Say Nothing

by Brad Parks

  The brothers gazed as three vehicles pulled into the driveway over a span of about twenty minutes. A lone woman, who looked to be in her seventies, disembarked from the first. Then came a middle-aged man and woman. Finally, there was a family of six.

  “Speed it up,” the older said. “I want to see when the first two cars left.”

  The younger complied. For a time, little about the view changed, except for the gradual setting of the sun. Then the middle-aged couple came back out, soon followed by the older woman. As they caught back up to real time, the family of six was still, apparently, inside.

  “Do you think we should make a call?” the younger asked.

  The older responded by walking into the kitchen and grabbing the Internet phone. He set it on speakerphone, dialed, and waited.

  “This had better be important,” came a voice. “I’m in the middle of a meeting.”

  “The judge has visitors.”

  “What kind of visitors?”

  “Three cars. Nine people in all. Some of them have left already.”

  The voice was immediately agitated: “Any of them cops?”

  “I don’t think so. They appear to be civilians.”

  “Okay. I still think we should send a message. Let them know this isn’t acceptable.”

  “Of course. What are you thinking?”

  “Just remind them what’s at stake.”

  FIFTEEN

  I was cleaning up the last of the dinner dishes when Alison reentered the kitchen. The Lowes were gone. She had been upstairs putting Sam to bed, having sobered up considerably. The food helped.

  “How’d he go down?” I asked.

  “A little rough,” she said, sighing and coming to a stop on the other side of the kitchen island, where she plopped herself on a stool.

  “How bad?”

  “Well, I guess it could have been worse. He was crying about Emma not being there to say good night. We talked about how we missed her and how we were scared. Then I rubbed his back. After about five minutes he was out like a light. Thank goodness he was already tired. The cousins ran him around pretty good.”

  “He’s not going to have his cousins around every night, you know,” I said.

  “I know. Believe me, I know,” she said.

  I took a dish towel to a salad bowl and tossed out the question that had slowly been working its way to the top of my consciousness. “You know, with what he’s been through . . . Should we send him to a children’s therapist or something?”

  “I was thinking about that. But I don’t know how that would work. I mean, he can’t exactly tell the therapist the truth. And lying to a therapist seems to negate the whole point.”

  “Wouldn’t the therapist be bound by doctor-patient confidentiality?”

  “Not when there’s a child in danger. I looked it up. They’re required to report that.”

  The salad bowl was now dry. I frowned at it while putting it away.

  “I actually Googled ‘post-traumatic stress syndrome in children’ this afternoon before my family got here,” Alison said.

  “And?”

  “Well, it’s not like there’s a test you can administer or anything. I clicked on a couple sites and it seems like some kids get hit with it and some kids don’t and there’s no real rhyme or reason. We just have to keep an eye on him, give him lots of love and support, listen to him if he starts talking, make him realize what happened isn’t his fault, that sort of thing.”

  “In other words, we have to reassure him even though we’re not feeling reassured ourselves.”

  “Pretty much. They also said—”

  She was interrupted by a pair of headlights strafing the trees behind the kitchen. It spoke to our state of hypervigilance that we immediately stopped the conversation to watch.

  “Is that Justina?” Alison said.

  “Probably.”

  Alison stood and walked quickly toward the front of the house so she could get a better view. I followed.

  From the living room, we could see Justina’s car, an aging Toyota, pulling into its usual spot beside the Honda Odyssey, next to the cottage, which was easily visible from our house.

  “I’m going to talk to her,” Alison said.

  “I don’t think that’s—”

  But Alison was already out of the room, then the house. She was walking so fast it was all I could do to catch up to her.

  “Alison, wait, let’s discuss this for a second.”

  She was already halfway to the cottage, her shoes scratching urgently against the dirt under her feet. From somewhere in the distance, I heard a member of our local dog pack let loose a howl.

  “Just stay with Sam,” she said, slightly out of breath.

  “Sam is fine. We can see the house from here,” I said. “What’s your plan?”

  “I told you, I want to talk to her.”

  “Honey, this is not the right time for this. It’s after ten o’clock. And you’ve been—”

  Drinking. Though I stopped myself short of saying it.

  “You can go home if you want,” she said.

  Now that I had caught up to her, I could see she had the wig balled up in her fist. She must have grabbed it on the way out. I positioned myself so I was blocking her path.

  “Alison. Please. Hold on. Just for a second.”

  She finally halted, allowing me to say, “You can’t just march in there and say, ‘Hey, someone kidnapped our children yesterday, and I found this blond wig in your closet so it must be you.’”

  “Well, I wasn’t the one driving that car.”

  “That doesn’t mean it was Justina,” I said. “I’m not saying I’ve made up my mind about her either way, but think about it logically for a second. She’s watched our kids for two years now. She cares for them like they’re her own. I think we need more to go on than just a wig.”

  “Why, because she’s hot and you want to sleep with her?”

  I was so startled by the accusation, which was so out of character for Alison, I could barely summon a reply. “Oh, Alison—”

  “I see the way you look at her,” she said, her eyes scorching my face.

  “That is completely unfair. I’ve never—”

  “And I see the way she looks at you too. The way she bats her eyes at you. She’s got these daddy issues that are, like, a mile wide, and you’re . . . her daddy and her idol and she wants to—”

  “You’re being totally ridiculous right now.”

  “Oh, am I? When Justina came here, she was premed. Now she’s prelaw.”

  “College kids switch majors all the time.”

  “She’s constantly asking you about legal stuff.”

  “And that means she wants to have sex with me? Sorry, that just—”

  “Then tell me. Tell me you don’t want to sleep with her.”

  “Are we seriously talking about this?” I said. “I shouldn’t have to deny anything here.”

  “Because you know you can’t. You know—”

  “Fine: I don’t want to sleep with her. I don’t want to sleep with her because I’m in love with my wife and I have no interest in defiling a girl who is not even half my age.”

  “Then why are you defending her?”

  “I’m not defending her. I’m just trying to point out we need to be a little careful about throwing around accusations when we—”

  “What do you want? A video? Oh wait, she’s already on video,” Alison said, then starting ticking things off with her fingers. “There’s that. There’s the fact that she’s the only other person with access to the Honda besides us. There’s the fact that the men who took the kids had foreign accents—”

  “Which could be from anywhere in the world, based on what Sam was able to tell us.”

  “My point is there are plent
y of reasons to suspect Justina. It would certainly be enough probable cause for a search warrant, Judge Sampson. If you weren’t so busy thinking with your dick, you’d see that.”

  I was going to refute that, then stopped myself. I might as well have tried to talk to one of the nearby trees. I never knew Alison harbored any suspicion about my intentions toward Justina, nor any hidden animosity toward her. They seemed to have great camaraderie when they were together with the kids, and there were times, after the twins went to bed, that Justina would sit in our kitchen, drink tea, and talk with Alison, using her as a surrogate mother since her own was half a world away. Up until this moment, I would have said there wasn’t a whiff of a problem between them.

  But having your children kidnapped brings all kinds of slumbering feelings to life.

  “Fine, let’s go talk to her,” I said. “But don’t you dare tell her the children have been kidnapped. If she gets it in her head to go to the police—”

  “She wouldn’t. But fine.”

  And then she continued her charge, a bull in search of a china shop.

  * * *

  When she reached the front stoop of the cottage, she scaled the cinder-block steps and pulled open the rickety screen door. Then she thumped on the main door with the butt of her hand.

  Under ordinary circumstances, when Justina didn’t have the kids with her, we never intruded on her life. If she chose to be with us—to chat with Alison or to ask me legal questions—we welcomed her. But we were not in the habit of dropping by unannounced.

  After maybe ten seconds, Justina appeared, looking mildly surprised.

  “Hey, guys, what’s up?” she asked. Justina had only a faint accent. And after four years in the States—two in college, plus two in a boarding school before that—she had all the American colloquialisms down pat.

  Alison had plastered on a smile that was pure laminate. “We just wanted to talk,” she said.

  Backing away, Justina opened the door a little wider so we could enter. “Yeah, sure. Come on in.”

  Justina had her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a tight T-shirt and even tighter jeans, but I averted my eyes, hoping Alison would notice. I looked around the cottage instead. It was the usual scene. Her schoolbooks were piled on the table in the eating area. The couch was in casual disarray, with a few blankets and mismatched pillows cast across it. The bedroom and kitchen were both dark.

  “What do you need to talk about?” Justina asked.

  “I was hoping you could explain this to me,” Alison said, holding up the wig where Justina could see it.

  Clenched in Alison’s hand, the mass of fake blond hair looked like a piece of sorority-girl roadkill. Justina studied it without comprehension.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Do you recognize it?” Alison asked.

  I still wasn’t looking directly at Justina—there was no safe place for my gaze to rest—but out of the corner of my eye I could see her glancing toward me for help.

  It would not be forthcoming. Alison had enough worries right now without my doing anything to stoke the fear that she also had a philandering husband. I was determined to make it clear whose side I was on.

  “No,” Justina said.

  “Well, it’s yours, isn’t it?”

  I risked a quick look at Justina. She was properly baffled.

  “Uh, maybe? Is that a wig?”

  “Yes. Were you wearing it yesterday when you picked up the twins?”

  “Yesterday?” Justina said. “But yesterday was Wednesday. I don’t pick up the twins on Wednesdays. The judge does.”

  She was again looking to me for salvation, but the judge was no fool. I had absolutely nothing to gain by interceding here.

  “Justina, someone else picked up the kids from school yesterday. It wasn’t the judge. And it wasn’t me. It was someone driving our Honda Odyssey. You’re the only other one who has keys.”

  “But I didn’t . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “What, you don’t have the keys?”

  “No. They’re right over there,” Justina said, pointing to the hook on the wall by the door. We kept the keys there so if Alison or I needed the Honda for something, they would be easily findable. The keychain was a fist-size brass pendant that was impossible to absentmindedly slip in your pocket—guaranteeing it ended up back on the hook for the next person to use.

  “So you’re saying you didn’t get them yesterday?” Alison asked.

  “No. I have class. And then you sent me that text today saying not to pick them up. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  “I think you know it’s not,” Alison said, her voice smoldering.

  I finally risked a glance at Justina’s face. It was perfectly blank.

  “Just tell us the truth,” Alison said, glaring. “We can deal with the fallout later. Right now all that matters is the kids. Did someone pay you off to pick them up? Did they threaten you or your family?”

  “What are you talking about?” Justina said.

  Alison was standing there, ramrod straight. She took a long breath in, then pushed out an even longer one.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I have no choice. You’re fired. I want you out of here by the end of the weekend.”

  “But, Mrs. Sampson, I don’t have any other—”

  “You can find an apartment closer to school. I’m sure there are plenty of vacancies. I can’t have you in the cottage anymore.”

  “But, please. I haven’t . . . ,” she started, and then she turned her attention to me. Which was a mistake. I had no power to commute her sentence.

  “Judge Sampson, can’t you—”

  “I’m sorry, Justina,” I said, with what I hoped was the appropriate amount of firmness.

  * * *

  Later, when we had turned out the lights and gone to bed, a tape measure would have shown we were only two feet apart. It just felt like a thousand miles.

  Alison inhaled deeply, like she was going to say something. She stopped herself. Then it finally came out: “I’m sorry about Justina.”

  I wasn’t sure which part she was sorry about—accusing me of wanting to sleep with her or throwing her out—but I wasn’t going to turn down a freely given apology. I just said, “Okay.”

  “If I’m wrong about her, I’m a horrible person. I know that. But I can’t stop thinking that I’m right about her. And I can’t deal with having her living so close while I’m wondering if she was the one.”

  “Okay,” I said again.

  “After this is over we can bring her back.”

  “I doubt she’ll want to come back.”

  “You think I’m wrong about her?”

  “I don’t know what to think right now,” I said, in all honesty.

  She was quiet for a moment or two, then said, “I’m going in there sometime tomorrow while she’s at class and getting something with her fingerprints and her DNA on it.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” By which I meant: It certainly couldn’t hurt.

  The HVAC system clicked on, pushing cold air into the room. I pulled the blanket up a little farther.

  Then she said, “I’m sorry about . . . about what I said about you wanting to sleep with her.”

  “Thanks,” I said guardedly.

  Then she rolled toward me, bridging that two-foot, thousand-mile distance between us in one quick movement. She kissed me on the mouth, quick and hard.

  “You’re a good man, Scott Sampson. I’m a lucky woman to have you. Even if this thing is making me totally crazy, I still love you.”

  “I love you too. Don’t forget that.”

  I snaked an arm under her and she leaned her head against my chest. I pulled her tight against me, suddenly cognizant of my need for human contact. Her warmth was a reminder that I real
ly wasn’t alone in this. It was probably the first thing in a day and a half that hadn’t felt completely wrong, and I allowed myself to treasure it for a moment.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  My body reacted instantly. I half pushed Alison off me, getting to my feet, then ran into Emma’s bedroom, which faces the front of the house, and peered out the window.

  There was only darkness. My eyes swept our front yard, looking for some hint of movement. The scene was perfectly still.

  Alison was catching up with me just as I was leaving the room.

  “What’s out there?”

  “Nothing,” I said, slipping past her and back out into the hallway. “At least nothing I can see. But just in case, go into Sam’s room, lock the door, and don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe.”

  Behind me, I could hear her footfalls making their way toward Sam. I quickly descended the stairs and, not bothering to go into the sitting room for a closer inspection of the front porch, turned the deadbolt, slid the chain off the door, and threw it open.

  The first direction I looked was out. It was the same scene it always was. The magnolia trees. The yard. The driveway. All undisturbed.

  Then I looked down. There was another Home Depot box, identical to the last one, with the silver-metallic strip of duct tape along the top. I tore it off and lifted the flaps.

  Then I gasped.

  The bottom of the box was covered in curly blond hair.

  Emma’s.

  My hand flew to my mouth. They had shaved her bald. I thought about my poor, sweet girl having her head denuded like that. They probably had to hold her down to do it. I was sure she screamed and cried.

  I was shaking as I lifted up the white envelope, which contained a message, written on card stock in the now-familiar block lettering:

  THERE WERE TOO MANY PEOPLE AT YOUR HOUSE TONIGHT. NO MORE PARTIES. WE’RE OUT OF HAIR TO CUT.

  I walked a few steps toward the edge of the porch, again looking out into the gloom beyond. There were a thousand places in the woods between our house and the road that someone could hide if they wanted to. And it wasn’t like we had neighbors around to wonder why someone was spying on us. I turned to reenter the house.