.

  Jenna looked at him, her eyes narrow and scornful. “Is that it? You think a pill is going to solve all this? solve me?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. At all. You’re taking it wrong.”

  “Yes, well, that’s my calling card these days. I’m overly emotional and taking everything the wrong way, so you better leave now while you can escape with your life. When my hormones get disheveled, I’ve been known to eat people alive.”

  Damien smiled. Disheveled. He loved when she used words in unique ways. Disheveled hormones. Now that was a word picture.

  His smile faded as he met her eyes. Nothing but contempt seemed to live inside them. He wanted to hug her, hold her in his arms, but she could hardly stand to be touched. He was left with nothing else to do but get up and go. At the doorway he turned and said, “Thanks for the help on the recorder.”

  She didn’t look up.

  “Take your dishes downstairs when you’re finished and help your mother clean up.”

  That, at least, evoked something. Disdain? Who cared. He needed her to be something more than absent.

  Grabbing his briefcase, he hurried downstairs, stopping by the dining room. He found Kay sitting alone at the table, her hands folded and her chin resting on them. It was as if she’d prepared a huge feast for only herself and didn’t have the stomach to eat it.

  “Where’s Hunter?”

  Kay nodded to the window. “He wanted to walk Frank out.”

  Damien stared out the window. The two of them leaned against Frank’s truck, talking. He turned back to Kay. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”

  “Why? Of course I want you to go.”

  “You look sad.”

  “I’m okay. Go. Get those facts. Write a killer story.”

  Damien laughed. “I don’t even know what I’m going to, but if Frank thinks it’ll make a good story, he’s probably right.”

  He pecked her on the cheek and hurried out the front door and down the sidewalk. Hunter, upon seeing him, stood erect and stepped away from Frank, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking a sudden interest in the dead winter grass.

  Frank regarded Damien as he went around the truck. “I don’t think breaking news is your forte.” He glanced deliberately at his watch. “It usually means you have to be quick on your feet.”

  Damien waved at Hunter as he got into Frank’s truck. “Sorry. I’m ready now.” He snapped his seat belt on. “What were you and Hunter talking about?”

  “You always hovering over your kids like this? No wonder they’re going berserk.”

  “Is Hunter going berserk? Is that what you’re sensing? Because I think I caught him with porn the other night.”

  “He was just getting some Uncle Frank time, okay? Sometimes it’s easier to talk to people outside your family.”

  Damien sighed. “Yeah, okay. I guess. But you have to tell me if he’s getting into something he shouldn’t.”

  Frank pulled the truck onto the neighborhood street. “You shouldn’t worry so much about him. He’s a good kid. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

  “I know he is.” Damien pulled out his notepad. “So what is it that we’re going to?”

  Frank gripped the steering wheel and focused on the road ahead as they turned onto Shelton Street. “You should prepare yourself. This might be disturbing.”

  8

  Frank parked his extended cab at the curb and got out of the truck, searching for Captain Grayson among a crowd of emergency personnel mingled with the curious neighbors. Damien came up beside him.

  Frank spoke quietly. “I can’t say much here, okay? Just walk around, see what you can find out, ask a lot of questions. I’ll see you in a little bit.”

  Frank walked along the street, the flashing lights of the cruisers leading the way to the house. An ambulance was parked on the other side of the roadblock, its back doors open and its bed empty.

  The Shaws’ house bustled with activity. Several officers from the night shift milled around outside. Crime scene tape, tied from one tree to another, fluttered against the cold north wind. Frank followed the sidewalk and was about to enter the house when Detective Dean Murray exited.

  “Hey, Frank,” he said. “Grayson’s looking for you.”

  “What’s going on in there?”

  “They’re working on the lady right now. Not sure if she’s going to make it.”

  “What happened?” Frank asked, glancing behind him toward the reverend’s yard across the street. The couple stood by the tree where their cat had hung just hours before. “Are those two suspects?”

  Detective Murray looked up to see what Frank was talking about. “No. The husband confessed. He’s in there right now. They’re taking him in for more questioning.”

  “The husband? Tim?”

  “Yeah,” Murray said, checking his notes. “That’s his name. Tim Shaw.” He continued down the sidewalk.

  Frank gathered himself, unsure of what he was going to find.

  Upon entering, he noticed the enlarged photo of the finance guy was tipped to the side, leaning against the drapes of the large window. Tim sat on the couch, crying, a night shift officer on either side of him.

  “What have I done?” Tim moaned, shaking his head, hiding his face against the handcuffs around his wrists. He looked up at Frank.

  Frank noticed movement and shouting near the kitchen. He squeezed around a small crowd of firefighters to where two EMTs were hunched over someone.

  He assumed it was Darla. Her feet, shoeless but with pink socks, were barely visible at the m
oment. Her left hand outstretched on the kitchen tile, frozen in a clawlike grip.

  “Save her! Please!” Tim’s shrill voice punctured through tense noises of the room.

  What could’ve happened here?

  “Frank,” said a calm voice behind him. Grayson.

  “What in the world is going on?”

  The captain’s tone was somber. He glanced at Darla on the floor and then at Tim. “He lost his temper. That’s what he’s telling us. He was asking for the officer he first talked to. He couldn’t remember your name.”

  Frank turned back to Darla. As the EMTs moved around her, he saw glimpses of her shirt, bloodied. Her chin also bloodied.

  “He apparently threw a remote control. It hit her skull. He claims it was an accident, that she stepped right in his line of fire.” Grayson pointed to the remote, shattered into pieces on the kitchen floor.

  “Is she going to make it?” Frank whispered, still trying to get a better glimpse of Darla.

  “I don’t know. She’s going into seizures. They’re trying to stabilize her.”

  Suddenly Tim was pulled off the couch and to his feet by the officers.

  Frank faced Grayson. “Let me have a couple of minutes with him, will you? Before Murray gets to him?”

  Grayson looked hesitant.

  “I won’t interfere. I just want to talk with him for a second. He did ask for me.”

  “All right, but make it quick.” Grayson motioned for the officers to leave Tim.

  Frank sat on the couch and pulled Tim back down. “What happened?” Frank asked.

  Tim gasped for air, but no words came out.

  “I need you to tell me the truth.”

  “Is she going to be okay?” Tim asked, unable to take his eyes off her.

  “I don’t know. They’re trying their best.”

  Suddenly the EMTs lifted her onto the stretcher and raised it. “Clear the way!” one of them shouted. They rolled past them in the living room, one of the EMTs holding up an IV bag. Frank still couldn’t get a good sense of how bad it was, but by the way they were rushing her out, it couldn’t be good. They both watched through the front window as she was rolled down the sidewalk and quickly put into the ambulance. The sirens blared through the house, but soon enough the sound was distant.

  “What happened?” Frank repeated.

  Tim sobbed into his hands again, and Frank could barely make out what he was saying. “I just lost it. I thought . . . I thought Darla told.”

  “Told what?”

  Tim finally looked up at Frank, his face a splotchy mess of emotion. “I thought she told the Caldwells what I’d said.” His bloodshot eyes glared at the handcuffs. “How else could anyone know what we said?”

  “What did she say?”

  “She denied it. She said she would never do that. But,” Tim said, his voice lowering to a whisper, “what was on that Web site . . . it’s exactly what I said. Exactly. Verbatim. She was the only person in the room. How could that be?”

  “Tell me what happened here tonight.”

  Tim tried to gather himself, taking two deep breaths and squeezing his handcuffed hands like he was accustomed to using them when he talked. “We got into an argument. I accused Darla of telling the Caldwells. She said she didn’t. It just got more and more heated. She accused me of some things . . . of never knowing when to shut up.” He sniffled. “Which is true. My mouth and my ego, they kind of get in the way sometimes. And . . . people are talking. About us. About me.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Tim covered his eyes as if he were being forced to watch it all over again. “I wasn’t thinking. I was so enraged. I couldn’t imagine how all this was happening.” He looked toward the kitchen, his gaze glued to the floor where blood was smeared across the white and gray tile. “There was the remote sitting on the coffee table. I picked it up. Darla said something—I can’t even remember what now—and I turned and threw it. I think she had moved; I’m not sure. It hit her . . . right . . .” Shaking fingers moved to his skull, just above his right ear.

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Yes.”

  Grayson walked back in. “Let’s get him to the station, Merret.”

  Frank helped Tim to his feet and handed him over to two officers behind Grayson. They led him out of the house.

  “What a mess,” Grayson said. “That guy’s going to do some heavy time. All for losing his temper. Did you get anything useful?”

  “He definitely did it. But it sounds like he didn’t mean to hit her with the remote.”

  “Yeah, well, he can explain that to a judge. I’m going home.”

  Grayson and Frank walked out of the house. Frank tried to find Damien in the crowd, then noticed Reverend Caldwell walking straight toward him.

  “Reverend Caldwell,” Frank said.

  The reverend put his hand on Frank’s shoulder, lowered his voice. “I’ve known this man for a long time. I know what he did in there, but that’s out of character.”

  Frank sighed, searching the reverend’s pleading eyes. “I understand, sir. But this is not working in his favor. He assaulted his wife.”

  “I know. I know. This is very bad. All of it. But I know this man. And I know he’s not what everyone is saying he is.”

  “What is everyone saying?”

  “Empty words. Accusations.” A sadness swept over the reverend’s expression. “We’re neighbors. We’re supposed to look after one another.” He gestured toward the Shaws’ house. “All this over a conversation. We humans can tame animals, birds, reptiles, and fish, but no one can tame the tongue.”

  Reverend Caldwell’s words crawled over Frank’s flesh. All that could be heard was the low, fretful murmuring of the nearby crowd.

  “Officer? Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  Damien stood in the middle of the street for a moment, taking it all in. He wanted a complete picture for the story, which included the setting—a quiet neighborhood in Marlo, just two blocks from their world-famous chocolate shop, erupting in violence on what on any ordinary day would be a playful, tranquil street. Damien noticed a crowd gathered on the lawn directly across from where the incident took place, whatever that incident might be.

  A stretcher with medical personnel around it had made a hasty exit out of the home on the left. He caught a glimpse of a woman lying on it as they wheeled her toward the ambulance. The EMTs were in a hurry to get her loaded. A couple of firefighters helped lift the stretcher.

  Damien took out his notepad and wrote down a few words to help him remember the moment. Yeah, he knew, this was supposed to be investigative reporting, but cold, hard facts don’t always tell the complete story.

  At least, in his opinion.

  The wailing sirens of the ambulance caused him to shiver. Whatever happened here, it wasn’t good. Wasn’t right. Through the glowing front window of the home where the lady was taken from, he saw Frank pass by, hands on his hips, a strangely fierce look on his face.

  He decided to see if someone from the crowd would talk to him. He pulled his newspaper ID badge from his wallet and clipped it on his shirt. Just a few short steps toward them already drew attention. They all stared as he approached.

  He smiled pleasantly but not eagerly. “Hi, folks. I’m Damien Underwood from the paper. Can I ask some of you a few questions?”

  An elderly woman with a tight expression sized him up. “From the paper, you say? Underwood? Don’t you write those opinion pieces?”

  “Yes.”

  “And crosswords,” someone else said. “A little easy for my taste.”

  Damien held up a hand before anyone else wanted to give an opinion. “Folks, listen. I’m here to talk about what happened tonight. What’s going on over there?”

  A bald, overweight man with motorcycle pants on said, “All we heard was that the husband nearly beat his wife to death.”

  “They just brought her out on a s
tretcher. She looked half-dead,” the elderly woman said.

  Damien quickly took notes. The recorder would’ve been better, but people were talking. Now. It would take him several minutes to figure out how Jenna got to the right menu to bring up the recorder on the phone.

  “I always thought that man had a mean streak in him,” a woman wearing a dirty apron said.

  Another woman scoffed. “Whatever, Ginger. I’ve seen you over there flirting.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ginger said, her eyes white-hot.

  “You and Sara are always talking about him.”

  “Shut up, Pam. No we’re not.”

  “Really? Because the Web site says differently.”

  Ginger suddenly lunged at Pam, who gasped and stumbled back into the crowd.

  Damien stepped out of the way and observed the two women shouting obscenities at each other while others kept them from swinging punches. He carefully wrote down what he’d heard, but there was such a ruckus he wasn’t sure he was going to get any more quotes.

  He glanced across the street and noticed Frank talking to a man. They wrapped up their conversation, and Frank headed to his truck. Damien decided he’d better get there too before a full-blown riot took place over who flirted with the man who beat his wife.

  “Dad?”

  Damien turned as he heard a young voice, much like his daughter’s. A teenage girl shoved her way through the crowd.

  The man Damien saw Frank talking to rushed over to her. “Come on, Gabriella. Let’s get you inside. You don’t need to see this.”

  “Dad, what’s going on?”

  Their conversation faded into the crowd noise as they tried to make their way to the house.

  “You’re a jerk!” someone yelled.

  Damien and Frank both turned around.

  A man, presumably Tim Shaw, was being led away in handcuffs. His head hung low, and he never looked up, not even once he was in the cruiser.

  Damien scribbled more notes. Behind him, he heard a man say, “Come on. Let’s go home. I want to see this Web site they’re talking about.” The crowd began to disperse.