An End to a Silence: A mystery novel (The Montana Trilogy Book 1)

by W. H. Clark

  Newton wanted to say there was no little boy but he just left the room to the sound of the lawyer mumbling desperate appeals about his client being tired and hungry. He went straight to his desk and dug his hands into a box. He came out with the picture that old man Filmore had drawn. He saw the four stick figures and the smaller shape of Ryan. His eyes then studied the other side of the road. The trees. One tree with a pair of eyes drawn on it. He folded the picture and ran to the door, grabbing his jacket on the way out. His footing was unsure on the fresh snowfall but he didn’t slow down. He jumped into his SUV and he released the parking brake and the vehicle was moving before the engine started.

  79

  “Where’s Jen?”

  “Hey, you didn’t stamp the snow from your feet,” Mallory said.

  “Damn the snow.”

  “It’s just that when Jen gets back from shopping she’s going to be annoyed about the snow in the house and she’s apt to be blaming me and I’m already in the doghouse for trailing it in earlier, and—”

  “I said to hell with the snow.” Newton pushed past Mallory and walked through the house. Mallory paused a moment and then followed. When he caught up Newton had stopped in the living room and he had his back to Mallory. There was a well-made fire and Newton stood close to it and looked at himself in the mirror that was above the fireplace and he glanced at Mallory’s reflection. The room smelled of burning trees and Newton thought it smelled of summer and winter at the same time.

  “Sit down,” Newton said, and Mallory sat. “When you married Jen you became my son. My own son don’t talk to me no more so… you’re my son.”

  “Appreciate that.”

  “Shut up. You’re a poor substitute for a real son but for Jen’s benefit I’ve tolerated you. Truth is, you ain’t worth half a thimble of shit. But for Jen’s sake… well, I’ve said it. Thing is, parents have a responsibility to their children and sadly for me I inherited that responsibility for you when Jen lost her senses and married you. But I’ve got myself a dilemma.” He continued to look at his own self in the mirror as he slowly removed the paper from his pocket. “I’ve wondered for twenty-five years how this would end. That’s my dilemma here.” He unfolded the paper, the drawing done by the crazy old man Filmore. He held it down by his side. “I guess I’m looking for help. Help understanding all this.” Mallory didn’t say a word. “I think I understand but maybe you can help me. And help me solve my dilemma. You see, I’ve got a suspect down at the station who has admitted to being at the scene of Ryan Novak’s death. He’s admitted running him over.”

  “That’s good, no?”

  “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Newton turned around to face Mallory, whose face was pale apart from the faint remnant shine of a bruise on the left side of his face which Ward had left there. “But according to the ME, Ryan was strangled to death. Thing is, our suspect denies doing that. And, you know what, I know he didn’t do it. But he was there and things don’t look good for him. The first part of my dilemma is this: do I let a man who I know is innocent go down for a crime he didn’t commit?”

  Newton handed the drawing to Mallory. “You were there,” Newton said.

  Mallory looked at the drawing. He held it in both hands and stared down at it and he took a deep breath and then took another before he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dad.” He glanced back at the drawing and shrugged and tried to hand it back to Newton.

  “Don’t you call me Dad.”

  “Look, what you doing showing me a picture? What is this? Are you okay?”

  “You were there. You would have seen it all. But you didn’t say nothing. All these years. You didn’t say nothing. You were the last person to see Ryan alive. It’s what you always said. A passing motorist saw you together. Thought you were friends. But you didn’t say nothing about this. Never once said you’d seen Ryan run over. Why is that? Why didn’t you say nothing about that? Look at the picture. You’re there if you look hard enough.”

  “You got the guy did it.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “You got the guy, didn’t you? He murdered Ryan. You got your guy. You can wrap this up.”

  “Didn’t I already tell you he didn’t kill Ryan?” Newton was breathing heavily now and his hand found the tight place in his chest. “You can’t neck a chicken,” Newton said, and his shoulders slumped. “Why are you so squeamish about wringing a chicken’s neck, big man like you? My God, Mallory. I know what you did. Don’t you dare deny it neither or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes before you can blink.”

  80

  “I know you. What you got there?” Percy Mallory says to Ryan. But Ryan ignores him and keeps walking at a pace. Percy scuttles up behind him and grabs at his arm and tugs him so he spins around.

  “I said what have you got?” And then he sees the tears running down the smaller boy’s face. “Hey, you crying.”

  Ryan turns away sharply but he doesn’t walk away, just keeps his back to Percy while Percy circles him to get a look at those tears.

  “Stand still, will ya? You crying.”

  Ryan keeps his back to Percy but the bigger boy grabs his hand, which is clutching something, and then Ryan turns sharply and shakes the hand free.

  “What you got?” Percy says again, and he makes another grab at the hand and this time his grip is stronger than the smaller boy’s and he takes the hand with both his own and he sticks his thumb in Ryan’s grip and starts to peel off his fingers as Ryan tries futilely to resist. Ryan tries to pull away but he can’t so he jerks his whole body right and then left as his small feet scramble on the road beneath him but his hand is fast caught and it’s beginning to hurt under Percy’s grip. And then Percy bends back one of Ryan’s fingers further than it should go back and Ryan’s hand opens and a five-dollar bill falls out.

  “Money,” Percy gasps as Ryan turns and starts to walk away, shaking the pain out of his hand. Percy stoops to pick the money up. “Hey, I ain’t taking your money.” He looks at the money with twinkling eyes. “Unless it’s stole in the first place. Is it stole?” He’s skipping after Ryan now and he gets in front of him and puts his hands on Ryan’s shoulders and stops him dead and Ryan props his chin on his chest and he cries silently with little involuntary shakes every now and then.

  “Who’d you steal this money from? It’s five bucks. Hey, I’m talking to ya. You can’t speak? Somebody stole your voice?” He hears a car approaching and he steers Ryan off the road with his arm around his shoulders. “Better get off the road or you’ll get knocked.”

  As the car passes the driver looks at the two boys and smiles and Percy raises an arm in something of a wave.

  “I know him. I know you. Where you going?” Percy says, and then he sees the fresh bruising on Ryan’s left cheek. “Hey, you been hit. Come here, let me look.” But Ryan shakes his head and turns away. “Lemme look, I said.” And Percy clutches the tops of Ryan’s arms so he can’t wriggle away and he smiles as he says, “Woo. You caught a good one there. I hope you got a few licks in yourself. My dad always says to hit back and hit back harder. You catch him with one of your own? Woo, that’s a good one. Gonna turn black and blue. I can see it’s swelled. Bet it smarts.” He lets go of Ryan and Ryan just stands there, his head down and his eyes about closed. “Bet you stole this five bucks off them that did you that. You want it back you have to fight me for it seeing as that’s how you come to have gotten it. I’ll let you take the first swing.”

  Ryan just hangs there like he’s on a clothesline but his own clothes are a few days dirty. Percy pokes the little boy’s arm and Ryan jerks it away and wipes the snot from his nose on his sleeve.

  “C’mon, have a shot,” Percy says, and he sticks his face in front of Ryan’s and he taps his own chin, goading the smaller boy. “In the face if you want.” But Ryan just shakes his head.

  “You are fighting me for this money I said so take your swing or you forfeit and I swing. It’s your choice
. Hit me. Go on. Hit me.” The little boy just stands there so then Percy starts to jab at Ryan’s chest. “Hit me, boxer. Box me. Hit me.” And he jabs and jabs but Ryan takes a step back every time a bit further into the road. Then Percy gobs on his hand and wipes the gob on his forehead and straightens out the bill and slaps it on there. “Here, you got a target.” And he gently swipes the side of Ryan’s face with his spit hand. Ryan wipes his face and anger flashes briefly in his tormented eyes. “Hit me,” Percy says, and then he starts dancing around like Muhammad Ali. He darts in and out, slapping a bit harder each time he moves in and Ryan takes another step back and then another.

  Then, as Percy comes in again, Ryan shoves him with both hands and Percy rocks back and his eyes widen and he smiles. He resumes his taunting and he dances and slaps, dances and slaps and this time Ryan lunges and pushes harder and Percy is caught off balance and he nearly falls over and the smile leaves his face and he stops dancing.

  “I wasn’t ready. But we’ll count that as your punch. My turn.”

  Ryan doesn’t move but looks at Percy as if he’s transparent. Percy clenches his fist as tight as a clam and he swings at Ryan and he catches him on the side of his head. Ryan rolls back and sits messily on the road, the jolt of the punch and the fall vibrating through his entire tiny frame. Percy peels the five-dollar bill from his head and says, “I win.” He stuffs the bill in his jeans pocket and he shakes the tingling out of his hand.

  Before Percy can say anything else Ryan is up on his feet and he charges unsteadily at Percy, swinging both arms like a windmill and Percy takes a step back and then lunges at Ryan and his hands find the boy’s throat.

  “We finished and I won,” he says in a gasp. “Money’s mine. Fair and square.”

  Ryan tries to scratch at Percy’s face but Percy leans back so his face is out of reach and he squeezes harder.

  “Hey, hey. Fight’s over. I won. Fair and square,” and he continues to squeeze and Ryan snatches at Percy’s shirt and he gets a grip on it but the grip isn’t strong. “Fair and square. Fair and square,” Percy keeps saying and he keeps squeezing as his face gets red and ugly and Ryan’s gets bluish and then something sort of pops under Percy’s thumbs and immediately he lets go and Ryan folds up and hits the ground like an empty sack and he doesn’t move again.

  Percy looks down at the little boy laid out in front of him and he kicks at his foot. “Hey, don’t play possum. I know you playing. And I won that five dollars fair and square and you ain’t getting it back and that’s the end of it. Hey, get up. Please get up.” A wet patch spreads on the crotch of the little boy’s pants.

  Percy starts to bend down to pull Ryan up but he hears the engine of a car and he starts to jump around and wave his arms at the little boy. “Hey, you better move or you’ll get knocked. There’s a car coming.” He beckons Ryan to get up but the boy doesn’t move. “Hey, come on. Car. You better get up now. Please. This ain’t funny.” And the growl of the engine is getting closer and Percy backs away from Ryan and walks backwards off the road, motioning with his hands for Ryan to get up. “Get up now. This ain’t funny no more.” His bottom lip starts to stiffen and then to quiver and his eyes become tear-filled and bloodshot. “Aw, come on. Please get up. I ain’t playing. I ain’t playing no more. Fair and square. Fair and square.” And then he turns and runs, crying as he goes.

  He can’t make me do nothing I don’t want to do. I’m not interested in stupid Harvard stupid Law. I told him but he’s such a—Goddamn it, I’ll show him. Arthur Kenny, driving and banging his hands on the steering wheel. Seething. Turning the rearview mirror to look at himself and growling at his reflection and the reflection growling back. Invincible Arthur. To be reckoned with. Not a pansy lawyer, this one. Not Arthur Kenny. He’ll take a sports scholarship. Flexing his muscles. A lawyer doesn’t have these. These will take me to the Superbowl. Quarterback for the Giants. Goddamn it, father. No. Hell no.

  Ejecting the cassette tape from his car stereo and tossing it onto the passenger seat and grabbing another and dropping it into the footwell of the car. Damn it. Damn you, Father, and your stupid Harvard Law. Looking at the road ahead. All clear. He reaches down to retrieve the damn tape. Fingers seeking amongst the scrunched beer cans. He touches the tape. Grabs it. Sits up. Nothing in the road. But bumping over something and braking quickly.

  Then he climbs out of the car to see what it is and expects to see a damn stupid stray dog or something.

  He sees the body of the little boy with just his top half visible, the bottom half beneath the car, illuminated in blue light from the neon undercar lighting. He knows he is dead but he doesn’t see any blood and he doesn’t allow his eyes to dwell on the body for more than a few moments. He casts a look around in a full circle to see if anybody is about and he sees a small shape over the other side of the street, hiding behind a tree, but then the shape is gone. He turns back to face the other side of the street and he sees the house, set back from the road and maybe obscured by the trees that flank it either side. He turns back to the other side again and he sees the little shape, a boy, fleeing behind trees and he thinks to call after him but then thinks again and doesn’t call.

  He climbs back into the car and his first instinct is to drive away so he fumbles with the gear shift but the car engine is not running. And then he sees, in his side-view mirror, the patrol car pulling into the street a hundred yards behind and he slumps in the seat and he puts a hand on his head. He doesn’t feel invincible anymore. Just feels like he could puke. And then he remembers the beer cans and he tries to scrape them under the passenger seat out of view and then the patrol car is stopped behind him, lights flashing, and the cop climbs out.

  “Oh my—dang. Is he? He’s dead, isn’t he? You hit him? Oh, dang. I’ll call this in. You felt for a pulse?” Officer Gammond is in Arthur’s face now and he smells the sour smell on his breath. “Say, you been drinking?”

  Arthur just stands there without voice, his eyes blankly staring at the cop. Gammond gets down on his knees and pulls the boy from under the car and feels for a pulse. He begins to pump at the boy’s chest. He works the chest and feels for a pulse. Puts his face close to the boy’s mouth to feel for life breath. Goes back to pumping the chest. After a minute or so he sits back and stares at the boy.

  “Dead. Dang.”

  Gammond stands and starts to walk back to his car at a half trot and Arthur calls to him.

  “No. Don’t do that. Don’t. My father is James Kenny. Please.”

  Gammond stops dead and turns around to face the young Arthur Kenny.

  “Oh, dang,” he says.

  “Can… can we call him? I’ve got a portable phone in the car. Let me call my daddy. Please.”

  “Oh, dang, let me think,” Gammond says. “Let me think.”

  Bill O’Donnell has been driving around in his truck close to home looking for Ryan and he pulls into the street and sees the police car’s flashing lights and he pulls up his truck behind it. He sees the three men as he climbs down. Then he thinks it’s two men and what looks to him like a boy. And then he sees the tiny shape lying in the road.

  81

  Mallory stood up. His eyes were bloodshot. He took a step closer to Newton until they were an arm’s length apart.

  Newton took a deep breath to keep his voice even. “And that’s the second part of my dilemma. Is it enough that I know who did kill Ryan? Or does Ryan deserve justice? The only way I answer that particular question depends on whether I think I can destroy my daughter’s life or not.”

  Jen’s car pulled into the drive and the engine revved and then cut out. Newton heard a car door open and close. And then he heard another one open and close as Jen retrieved her groceries from the backseat. A few moments later he heard the door open and the stamping of feet and he knew Mallory was hearing the same. The two men faced each other and neither spoke. Jen could be heard grumbling about snow in the house. Then the sound of chickens clucking in the back yard coop. Mallory placed
his hands on Newton’s shoulders and he squeezed hard enough for Newton to try to wriggle free of the grip. Newton’s hand found his gun and the hand sat there.

  Mallory said, “So, what you going to do, Dad?”

  When Jen entered the room she looked ready to go nuts on Mallory for the snow in the hallway until she saw her father. By then Newton’s hand had dropped from his gun and Mallory’s arms were by his sides.

  “What’s wrong?” Jen said immediately. The men looked at each other. Mallory was the first to speak.

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” Mallory said. His words were tinny and annoying in Newton’s ears.

  Jen looked at both men. “Dad? What are you doing here? Something happened? Is it Mom?”

  Newton’s brain automatically tried to think of an excuse why he was there but his mouth said nothing. He shook his head and stared at his daughter and he knew he wasn’t hiding the turmoil that was in his mind. But no words would come out.

  “Dad? Is everything okay?” Jen said.

  Her father looked at her eyes. They were her mother’s. The inquiring look that always got to the bottom of what was on Newton’s mind. The sense that women have. That wives have. He studied her and saw more of Maggie. Her genes in the smile wrinkles and her beautiful hair. The long flawless limbs. The perfection of their creation. The way she tilted her head when she asked a question. A question that clattered in Newton’s head. That look. He felt tears building in his eyes but fought them back. His heart skipped as a father’s heart skips when his little girl falls and comes up with bloodied knees and skinned hands. Mallory wasn’t saying anything but Newton could feel his eyes on him. And now Jen’s eyes filled with tears and the tears ran down her face.