Listen to the Silence

by Marcia Muller

  “And you work for your mother?”

  “For now. I’m starting law school next spring. For years I resisted following in Mom’s and Dad’s footsteps, but I found out by working here that the law fascinates me.”

  “You’re how many years older than Darcy?”

  “Two years chronologically, two decades emotionally.”

  So Saskia Blackhawk had waited fourteen years after my birth to have another child. Of course, at least seven of those would have been devoted to her education, the remainder to establishing the law practice.

  Robin glanced at her watch. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping Mom. She budgets her time strictly. If she says she’ll be someplace, she’s there to the minute.”

  “Did she check in with you after I made the appointment?” It occurred to me that if she heard my name, she might try to avoid seeing me.

  “No, she—” The phone on the reception desk rang, and Robin went to answer it.

  I got up and moved to the fireplace, studied the elk skin painting. The warriors were primitive, almost stick figures, but the buffalo and horses were fully and lovingly fleshed out. How on earth had I, who hated huge beasts, sprung from such a people?

  Behind me I heard Robin gasp and then moan. The receiver clattered into its cradle. I turned, saw her coming across the hallway, pale and agitated.

  “That was the emergency room at Saint Alphonsus,” she said. “Mom’s been hurt. Jesus, it sounds bad. I’ve got to go to her.”

  My stomach lurched. “What happened?”

  “Hit-and-run.” She began digging frantically through her purse. “Dammit, I can’t find my car keys!”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I’ll drive you.”

  The media had already been alerted to the hit-and-run of a prominent activist attorney; press vans clogged the parking area in front of the emergency entrance of St. Alphonsus Hospital, and reporters with microphones and minicams waited on the sidewalk. I had to push them back as I guided Robin to the doors. Once inside, she was taken away by two detectives from the Boise P.D.’s Crimes Against Persons unit, who wanted to talk with her about her mother’s accident.

  The presence of the detectives unnerved me. In most jurisdictions, such accidents were handled by uniformed officers from a traffic-safety detail; plainclothes officers indicated that this might be more than a simple hit-and-run. As I sat in the waiting room, I could do nothing more than agonize and speculate.

  Emergency wards are awful places at any time, but particularly at night—full of glaring fluorescence, harried personnel, distraught and often bloodied people. St. Alphonsus’s was no exception. A long line snaked across the floor to the admitting desk. Friends and relatives of the seriously injured sat in stunned and anxious silence, while the less seriously injured suffered. Somewhere nearby a man kept uttering long, demented wails.

  Normally I had difficulty dealing with such situations, but this was unbearable. Somewhere in the hospital my birth mother lay injured, possibly dying, and I was powerless to go to her, unable to learn the details of her condition. If only I’d told Robin I was her half sister, I might have been allowed in on the conversation with the officers. But to her I was nothing more than a distant relative, and to them, if they’d noticed me at all, simply someone who had volunteered to drive her here. Already Saskia Blackhawk could have died without either of us setting eyes upon the other—

  “Sharon.” Robin’s voice. I stood up, saw she’d been crying.

  “How is she?”

  “In surgery, that’s all I know. The rest… it’s bad. The police say the hit-and-run wasn’t an accident. Somebody lured her away from the restaurant and deliberately ran her over.”

  I took her arm, pulled her aside as an orderly pushed a gurney past us. “Let’s sit down and you can tell me about it.”

  The police theory was well founded. Saskia had been having dinner with a representative of the Coeur d’ Alene tribe, who were suing the government over fishing rights on their native lands, at Milford’s Fish House in the Eighth Street Marketplace downtown. Her pager went off around seven forty-five, and she excused herself to find a pay phone and return the call. She didn’t come back to the table.

  According to another patron, Saskia spoke on the phone for less than two minutes, then left the restaurant. An employee who had been taking his break out front told the detectives she had turned toward the river on Eighth Street, rather than toward the garage where Milford’s validated parking for diners. When the police checked, they found her 1999 Ford Escort still parked there.

  Approximately fifteen minutes after she left Milford’s, Saskia was struck by a blue Datsun traveling at high speed along Tenth Street between Miller and River Streets—an industrial area, mostly deserted at night. A witness who was returning home to a nearby housing project called in the accident to 911. He told the responding officers that the car had been idling a block away when Saskia turned the corner onto Tenth; its driver gunned the engine, shot across the intersection, swerved to hit her, and sped away—but not before the witness got its license-plate number. Half an hour later the Datsun, which had been reported stolen late that afternoon, was found abandoned and wiped clean of prints several blocks away.

  “Sounds like a professional job,” I said to Robin.

  “That’s what the police think.”

  “Those pagers—don’t they show the number of the last person who called?”

  “It was smashed when Mom was hit. The police accessed the number she called from the restaurant—a cell phone whose ownership is proving difficult to trace.”

  “Probably one of those illegal cloned ones.”

  Robin nodded, running both hands over her face. “Sharon, they were asking about Mom’s enemies, and they want to come by in the morning to go over the files of her active cases. I said I couldn’t let them do that—confidentiality—but I agreed to summarize them.”

  “It could help. Defending the causes she does, your mother must’ve made enemies.”

  “Well, sure. But I can’t imagine… The client she was having dinner with? That has to do with the Coeur d’ Alene’s rights to fish lands that the feds’re leasing to a lumber company. The cause isn’t popular with the company and loggers in general, but you don’t run a person down for defending it. And there’s another case in California—most of her work is on the federal level—that she told me was turning personal. She’s going up against this developer that she’s got bad history with. But she didn’t seem afraid he’d kill her.”

  Austin DeCarlo. Once the police started investigating, the story of that bad history would be dragged to light, and the press would get wind of it. Then neither he nor I nor any member of the Blackhawk or McCone families would be able to prevent it from becoming public.

  I asked, “Did she say what this bad history was?”

  “No. Mom’s a private person; I was surprised she told me anything at all. Normally she wouldn’t’ve, except he or his attorney did something to set her off.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last month. I don’t remember the exact—”

  “Ms. Blackhawk?” A woman spoke behind us.

  We both stood, turned to the doctor. She looked grim and tired; her attempt at a reassuring smile was a grotesque caricature.

  “My mother,” Robin asked. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “Why don’t we go someplace where we can talk quietly?”

  The news was not encouraging. Saskia Blackhawk had suffered broken bones, extensive internal injuries, trauma to the head, and was in a coma. The surgeon had repaired the most serious injuries, and Saskia had been placed on the critical list and taken to intensive care.

  Robin asked to see her mother. At first Dr. Bishop refused, but seeing her distress, she relented and allowed her a brief visit. Once again I, the outsider, was left to indulge my private fears.

  The emergency-room business had picked up—a major crash on Interstate 84, someone said. Ambula
nces sped in and out of the drive, dropping off personnel and people on gurneys at the side entrance. Other people rushed in through the front, desperate for news of friends and loved ones. When I could take the pain and commotion no longer, I went to the deserted vending room and called Hy, who was staying at my house.

  “Jesus, McCone,” he said after I’d filled him in, “do they think she’ll pull through?”

  “They’re not saying either way.”

  “Be a shame if you never got to talk with her. You gonna tell Robin you’re her sister?”

  “I’ll have to, pretty soon. She’s already asked how we’re related, and when I tell her I’m staying around for a while, she’ll really start to wonder.”

  “So you’ll be there how long?”

  “Till the situation’s resolved one way or the other. I want to keep tabs on the police investigation; there may be something I can do to help. Besides, I want to see Saskia, even if—”

  “I know, McCone. And I’ll be thinking of you.”

  “Thanks. I—Oh, Robin just walked by looking for me. Got to go. Love you.”

  “Love you too. Take care.”

  Robin was crying softly when we got into my rental car. With far more conviction than I felt, I said, “It’ll be all right.”

  “She’s so… It was like she was dead. And those beeping machines and the tubes… I hate this!”

  “I know.”

  “And now I’ve gotta call Darcy, and what am I gonna tell him that won’t send him over the edge?”

  “Over the edge?”

  She nodded, digging a tissue from her purse. “Darce is… He’s not exactly unstable. It’s just that when things don’t go right, he gets agitated in a major way.”

  Meaning Darcy was unstable. “You said he works for Channel Six?”

  “Right.”

  “Then you’d better call him right away. They had a reporter at the hospital.”

  “Oh, shit! For sure he already knows!”

  I reached into my bag for my phone, handed it to her. She punched in the number, waited, ended the call. “No answer. God, I hope he hasn’t—”

  “Hasn’t what?”

  “I don’t know. I never know what he’ll do. Darce is my brother and I love him, but he’s… Oh, hell, he’s really a mess.”

  Welcome to another dysfunctional family, McCone.

  I said, “Okay, I’ll help you find him. We’ll deal with the problem.”

  We’d reached her house, and I pulled to the curb and shut the engine off. Robin undid her seat belt and leaned toward me, eyes focused on my face. “Why’re you doing this for me?”

  “I like you and I want to help.”

  “And we’re family, but you won’t tell me how.”

  “It’s not that I won’t—”

  “Yes, it is. You’re avoiding the subject.”

  “Look, you’ve had a difficult evening—”

  “You know,” she said, still watching me closely, “a few years ago I was poking around in a box of Mom’s old papers, looking for a picture I’d drawn for her in third grade that I wanted to show my boyfriend. And I came across a letter to her from somebody called Fenella. It was dated 1963, and it said—I memorized most of it—it said, ‘Your little girl is doing fine. She’s healthy, bright, and happy with her family. You made a loving decision, the best you could under the circumstances.’

  “When I showed the letter to Mom, she blew up, told me never to go through her things. I begged her to tell me why she gave the baby up and where she was. She said the subject was closed, and her tone scared me so much I never dared to try to find out anything on my own.” She paused, took a deep breath. “That baby was you, wasn’t she, Sharon?”

  “… Yes.” In a way, it was a relief to have it out in the open.

  Robin looked down at her hands and started to cry again.

  Oh, God, I thought. She doesn’t need this, not now, and she’ll hate me for it!

  I said, “I’m sorry this comes at such a bad time.”

  She mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “I said there’s nothing to be sorry about. You don’t know how often I’ve dreamed of finding you. And then, on the absolute worst day of my life, you showed up and helped me get through it.”

  As Robin and I climbed the porch steps, a figure moved in the shadows—a wiry figure of about my height, whose head looked misshapen. I braced myself for trouble, but she sighed in relief. “Darce! So this is where you’ve been.”

  “Robbie? I heard about Mom, but I couldn’t stand to go to the hospital, so I came here.” The little-boy inflection of his words didn’t match the deep timbre of his voice.

  Robin unlocked the door, reached inside to put on the overhead light, and I got my first look at my half brother. She’d told me about the purple hair, but hadn’t mentioned that it poufed high and wide above his scalp, so he resembled a stick of cotton candy. His face was a more masculine version of hers and his upper lip was stubbled with an unsuccessful attempt at a mustache; silver studs glittered in both nostrils; a feathered earring hung from his right lobe; a pair of small silver circlets pierced one eyebrow. He wore black jeans and a black tee emblazoned in glowing silver: DEEMONZ!

  “Robbie?” he said again. “Is Mom…?”

  “She’s out of surgery.” She went to him, took his arm. “Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you about it.”

  “I want to stay here. Can’t you turn out that light?” He squinted up at it.

  Robin took a closer look at him. “What’re you on?”

  “I just smoked some dope, is all.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Look, don’t start on me, okay?”

  “What good would it do?” She glanced apologetically at me, and Darcy noticed my presence.

  “Who the hell’s this?”

  “A friend. She drove me to the hospital.”

  “She looks like Mom.”

  “She’s also a relative.”

  “Mom’s relative? She doesn’t deal with those people.”

  “… Well, this one she will. Come on inside, Darce.”

  He hung back, staring at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Sharon McCone.” I offered my hand.

  He ignored it. “How’re you related to my mother? Where’re you from?”

  “Darcy!” Robin tugged hard on his arm. “Inside! We’ve got to talk about Mom.” This time he offered no resistance, but kept staring at me over his shoulder as they went through the door.

  I stayed on the porch, leaning against a pillar and breathing in the cold midnight air. Robin would want to reassure her brother, and she would do better if she didn’t have to sugarcoat the truth in front of me.

  Thursday

  SEPTEMBER 14

  3:09 A.M.

  Sounds in the night.

  They’d woken me up and I lay in the four-poster bed in the Blackhawk guest room, listening. A floor-board creaked again below, and something bumped faintly. Robin, unable to sleep? Darcy, stumbling around under the influence of the sleeping pill his sister had given him, after insisting he spend the night in his old room rather than return to his apartment?

  Maybe, maybe not. I tried to convince myself I was imagining a strange presence in the house, but the sounds struck me as furtive.

  I slipped from beneath the down comforter, put on my borrowed robe. Cold air drifted under the room’s closed door, as if another door or window was open somewhere. I turned the knob, peered out into darkness. If Robin or Darcy were moving about, they’d have put on a light. Well, maybe Darcy wouldn’t—

  Another creak, closer. Where? Probably on the staircase.

  I groped on the dresser for my purse, found my small flashlight. When I looked through the door again, a faint glow had appeared in the stairwell. It moved upward, and a shadow spread over the wall: huge, distorted, moving slowly and stealthily.

  Intruder. No question of it.

  I put my finger on the switch of my f
lashlight, wishing I had my .357 Magnum instead. I’d let whoever it was come to the top of the stairs, then take him or her by surprise.

  Something groaned at the far end of the hall. It sounded to me like the house settling, but the intruder stopped and the light went out. I waited, listening. Caught something that wasn’t a sound exactly, but more like the rhythm of the person’s breathing. Wondered if he’d identified mine. Seconds passed, and then I heard a soft footfall. On the move again.

  Now I could see the faint outline of a head against the stairwell wall. The intruder was nearly to the top. I aimed my flash that way, flicked on the switch. Glimpsed a thick-fingered hand and gleaming black metal—

  The bullet smacked into the door frame only inches from me, and the shot’s boom set my eardrums throbbing as I dove back into the guest room. I flattened on the floor, trying to think what I could use as a weapon. Footsteps thundered down the stairs, scrambled in the lower hallway, slapped across the porch and down its steps.

  I let out my breath in a long sigh, then shakily got to my feet. My ears were ringing. In the hall Robin was screaming my name. I ran out there, collided with her. “That was a shot!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”

  I steadied her. “Somebody broke into the house, was coming upstairs. He’s gone now.”

  “Oh, my God! He shot at you?”

  “Yeah.” I went over and trained my flashlight on the door frame till I located the point of impact. Four inches to the left, and the bullet would’ve penetrated my skull. My hands went clammy; my skin rippled.

  Robin’s eyes followed the beam. She shuddered. “Did you… did you see who it was?”

  “A man, I think. That’s all.” I glanced down the hall toward Darcy’s room. “How could he sleep through all this?”

  “That sleeping pill… I doubled the dosage. He’s out for the night and most of the morning.”

  “Is that a good thing to do?”

  “His doctor okayed it for when he’s really stressed.”

  I wanted to ask her what exactly was wrong with Darcy, but I had more immediate things to attend to. “Robin, have there been any burglaries in the neighborhood recently?”