His Hands were Quiet

by P. D. Workman

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Bridget demanded.

  She didn’t look happy. Zachary again racked his mind for the reason she had come. What she was upset about. An old argument? A break-up with her new boyfriend?

  “Zachary.”

  “Yes, yes,” Zachary stepped back from the door, opening it the rest of the way and motioning her in. “Come in. I’m sorry, I’m just surprised to see you, that’s all.”

  Bridget marched in as if she owned the place. She clutched her purse under her arm and looked around, her eyes sharp.

  She looked into the living room and spotted Bowman on the couch, snoring. “Well, I guess we can talk out here.” She motioned to the table.

  Zachary pulled out a chair as she did and sat down.

  He had missed her. It was nice to get together with Kenzie, but he didn’t know where that relationship was going, if anywhere. He’d made some pretty serious mistakes. He and Bridget had been together for a couple of years, madly in love at the start, and he still hadn’t recovered from the events that had blown them apart. Bridget had gone on, was in remission from cancer, and was in another committed relationship, leaving Zachary far behind. She was the one who had gone through cancer, but he was the one who couldn’t recover.

  “I just wanted to see how you were doing,” Bridget said.

  Flat, expressionless. Zachary couldn’t read her. She put her purse on the table and crossed her legs, waiting for him to tell her how he was. Zachary looked around the kitchen for some inspiration, but it didn’t come.

  “I’m okay,” he said tentatively. “Why?”

  Her eyes scanned his face. “You’re not looking very well. Are you sleeping?”

  “The best I can.”

  “Maybe you should get something stronger. Or a sleep study. Sleep is very important for good health.”

  Zachary nodded, avoiding her gaze.

  “Kenzie said you are having some trouble with a case you are on,” Bridget said finally, with a sigh.

  “Kenzie called you?”

  “She was concerned about you. Said that she couldn’t make it over to check on you, and did I think you would be alright. She didn’t ask me to come over, but I offered.”

  Zachary had no idea how to feel about that. Angry? Violated? Infantilized? Comforted?

  “So, how about a drink and you tell me about it?” Bridget suggested.

  He searched her face for some indication of her interest level. Or for any affection or tender feelings toward him. Why would she come all the way over just on Kenzie’s suggestion? She must have some kind of feelings toward him. The last few times they had seen each other, she had been angry, bursting-at-the-seams furious. Kenzie had said that just proved that Bridget still had feelings toward Zachary. But when she was worried about Zachary, who did Kenzie call? Bridget. Did that mean that Kenzie didn’t consider Bridget a threat to their relationship? Or that there was no relationship, no possibility of a relationship past the level of friendship?

  He got up and went to the fridge. “Uh… there’s not much selection. Beer? Water? Maybe coffee?”

  “Too late for coffee, I’ll never sleep. And you’d better not either.”

  “Coffee doesn’t keep me up. It helps to calm me down.”

  “Tea?”

  Zachary checked a few cupboards, already knowing the answer. “No. Sorry.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll go with water, then.”

  Zachary couldn’t help but notice she had dictated what his drink should be as well as hers. His natural reaction was to go for the beer just to be oppositional, but that would cause problems when combined with his meds, and he was going to need to take something to sleep. And while coffee really didn’t keep him up, he was afraid that just the suggestion might be enough to keep him from falling asleep.

  So he ran them each a glass of cold water, with a squirt of lemon juice from a plastic lemon lurking in the back of the fridge, and sat back down with her. Bridget sipped the water delicately.

  He studied her as she drank. She was as lovely as she had ever been. Better color since she was off of all the cancer treatments. A little bit more flesh on her face, rounding out her features and making it so that her eyes didn’t look quite so large. Her hair was very short, but it was undoubtedly her own rather than a wig, and he knew that she must be over the moon that it hadn’t changed color or refused to grow back.

  “So, tell me about it,” Bridget prompted.

  Zachary could dance around the issue and say that he didn’t know which case Kenzie was talking about. After all, he was always working several cases at a time. The bread and butter came from insurance claims and adultery, not homicides. Not suicides.

  “Did she tell you anything about it?”

  “No. She was in a hurry.”

  “It’s a possible suicide… a young boy in an institution. Autistic.” Zachary took a big gulp of his water and almost coughed. He’d put way too much lemon juice in it.

  “That sounds pretty grim. Who wanted it investigated, his family?”

  “Yes. Single mom, two other boys at home. Feels guilty that she put him there. Guilty for being so relieved to get him off of her hands.”

  “You don’t think she had anything to do with it?”

  “No. It was overnight, she wouldn’t have been there.”

  “Oh, good. I don’t like it when it’s the parents. That’s always so sad.”

  Zachary recalled Dr. Abato talking about parents at the end of their ropes, murdering their own children. “Yeah. It is. But that doesn’t seem to be possible in this case. Either he did kill himself—on purpose or by accident—or someone there at the institution killed him.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it out. The place is… like a funhouse. Things aren’t what they seem. Therapies that should be helpful, and instead are harmful. Things that you can’t imagine being allowed in modern times, and people are insisting that they are good. Holding them up as saving their children and their families. Staff getting PTSD from the things they are being forced to do to the residents.”

  Bridget frowned and shook her head. “That doesn’t sound likely. What are they doing that is so bad?”

  “Giving them electrical shocks,” Zachary snapped, and Bridget’s eyes widened. “That or hitting or pinching them. Restraining them. Forcing them to perform actions over and over and over again. Essentially torturing them until they comply.”

  Bridget’s head tilted, and Zachary saw her attitude change. Disbelief. Not shocked at what he had said, but doubting that it was true.

  “This is happening!” he insisted. “I’m not exaggerating it. Or imagining things. There have been court cases. Do an internet search on the institution. You’ll see. It isn’t a secret.”

  “If there have been court cases, then I know you’re overreacting. No judge is going to let them take actions that are going to be harmful to the children.”

  “Because the parents and therapists say it is helping. And that they’re willing to do anything to help their children to become normal. To have some hope of a happy life. Because if they can’t help them to recover, the alternatives are pretty dire.”

  “You’ve always had such a tender heart,” Bridget said, her tone disdainful. “You always feel so bad for people. Even when they’ve put themselves in the middle of trouble. You need to toughen up. Or don’t take these cases. You can’t let them affect you like this.”

  “If I don’t investigate it, who is going to? These kids need me. Quentin needs me, and the other kids that are being abused at Summit. Who else is going to help them?”

  “You’re not Superman. You can’t just fly in there and save the world. You’re inflating what your job there is. You’re supposed to be investigating one child’s death. To see whether it was suicide. You are not there to overthrow the social structure and save everyone else. That is not going to happen. If you think that’s what you’re going to do… then I think yo
u’d better get in to see your psychiatrist right away. Because it might be the symptom of a manic phase.”

  Zachary couldn’t find the words to argue with her. He took another sip of his too-sour water to try to cover his lack of verbal ability. And in the back of his mind, the doubt that she’d planted started to grow. It was true that an inflated sense of self-importance, of grandiose thinking, was a symptom of bipolar depression. Zachary’s depression had always remained unipolar; the only manic episodes he’d ever had triggered by medications.

  Was he inflating his role at Summit? Thinking that he was there to do more than just investigate how Quentin died? He knew that he wanted to save the other children who were in danger, but did he think he could?

  He tried to focus on the present and evaluate his own thoughts dispassionately. The trouble with disordered thinking was that the brain didn’t know its own thoughts were disordered.

  “I don’t think I can change everything or change everyone,” he said slowly. “I’d like to be able to help them. I’d like to be able to change the kind of therapy they do there, their whole approach to helping people with autism and behavioral problems…” He shook his head. “But I know I can’t do that. I just want… to save a few of them. To start something. I don’t know. I want to make a change, but it’s not going to be something that changes the whole institution. I can maybe change things for one or two people. Maybe.”

  Bridget’s shoulders dipped. “That’s good. I want you to get help if you’re having trouble recognizing reality.”

  “I’m not. It’s just a very emotional case.”

  “And you think these therapists are getting PTSD from these therapies, not the patients?”

  “Oh, the residents are too. I’ve talked to people who went through these kinds of therapies when they were children, heard how it still affects their lives. But yes, I think the staff members are getting PTSD too. The atmosphere there, the strict control over them, taking too many sick days, not being able to sleep, flashbacks to what they’ve been doing at the institution… it’s PTSD. I recognize it.”

  “I don’t think you can get PTSD from something that you do to someone else,” Bridget said. “That just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Why not? Don’t you think you would be traumatized if you were forced to torture someone?”

  “No, I don’t think that’s possible. I think that if someone chooses to do it, it’s because it isn’t affecting them. Maybe they’re psychopaths. But being traumatized by some therapy that is making people squeamish…? It doesn’t follow.”

  Zachary let out his breath. He glanced toward the living room, trying to decide whether to get up and get his computer. He didn’t want to wake Bowman up. Bowman had enough sleep interruptions due to Zachary’s nightmares and sleep issues.

  “I looked it up,” he said. “There’s a kind of PTSD called PITS. Participation-Induced Traumatic Stress. It is a real thing. Soldiers who have to kill at close range. Executioners. Even animal shelter workers who have to euthanize animals.”

  Bridget still looked skeptical, but seemed ready to believe that there might possibly be such a thing. Or at least until she had proof one way or the other.

  “This really seems like… you’ve dug yourself into a hole. You were only there to look at one death, and now it’s all of the inmates. All of the staff. You’re losing focus.”

  “Maybe.”

  She waited.

  “I’m going to be okay, Bridget. I know Kenzie was worried, and that this all sounds a little bit much… but I’m not here alone. And I’ll… I’ll dig myself out.”

  “You’re taking your meds?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t tell her mostly or when he felt like he needed them. Because he knew that just wouldn’t be good enough for black-and-white Bridget. He was taking his medication when he needed it, so the answer was yes.

  “And you’re not having suicidal thoughts?”

  Zachary thought back over the last few days and shook his head. “No. Just… the regular stuff. I’m not suicidal.”

  “And you’re not going to get yourself in trouble?”

  “I’ll be careful. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

  “Okay.” Bridget nodded. “I should head for home. And you know… you can call me, if you need something.”

  It was a very different position from when he was in hospital and she was raging over still being listed as his emergency contact. He still hadn’t changed it, either. If something happened, then Bridget was the one they should call to find out his history and to give the doctors direction. He wasn’t putting that on Kenzie, and who else did he have?

  Bowman snorted and stirred in the living room. They both turned their heads and looked toward the room to see if he was going to wake up. Zachary heard scratching, and then Bowman pushing himself up from the couch.

  “Zachary?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  Bowman cleared his throat, scratched some more, and made his way into the kitchen. When he saw Bridget, his posture became straighter and he grinned widely.

  “Bridget! It’s been forever since I saw you. How are you?”

  “I’m good, Mario. How have you been?”

  “Oh, wow. You look fantastic, woman. I thought someone said something about you being sick.”

  Bridget patted at her short hair self-consciously, her cheeks going a flattering pink. “Oh, really, Mario!”

  “No, it’s true. Isn’t it Zachary? No wonder you didn’t tell me she was coming over, you dog. You wanted her all to yourself.”

  Zachary fought his own flush. “I didn’t know she was coming,” he squeaked.

  “Oh, sure you didn’t,” Bowman teased.

  “I was just getting ready to go,” Bridget said, standing up and giving him her fingertips to shake. “I hope Zachary hasn’t been too much trouble for you?”

  As if he were a child, or a dog Bowman was boarding for her. Zachary knew she was fishing, checking one more time to make sure she didn’t need to be concerned about his welfare.

  “Aside from the fact that he never sleeps?” Bowman responded. “No, he’s a good houseguest. Even bought me pizza today. But he’s looking for some place new, aren’t you, Zach?”

  Zachary nodded. “Yeah. I’ve called a few places, still need to look at them. Once this case settles down a bit…”

  Bridget nodded slowly. “That’s great,” she said in a tone that was just a little too bright for the circumstances. “I’m glad you’re getting on your feet again.”

  Would she prefer that he stayed at Bowman’s indefinitely just so that he had someone to look after him? Did she think that he couldn’t manage on his own, in his own place? It hadn’t worked out very well after the divorce, but Zachary had lived on his own before and had been okay. He could do it again. As long as he was careful with his health, he would be just fine.

  He walked her the short distance to the door. Bridget leaned in close like she was going to kiss Zachary on the cheek. Instead, she whispered in his ear, her warm breath on his skin.

  “Maybe you should drop this case. It doesn’t sound like you’ve found anything to indicate it’s not suicide, so maybe you should just let it go. Then it can’t keep you up nights.”

  He gave her a peck on the cheek, hugged her with their bodies apart and his hands on her shoulders, and saw her out the door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Z

  achary’s dinner with Mr. Peterson had been arranged a couple weeks earlier, before Zachary had taken the Quentin Thatcher case. It meant a drive in the opposite direction from Summit, so Zachary knew he would have to take a day off from his investigation at the institution. Maybe just let everything settle and percolate for a day, and go into it with a fresh viewpoint on Wednesday.

  So he worked on other cases during the morning, cleared up paperwork and checked the logs of a couple of cars he had been tracking to look for patterns of behavior. He made a few phone calls. Did
some virtual stalking on social networks. A lot of detecting was tedious research and paperwork, but it had to be done.

  Mid-afternoon he was happy to lay his paperwork aside and get into the car. As he drove toward Mr. Peterson’s home, leaving Summit farther and farther behind, with the brilliant greens of spring all around him, Zachary felt a weight being lifted from his shoulders.

  Mr. Peterson—Lorne—was one of Zachary’s former foster parents. The only one that he had kept in touch with over the years. While he’d only lived with the Petersons for a few weeks, it was Mr. Peterson who had given him his first camera, who had helped him to develop his film over the years, and who had suggested Zachary had the skills to be a private detective if he wanted to put his photography skills to some practical use.

  Being a foster child, with no supports after he turned eighteen and very few after he was sixteen, Zachary had to find a job as quickly as he could, and certainly didn’t have the kind of money that would be needed to become an artist showing his work in galleries. But private eye work was something he could do. He was good at candid shots, at melting into the background, and observing others. He picked up quickly on body language and little things that were out of place. He was good at anticipating what was going to happen before it did. Hypervigilance was a helpful trait for a detective.

  Mr. Peterson had moved into a nice little bungalow a few years earlier. Similar to what he had lived in when Zachary had lived with him and his wife. It signaled an end to the series of seedy apartments he had lived in since his divorce and the beginning of a new era for him and Pat. They had been a couple for twenty years. More than that. Society had finally reached the point where their relationship could be openly acknowledged.

  There were pink tulips in the neat front garden. Mr. Peterson opened the door as soon as Zachary pulled in front. His face was wreathed in smiles. He looked older than when Zachary had seen him last. The little hair that he had left was whiter than Zachary remembered. He might have put on a few pounds. How long had it been since Zachary had seen him last?