Bryce said nothing. If Dana had her way, he wouldn’t spend many more days at the park with the boys.
Later, while Skyler slept, Bryce spotted his neighbor, Harold Grundy, toting a huge, cardboard refrigerator box to the trash bin. “You mind if I take this?”
“Suit yourself, I got no use for it.” The neighbor, an older man Tilly called Mr. Grumpalump, stood watching as Bryce hoisted the box and carried it across his driveway.
Scott trailed behind the huge carton. “What’s that for?”
“I’m gonna make a playhouse for Cockroach.”
“You always do stuff for him. You like him better than me.” Scott stared at the ground, then drew a circle in the thick gravel with the scuffed toe of his cowboy boot.
“No, I don’t, Scotty.” Bryce kneeled on his good knee, eye level with the boy, and lifted Scott’s chin with his fingertips. “It’s just that your dad gives you so many new toys and takes you out for ice cream. Cockroach gets jealous.”
“Me and Dad don’t like Skyler. Dad says he screams all the time like a little brat. But you like him. That’s why you call him Cockroach and me just plain Scotty.”
Bryce chuckled. “I call him that because of the way he skitters around the house and can hide himself in teeny little places like that cabinet under the kitchen sink.” He patted Scott on the head. “Why don’t you help me with this surprise for Skyler? He’ll be up from his nap soon.”
They dragged the box onto the back deck, sliced it down one seam, turned the printing toward the inside and taped it back together. Bryce cut out windows and a front door. At Scott’s suggestion, they painted blue shutters, like the ones on the house they lived in, and printed the words, Cockroach’s House, in big block letters over the doorway. The paint dried quickly under the heat of the midday autumn sun and they hauled the colorful playhouse into the living room.
The boys soon forgot about the picnic and spent the day playing with their stuffed animals in the cardboard house without their usual squabbles until early evening when Scott demanded a dish of ice cream.
“Not now,” Bryce said. “It’s too close to dinner. You can have some for dessert.”
“You give him everything.” Scott nodded toward his little brother who stood in front of the screen door, staring out at the street.
When Bryce ignored Scott, the boy lunged forward and shoved Skyler, hard. The flimsy door latch didn’t hold and the toddler tumbled, head first, across the narrow porch and down the concrete steps.
Bryce leaped to his feet, ignoring the stab of pain in his right calf, stumbled over the second stair, and then regained his balance. Skyler lay draped over the corner of the bottom step, screaming. Bryce picked him up and was brushing the dirt off the toddler’s face just as Scott sprinted across the yard and disappeared behind a neighbor’s house.
Assuring himself that Skyler was not injured beyond a bump on the forehead and a few scrapes, and not knowing what else to do, Bryce comforted him for a moment, then lowered the wailing toddler into his crib and chased after Scott.
He discovered him perched on a low branch of a maple tree behind Mr. Grumpalump’s garden shed. “Come on down,” he pleaded. “You’re tired and it’s time to get ready for bed.”
“You can’t make me,” Scott snarled, his blue eyes flashing. “It’s not even dark yet. Besides, you’re not my real dad.”
Afraid to leave Skyler alone any longer, there was nothing for Bryce to do but grab Scott under his arms and haul him home. The frenzied boy flipped his head back and forth, kicked the heels of his cowboy boots into Bryce’s thighs and groin, and then bit Bryce’s forearm hard enough to leave bloody teeth marks.
He flipped Scott to face him. “You better head straight to bed before I do something I’ll regret. Like murder.” With that threat, Scott spit in Bryce’s face and resumed his kicking.
Trembling and at his wits’ end, Bryce clamped the thrashing boy under his armpit and swiped his own wet cheek. As he set Scott on the ground in front of him, Dana’s instructions leaped up inside his head, ‘You have to be firmer with him, Bryce, show him who’s boss. He walks all over you.’ Bryce swatted the boy on the backside, harder than he meant to, then lugged Scott, still howling and kicking, back into the house.
He deposited the boy in his bedroom, demanded that he stay there, then wrapped ice cubes in a dish towel and held it on the egg-shaped lump swelling Skyler’s forehead. When Skyler finally settled down, Bryce filled the tub and bathed both kids without another word. A surge of shame rose in the pit of his stomach when he saw the big red print of his own hand stamped on Scott’s pale skin.
He was about to lift Skyler from the tub when the high-pitched buzzer in the hallway announced the telephone. Thinking it might be Dana, he pulled the plug, stood Skyler up in the tub and told Scott to watch his brother. Bryce hurried into the kitchen to answer. He turned down the credit card solicitor, hung up and was headed back to the bathroom when he heard Skyler scream. And it wasn’t one of his playful screams either.
The toddler, his face twisted in pain, stood at the back of the tub, clutching his penis.
“My teeth slipped,” Scott said. “I was just gonna blubber him on the tummy. My dad is right. Skyler is nothin’ but a screaming brat.”
Bryce inspected the damage. A pale bruise was already forming, and there were red teeth marks, but Scott hadn’t broken the skin. Wrapping Skyler in a towel, Bryce held a cool washcloth over the teeth marks. He sat on the edge of the closed toilet and rocked the boy until he stopped crying. “Does it feel better now, Sky?”
The toddler nodded.
Bryce tossed the other towel to Scott. “Dry off. And put your pajamas on,” he demanded. “Now.”
Scott obeyed without a word.
Fed up, Bryce gave them grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Refusing the customary bedtime story, he put them to bed early, closed their door, then clamped the hearing device into his ear, and turned on the living room television.
Less than fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Bryce ripped out the device and answered.
Reggie Sterling and Henry Evans stood on the porch. A slice of peach-colored daylight lit the sky behind them.
“What do you want?” Bryce asked.
“To see my boy, what do you think I want? I sure as hell didn’t come here to see you.”
“Scott’s in bed.”
Reggie checked his watch, a big gold one with a fancy tooled band. “It’s only 7:30. He’s got another hour before bedtime. Are you trying to keep me away from my son?”
Bryce opened the door. “Go see for yourself. Read him a bedtime story. I wasn’t in the mood. But if Skyler is asleep, don’t wake him. Scott beat him up pretty bad today.”
Reggie stepped inside as if he owned the place, Henry at his heels like an obedient puppy. “That’s my boy,” Reggie said, as if Scott’s beating on his baby brother was something to be proud of. “Tough as nails, that kid. By the way, Dana said I could have one of her cold beers.”
Bryce shot him a disgusted look. “I thought you quit. And thanks a lot for drinking our maple syrup.”
“Recovering alcoholics get sugar cravings. I’ll buy you a new bottle.”
“I won’t hold my breath,” Bryce said. “And just for your information, recovering alcoholics don’t drink beer.”
After Reggie raided the refrigerator, both he and Henry headed down the hallway to the boys’ bedroom.
Henry returned a moment later and waited for Caleb to look up. “Skyler wants his bottle,” he said. “Can I give it to him again?”
“Sure you can, Henry.” Bryce had forgotten all about Dana’s instructions to give Skyler a bottle of apple juice.
Henry followed him into the kitchen.
A four-pack of baby apple juice sat on the counter, one of the jars already removed from the pack—another of Dana’s attempts to be helpful—the good mother. He twisted the cap and poured the juice into the baby bottle, then dilut
ed it with two-parts water. He screwed on the nipple, shook the bottle, handed it to Henry, then returned to his spot on the sofa.
After about fifteen minutes in the boys’ bedroom, Reggie burst back into the living room and stood in front of Bryce, holding the half-empty beer bottle in one hand, the other hand planted on his hip. “You ever lay a hand on my kid or threaten to murder him again and I’ll kill you with my bare hands. Do you understand me?”
Bryce’s hatred for this man was hot lava rising to the surface. “Get the hell out of my house. And take your tough as nails, spitting, biting, bully of a son with you if you’re so damned concerned with his welfare.”
Reggie stared at him as if unable to believe what he heard, then headed back into Scott’s bedroom. “I’m going to say goodnight to my son.”
He returned with Henry, who looked at Bryce and shrugged. “Skyler likes apple juice. I think he’ll be quiet now.” Henry followed Reggie as he stormed through the front door. Once outside, Reggie turned and slammed it behind them.
The pain in Bryce’s head went from a thumbtack behind his eye to a sledgehammer.
The phone rang. Dana didn’t make any small talk with Bryce. She wanted to talk to Scott.
Bryce brought the boy to the kitchen phone.
Scott said “okay” three times, then hung up.
“What did Mommy want?”
“For me to take care of Skyler.”
Wow. That was one strong case for mother’s intuition. Reggie hadn’t had time to call her. Did she somehow know Scott pushed Skyler out the front door and took a bite out of his penis?
“Mom said to make sure Skyler drinks his apple juice.”
When Bryce lifted Scott so he could see into the crib, the toddler was happily sucking on his bottle.
Scott went back to bed without a struggle. Bryce tucked him in and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m sorry I got so angry with you, Scotty.”
The boy grinned. “Mom says I’m a handful.”
Bryce tried to laugh, but his migraine had gotten worse. He took three Tylenol from the master bathroom medicine cabinet, put the ice pack on his head and fell asleep on the living room sofa.
At 11:45 p.m., he awakened and lay still, watching the restless flutter of the living room curtains in the night air. His headache was gone. He took the ice pack from his forehead, then lifted Pickles from his chest. Crap. He’d intended to stay awake and check on the toddler every fifteen minutes. Skyler ate his grilled cheese sandwich and the soup Bryce fed him and seemed fine when Bryce tucked him into his crib. But there was always the off-chance his fall resulted in a concussion.
Bryce hurried into their bedroom. Scott was flung out sideways across his bed, his mouth open and moist. His thumb was cocked next to his cheek. Each night as he checked on them, he marveled at the mysterious way sleep transformed Scott from hellion into cherub. It was a privilege to guard their slumber, to be allowed access to this precious part of their daily lives. And he couldn’t help but smile as he brushed strands of red hair from the boy’s forehead, releasing the powdery scent of baby shampoo. Rolling Scott into the bed’s center, he covered him with a blanket before turning his attention to Skyler’s crib.
The toddler lay in his favorite sleeping position, one hand under his cheek, butt thrust to the sky and his knees tucked beneath him. Skyler’s bed covers were bunched under his legs and Bryce reached down to release them.
Something was wrong. He flipped on the light.
Skyler’s body was rigid. He didn’t wiggle or utter a sound. Bryce quickly turned him over. His lips and eyelids seemed darker than usual. Snatching the toddler from the crib, Bryce dashed into the hallway where the light was brighter. When he lifted the toddler’s hand to the lamp, Skyler’s tiny fingernails were stained the dusty color of blueberries.
Bryce’s gut plummeted. Panic raced through him. He shook the little boy. It was like shaking a brick. “Breathe, dammit,” he shrieked, and, ignoring the stab of pain in his right calf, he bolted down the hallway, stumbling over his own limbs.
Just inside the entrance to the living room, Bryce tripped over Scott’s fire truck and lurched into the coffee table, shattering an oil lamp, turning over the table and the vase of daffodils he bought for Dana, and launching the carefully placed cards of her daily tarot reading.
Instinctively, he broke the force of the fall with his left arm to protect Skyler. It all happened so fast. He flipped onto his back, praying he hadn’t injured the stiff and silent toddler still cradled in the crook of his right arm.
He scrambled to his feet, checked Skyler’s respirations again. The toddler wasn’t breathing. Bryce laid him on the sofa. As he attempted to clear Skyler’s airway, the boy had a seizure. Skyler’s mouth clamped shut, trapping Bryce’s index finger. He jerked frantically, but Skyler’s teeth were firmly planted and Bryce had to carry the toddler with him.
He unlocked the front door for the ambulance crew so he wouldn’t have to stop CPR or leave the toddler unattended, and then hurried into the kitchen to call 9-1-1. He laid Skyler on the table, felt for a pulse, and tried to force his mouth open. His hands shook.
The trapped finger, painful as it was, pried open a small gap and Bryce positioned his open mouth over Skyler’s and forced air into the child’s lungs, waited, then breathed into him again. And again.
He pumped the toddler’s chest, then stopped to blow more air into his lungs. Bryce was unable to remember the cycle, the number of pumps and breaths, and the interval in between. But his mouth and free hand performed as if without need of him. Then magically, a ragged breath rose from the child. And then another.
At the sight of that tiny thorax rising and falling, tears streamed down Bryce’s face. With his right hand still trapped, his index finger throbbing, he picked up the kitchen phone and dialed 9-1-1 with his left.
“It’s a...a...an emergency.” The nervous stutter, gone since his boyhood, reappeared. His eyes glued to Skyler’s again motionless chest, he screamed words into the receiver again and again. “The... the...baby...sh...she...isn’t breathing. Sh…she’s gonna die. It’s all my fault. I should have…We need help.” Bryce babbled on, not making any sense and he knew it. He dropped the phone onto the kitchen counter, cupped Skyler’s chin in his hand and, even though the toddler sucked in an occasional shallow breath, puffed more air between the thin blue lips.
He retrieved the handset.
“Try not to panic, I'll dispatch an ambulance, don’t...”
In spite of the amplifier in the phone’s earpiece, Bryce didn’t hear everything she said. He tried to spill out the details of what happened all at once, imploring her to understand the urgency. “She’s go…go…going to…die, dammit.”
Chapter Four
When the pager in his pajama pocket sounded a soft buzz and then vibrated, Radhauser groaned. His eyes shot open. The clock on his bedside table read 12:15 a.m. A call from dispatch this late could mean only one thing. Something terrible awaited him.
He turned off the pager and slipped out of bed, careful not to awaken Gracie. He’d stayed up late in the barn, working on his victim impact statement. She and Lizzie were asleep when he came to bed. Even though Gracie was adamant he ignore the clemency hearing, he hoped she would eventually come to understand why he couldn’t.
In the silver glow from the nearly full moon, with her translucent skin and dark hair spread over her pillow, Gracie looked almost ethereal.
He brushed his lips across her forehead. Something moved deep inside him at the touch of her warm skin against his mouth. “I love you,” he whispered, then grabbed his jeans, tiptoed down the hallway and inched open the door to Lizzie’s bedroom. He tucked her purple blanket around her shoulders, swept his fingers across her cheek. How could his baby girl be four-and-a-half years old already?
Once in the kitchen, he phoned dispatch.
“Hate to bother you this late, Wind,” Maggie said. “But we got a 9-1-1 call about an in-home accident. A little kid. The
operator said the caller sounded drunk and claimed the accident was his fault. An ambulance has been dispatched. Murph thinks a detective should check it out.”
Captain Felix Murphy knew how much Radhauser dreaded any investigation that involved a child. Add a drunk to the equation and he was ready to become a criminal himself. But he wouldn’t assume the caller’s claim was a real admission of guilt. He’d lived long enough to understand the tightrope humans walked and how the smallest mistake could lead to a fatal plunge. Radhauser was nowhere near the accident that killed his family, but he made the same claim. It was his fault.
He dressed in the laundry room where he kept a change of clothing for nights like this one. Removing the belt buckle Lucas won, he pulled his belt from his dirty jeans, threaded it through the loops of a pair of clean ones and replaced the buckle.
After locking the back door knob, he stepped out into the night. Stars peppered the sky above their ranch in the foothills of the Siskiyou Mountains. He jogged toward the barn overhang where he parked the Crown Vic. The outside air still smelled of sawdust and cedar chips.
Mercedes, Gracie’s mare, heard him and nickered—a friendly sound of expectation. “Settle down, girl,” he said. “Way too early for breakfast.” He sucked in a grateful breath. Marrying Gracie and moving to Oregon had been a good thing. And despite the recent letter from the clemency board, he’d found a peace he never believed possible after losing Laura and Lucas.
The streets were empty and Radhauser arrived at the scene on Pine Street in less than ten minutes. He straightened his steel-gray Stetson, opened the screen and knocked on the oak door of a beautifully restored and well-kept, older Craftsman in Ashland—a small town near the California border, proud of its mountainous landscape, its diversity and the Shakespeare Festival that kept it alive.
“It’s the police,” he said. “Open up.” He waited a moment, then knocked again. It rained earlier and all around him the air smelled like earth and the slight decay of molted leaves. As if on command, four yellow, big leaf maple leaves fell onto the narrow porch. Autumn—that colorful season of death.
A River of Silence Page 4
