Walk Into Silence

by Susan McBride

  She wondered which late-night talk show had inspired this topic of conversation. No wonder Hank was so grumpy in the mornings. He caught midnight showings of Maury Povich and Jerry Springer on cable and got himself too worked up to sleep.

  He tapped his finger on the wheel. “One talking head said it’s okay for a wife to leave her husband and kids to go climb Mount Everest or hole up in a kibbutz, you know, to find herself.”

  Before Jo could comment, Hank added, “It’s bullshit, that’s what it is.” He slapped the visor down, though the sky was a tight stretch of gray without a wink of sun between. “Climbing Mount Everest?” He snorted. “What in God’s name is Disney World for? That’s what a real escape’s all about, am I right?”

  “Puking on Space Mountain?” Jo offered.

  He laughed. “Having the kids puke on me on Space Mountain.”

  “Yeah, who’d ever want to bypass that for a trip to Tibet,” she said, fighting a smile.

  Her partner was a real-life character from a Frank Capra movie, reconfigured for the twenty-first century—Henry Fonda with a badge, paunch, and a penchant for four-letter words. High school football jock goes to college and then to the academy, works his way up to detective on the Fort Worth PD, waits until forty to marry a woman just shy of sainthood—as far as Jo was concerned—and settles down to raise his kids in good ol’ Plainfield. In her book, that qualified as normal with a capital N.

  Something she didn’t know much about.

  Jo’s growing up had been more Kafka than Capra. She wondered if Hank had an inkling of how much of her life she kept bottled up. If he did have questions, he didn’t ask them, not often, anyway.

  “Nothing comes easy,” Hank said, so that Jo feared for a moment that he’d read her mind. “Marriage isn’t a cakewalk. It sure as shooting isn’t for cowards who need to take sabbaticals from reality.”

  “You should get on the talk shows yourself, you know so much,” she said. “You could set the world straight.”

  “Hell, they wouldn’t put me on Springer.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve gotta sleep with your sister and live in a trailer park to even sit in the audience. If you want to get on stage, you’d better be screwing your neighbor’s goat.”

  “Stop.” She cuffed his shoulder, and he smirked.

  Some piece of work, she decided with a shake of her head. He was hardly an enlightened male, if such a thing existed. But he was honest to a fault, and she trusted him. She was glad to have him watching her back. Eight years with the Dallas PD before her two years in Plainfield had taught her how rare a real partnership was. She and Hank had that in spades.

  She knew Hank had left the Fort Worth PD for some of the same reasons she’d put the city in her rearview mirror. She wondered how long it would take before this bucolic molehill, for want of a better description, turned as toxic as anywhere else. Pastureland, scrubby trees, and precious creeks were being sacrificed for more houses, apartments, shopping centers, and parking lots as people fled the metroplex and encroached on this “Slice of Heaven on Earth”—which was what the billboard near the highway exit promised those entering the suburban enclave. As the population grew, so would the crime.

  She hated to think about that.

  Right now, being here was a balm, the fresh start she’d needed. She only had to think of her mom on rare Sundays when she made it into the city. She could focus on her job, on healing herself. And she could work on her relationship with Adam McCaffrey, now that she could actually call it that.

  She and Adam had first crossed paths in the autopsy suite at Parkland Hospital. Jo remembered turning green and having to duck out before it was over. Adam found her outside, gave her a stick of gum, and told her, “It gets easier.” What got easier was seeing him. Through the years, they’d developed a rapport that turned into a flirtation that led to drinks and, ultimately, her bed. She’d known he was married and kicked herself for being so stupid. But she’d fallen hard, and she didn’t see a way out.

  “I can’t do this,” she’d told him, ignoring Adam’s protests that his marriage was in name only, that he and his wife didn’t even sleep together, that they were nothing more than roommates.

  “Then let her go,” Jo had said bluntly.

  “It’s not that easy,” he’d replied, and Jo had wondered if he was waiting for his wife to leave first, so he wouldn’t have to be the bad guy.

  Instead, Jo had left him, moving to Plainfield so he could sort things out.

  And he must have, because he wasn’t married anymore.

  The brakes squealed as Hank slowed at a stop sign.

  “You look tired,” he said, and she felt his eyes on her even as he mashed on the accelerator. “Late night?”

  “No later than usual.” Her face warmed, but she didn’t rise to the bait.

  “Fess up.” He grinned. “You had a date.”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  “You have a mother? And I thought you were hatched.” He laughed as he pulled the car into a strip mall, humming “Strangers in the Night” all the while.

  As he parked and cut the engine, Jo bent to retrieve her bag from between her feet.

  “Christ, is that a hickey?”

  She bumped her head on the dash. “What?” She pulled down the mirrored visor.

  Damn.

  “It’s just a bruise,” she mumbled, swatting at the smudge on her neck. “I slipped in the shower. I must’ve banged something.”

  “I’ll bet you banged something all right.”

  She yanked up the neck on her sweater, snatched open the car door, and got out, turning her back on him. She tucked her bag against her rib cage, walking a little faster than necessary toward the restaurant.

  “Hey, Jo, wait up!”

  Bells jangled overhead as she entered the place and kept a step ahead of him, praying he’d change the subject by the time they reached their table.

  A no-nonsense waitress with a pencil at her ear and a green apron round her middle sat them quickly at an empty booth near the kitchen. She slapped down plastic-coated menus in front of them and reeled off a list of specials. Jo nearly interrupted to tell her she was wasting her breath. They never looked at menus. Every time they came, they both had spaghetti with meat sauce and Coke—regular for her, diet for Hank. Didn’t matter the season.

  When their drinks arrived in crackled red glasses, Jo picked the paper off the top of the straw and sipped. She hadn’t removed her coat and did her best to shrink into the collar.

  Hank swirled his straw against crushed ice, his gaze settling on her. “So is it that ME you used to see? McCaffrey, right?”

  “He’s a good friend.” She forced herself not to squirm.

  “I’m a good friend, and you don’t let me suck on your neck.”

  Oh, boy. Was she the only person in the world who didn’t like to talk about her sex life, especially when she had one to talk about?

  “Hey, I’m glad it worked out. I like happy endings.”

  Only she and Adam weren’t so much a happy ending as a do-over.

  Five minutes later, the waitress brought a tray with their twin plates of spaghetti, and Jo relaxed, breathing easier.

  Hank wrapped a healthy amount of pasta around his fork and stuffed it in his mouth, slurping up a long strand and leaving a fleck of red sauce on his chin.

  She didn’t tell him it was there.

  “So what’re your plans for Thanksgiving?”

  Jo groaned and put her hands over her face. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

  “Please, don’t start.”

  “Hey, I’m just asking. We’d love to have you. Kids haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Thanksgiving?

  She couldn’t even think about that yet.

  I have to finish helping Ronnie pack up Mama’s things so we can sell the damned house, get rid of it forever so I never have to set foot in the place again. And then I’m going to stack everythi
ng that’s left into a huge pile and burn it all to ashes.

  She said only, “I’m good, Hank. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I always worry about you.”

  She stared at him, finding herself at a rare loss for a quick comeback and feeling a little embarrassed.

  Her cell went off, preventing further discussion. She slid the phone from her belt and squinted at the display. The number wasn’t familiar.

  “Who is it?”

  She hesitated too long, and the call went to voice mail. Instead of waiting to hear if a message had been left, she went ahead and hit the call-back button. She held the cell to one ear, sticking her finger into the other so she could better hear.

  “Dr. Patil’s office,” a pleasant voice answered.

  “I’m Detective Jo Larsen from the Plainfield PD. I phoned earlier to speak with the doctor about a patient of his, Jennifer Dielman,” she explained. “He was returning my call . . .”

  “Yes, just a minute, Detective.”

  She found herself on hold, listening to a Muzak version of “Beast of Burden.” Thankfully, it was a short wait.

  “This is Dr. Patil,” said a softly accented voice. Before Jo could get a word out, he said, “Can you drop by my office? It’s about Mrs. Dielman. Her husband phoned sounding frantic, and frankly, I’m afraid for her, too.”

  To understand where I am, I have to start at the beginning: back when I was a girl, not a wife or a mom. I lived in my father’s house, which is where I got a crash course in survival. I learned how to stuff my feelings where no one could find them. I couldn’t have gotten up every day and gone to school otherwise, pretending everything was okay.

  And I got really good at pretending.

  My dad was a doctor just like K. He took care of people all day, then came home and scared the crap out of his family. I grew up thinking that nothing I ever did was right. “You’re sloppy, Jennifer. Can’t you move any faster? Get the hell out of my face! Give me that look again, and I’ll whip your ass.”

  When I got out of there, I never wanted to go back. I wanted to create a new life for myself, somewhere far away where I’d be safe and happy.

  I screwed up the nerve to move to Dallas, seven hundred miles away, a distance Daddy would never travel just to haul my butt home. I didn’t have much, so I did a stint at Tom Thumb as a cashier. At night, I went to school to learn how to work in a medical office. A year later, I was a floor secretary in the surgery wing at Presbyterian Hospital. That was when I met K.

  He was so sweet to all the girls—the nurses, the secretaries, the file clerks. He had a reputation for playing the field, so I avoided him, tried hard never to look him in the eye. Only he took my disinterest as a challenge. I’d find flowers on my desk, a little vase of violets or lily of the valley, nothing big. Then he started asking me out, to dinner and to movies. I guess I wasn’t as immune to his charms as I thought because, within a few weeks, I caved. He looked good and smelled good. He spoke quietly and held my hand. He seemed to be everything Daddy wasn’t.

  A couple months in, after too many margaritas, I let him stay the night.

  The romance lasted all of about six months. Then he stopped coming over. He stopped calling.

  I think he liked the chase. But once he had me . . .

  He went out of his way to avoid me at the hospital. I know he was behind my getting transferred to labor and delivery. I tried not to let it bother me, but I felt so weepy all the time. Something had changed in me. My whole body felt different. My periods stopped. I thought I was depressed. Until I realized I was pregnant.

  I told him the baby was his, and when I said I meant to keep it, he wanted to get married in a hurry at the courthouse. I guess it wouldn’t have looked good for the rising star on the surgical staff to father a baby with a floor secretary.

  The name-calling didn’t start until after I quit work and moved into the house he bought for us in Northwood Hills.

  He started saying things like: “You’re such a pig. You’re getting so fat. You’re not eating for two—you’re eating for a football team!” “How much stuff does a baby need? You think I’m made of money?” “Do you have to wear those god-awful sweatpants all the time? You look like a cleaning lady, not a doctor’s wife. It’s embarrassing.”

  He began to work late more often, and he went alone to all of his hospital functions. I thought things would change after Finn was born, but they only got worse. Maybe seeing our son made him feel permanently trapped. Mostly, he just beat me down with words, but once, he shook me until I thought my neck would snap. He wanted to drive me out, I was sure of it.

  I knew he was cheating on me.

  But he didn’t realize my daddy had trained me for a man like him. I was tougher than that, or maybe too stupid. I wanted a home for my son, and I wasn’t about to lose it.

  I got the feeling K hoped both of us would disappear.

  The night Finn died, he got half his wish.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jo and Hank were quickly ushered in from a mint-colored anteroom, where patients flipped the pages of magazines, waiting to be summoned.

  An assistant in floral scrubs led them to an exam room with a table covered in white paper and a metal desk with a stool and a chair.

  Hank settled into the chair and looked around him.

  Jo pulled herself up onto the exam table, the paper crackling beneath her. She clasped her hands between her legs.

  There was a shuffle of footsteps outside the door before it opened and a smallish gentleman with jet-black hair entered. He wore a white lab coat with NAVEEN PATIL, MD embroidered in navy blue over the breast pocket. He held a fairly thick file folder in his left hand. He extended his right.

  “Detective Larsen?” he said, and Jo slid down from the padded table to clasp his hand. “I’m sorry we can’t use my office, but there was a leak in the ceiling. They’re working on it now.”

  “It’s okay,” Jo said and nodded at Hank. “My partner, Detective Phelps.”

  Patil greeted him with a handshake as well, then drew the stool away from the desk with his foot and perched upon it. He set the chart in his lap and looked at Jo. “Patrick Dielman phoned earlier. He said his wife didn’t come home last evening, and he’s very concerned about her. He urged me to be frank with you, and I told him I would help as much as I could without compromising doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  Jo glanced at Hank.

  “You know about her diagnosis?” Patil asked them.

  She leaned against the exam table. “Mr. Dielman said she’s on Zoloft for post-traumatic stress. I’m assuming that’s related to losing her son.”

  The doctor gave a slow nod. “It was a blow to her when Finn died. From what Jenny told me, things in her first marriage had not ended well. Kevin was very work-oriented and spent little time with his family. That was hard on Jenny. She needed to feel safe.”

  “Who’s Kevin?” Hank asked point-blank.

  Patil turned toward him. “Dr. Kevin Harrison. They divorced not long after Finn’s accident. I don’t know much about their relationship before Finn died. Jenny didn’t talk about it.”

  “How exactly did Finn die?” Jo asked.

  “She told me he fell from a tree house and broke his neck. The trauma was fatal.”

  “Christ,” Hank muttered.

  Jo felt a pain behind her ribs.

  “It happened three years ago, just after Thanksgiving. Jenny was devastated. She saw me regularly after moving to Plainfield. She was having heart palpitations, trouble sleeping, and anxiety attacks. I examined her thoroughly, did all the lab tests, but nothing was physically out of whack.”

  “Is that a technical term, out of whack?” Hank said, and Patil smiled tightly.

  “I had Mrs. Dielman come in so we could go over her labs. We talked at length about problems in her personal life that might be causing her symptoms. That’s when she opened up about the loss of Finn. She hadn’t come to terms with her son’s death, o
r the way her marriage had dissolved afterward, and I don’t think she knew how to handle the powerful emotions she was feeling. Children aren’t supposed to go before their parents.”

  Life is rarely ever fair, Jo wanted to say, but held back. If anyone knew that, it was a doctor. He probably saw as much pain as she did: people who were sick and broken, bruised and battered, confused and grieving.

  “Did you start her on the Zoloft?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He uncrossed his arms and spread the file open in his lap. “We had to adjust the dose a few times until she was stable.”

  “Were there any side effects that might explain her taking off?” Jo wanted to know.

  “The medication can cause or exacerbate anxiety, insomnia, decreased libido, sweating, tremors, that sort of thing.” The doctor thumbed through page after page, seeming to study one here and there before he looked up. “The most serious potential adverse effect from a drug like Zoloft is hepatic dysfunction.”

  “Hepatic?” Hank repeated. “That’s the liver?”

  “Yes, it can cause liver problems, which is why we run LFTs on a regular basis.”

  Hank cleared his throat.

  “Liver-function tests,” Patil clarified. He ran a finger down a sheet stapled to the front of the chart. “In fact, Jenny’s due to have blood drawn on Thursday.” His gaze met Jo’s. “Maybe she’ll be home by then.”

  “Maybe,” she said, but she didn’t believe it. The worried look in Patil’s eyes told her that he wasn’t so sure either. “Might she be suicidal?” Jo asked.

  The doctor closed the chart deliberately and held it tight against his chest. “Jenny is an emotionally fragile woman who suffered a severe trauma. She’s doing what she could to move on. She appeared content in her second marriage and told me more than once that her library work is satisfying. But nothing fills the void left by Finn. She still misses her son. Some days, it’s harder than others.”

  Jo felt like she was hearing Patrick Dielman’s version all over again. It was the same story she’d gotten from Sally Nesbo at the library: a decent woman, good wife, and grieving mother goes AWOL without warning.