The third floor waiting room was empty. Bryce paced for a few minutes, wondering where Reggie and Dana were, then sat on the edge of one of the chairs. Maybe they went down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. He gripped the chrome arms, imagined them sitting across from each other in the empty cafeteria, then stared vacantly at his dusty tennis shoes for a second before he stood and paced again. He was unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few moments.
Bryce was accustomed to quiet. But the silence in this waiting room was knotted and fragile. He paused at a table cluttered with old magazines, picked one up without looking at the cover, then tossed it back.
A little Hispanic girl he hadn’t noticed earlier was stacking blocks on the floor in the room’s corner. She stared up at him.
His heart thumped so loud in his own ears, he believed the pounding had raised her round, dark eyes to meet his. Calmed for the moment by her stare, he crouched down in front of her. “Where are your parents, honey?”
She ran out of the room and down the hall toward the nursing station screaming, loud enough for Bryce to hear, “Mommy, Mommy. That man talks funny.”
He slumped uncomfortably onto the narrow seat of one of the chairs. His hands, folded in his lap, tightened and loosened their grip on each other. The skin on his cheeks burned. What kind of a monster was he? Within the last twelve hours he’d struck and threatened one child, allowed another to be injured severely enough to require surgery, and terrified yet another.
Bryce sensed more than heard the rhythmic click of Dana’s boots on the white tile floor. He glanced toward the waiting room’s entrance and swallowed hard. She and Reggie were walking side by side. He had his arm over her shoulders as if they were high school lovers wandering the halls between classes.
He clenched his hands into angry fists. What he wouldn’t give to punch that pompous Reggie Sterling in the jaw.
When she walked into the waiting room, Dana pulled away from Reggie’s embrace and stepped toward Bryce. She still wore her waitress uniform. She looked young, beautiful and frightened. “I didn’t know you were here.”
It took him a minute to yank himself up onto his feet. He took a breath, considered embracing her.
The set of her jaw stopped him. “I asked you not to come.”
Bryce wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her into understanding that his love for Skyler gave him more right to be in this hospital waiting room than Reggie Sterling. But he didn’t say a word; just stood, only a few inches away, his longing hands clamped against his own thighs.
Dana’s hair hung in damp ringlets against her cheeks. “Where’s Scott?” She looked around the waiting room.
“Asleep on Tilly’s sofa,” Bryce answered. “How is Skyler? Please, tell me what’s happening.”
“You know how I feel about that old woman.” She made a frustrated gesture with her hands, turning them palm-side up. Her fingernails were swirled with scarlet polish, a tiny rhinestone set in the center of each.
“For Ch...Ch...Christ sakes, Dana. Don’t start that again. It was an e…e…emergency. Tilly was there and I didn’t know what else to do. I had to find out about Skyler. I…I…I had to know he was okay.”
She stepped back, probably startled by his stammer. “What happened to your hand?”
“When I went to clear his airway to do CPR, Skyler’s teeth clamped down on my finger. Please,” he begged. “Tell me what’s happening with Skyler.”
“He’s still in surgery,” she said. “Some internal injuries, the nurse said. He’s bleeding inside.” She paused and took in a ragged breath. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Scott shoved him through the screen door and he fell down the steps earlier. But he seemed fine when I gave him his bath and put him to bed.”
Reggie moved closer to Bryce. “What did you do to him?”
Bryce looked at Dana. “I’d never hurt him. Surely you know that. You told me I was way too easy on the boys.”
She searched his face for a moment, as if looking for some other person. Someone she could believe.
The waiting room door opened.
Bryce stopped breathing.
A physician in scrubs, his mask dangling around his neck, entered the room. “I’m looking for the family of Skyler Sterling.”
All three of them rushed forward.
The doctor introduced himself as Daniel Corrigan, the on-call pediatric surgeon.
“I’m his mother,” Dana said.
Reggie and Bryce remained silent.
“I’m sorry.” The expression on the doctor’s face echoed his words. “We stopped the bleeding, then sutured the incision, and I thought everything would be fine. On the way out of the OR, he had a seizure and stopped breathing. We couldn’t bring him back.”
“What do you mean you couldn’t bring him back?” Dana asked, her dark eyes round and beginning to tear up.
“During the seizure, his heart stopped beating. We tried to shock it back into normal rhythm, but...” His voice trailed off. “I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.”
“No,” Bryce insisted. “Not Skyler. He...He...can’t. He can’t be...” Bryce cringed. He couldn’t make himself say that word and a toddler’s name in the same sentence. Not ever again. It was as final as the closing of a casket. He sank back against the wall, feeling the blood drain from his face and arms.
Reggie pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “Are you saying my son is dead?”
The doctor nodded.
It was the first time Bryce ever heard Reggie Sterling claim Skyler as his son.
For Bryce, the questions kept multiplying and reproducing themselves like giant amoebas run wild. There were so many things he wanted to know. Could this have been prevented? Did Skyler’s fall down the steps have anything to do with his death? Or had he been injured when Bryce stumbled over the coffee table? If only he had been more vigilant. If only he fixed the faulty latch. If only he left the toddler in his crib while he unlocked the front door for the paramedics.
He told the doctor about the fall, how Skyler had eaten his dinner and seemed okay when he put him to bed. “Skyler had another seizure earlier, just before I called 9-1-1. Do you have any idea what caused them?”
“The MRI showed no evidence of a cerebral bleed,” the doctor said. “But the medical examiner will do an autopsy and order a toxicology screen. Hopefully we’ll know more when we get the results.” He shook his head. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.” He turned slowly and left the room.
Bryce dropped onto one of the chairs. The heaviness of loss pressed against him with new weight. He couldn’t lift himself above it. He was sinking.
Reggie lunged toward him, grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to his feet, shaking him hard. “You son of a bitch. You murdered my son.” A strange hissing sound came out of him, like a teapot when it boiled.
Chapter Seven
Unable to sleep, Detective Radhauser sat at his kitchen table, drinking a cup of hot cocoa and thinking about the fight he had with Gracie over the clemency hearing. He stood and paced, like someone in an interrogation room, realizing he would crack if he tried to hold out much longer. It was after 2 a.m., but he needed to smooth things over with his wife. And he had no idea how to do that, short of giving in to her wish that he let the board decide Flannigan’s fate. He would, if he could. But that hearing was way too important to him. Somehow, he’d make her understand.
He tiptoed down the hallway and into the master bedroom. The bed was empty. Nearly frantic, he looked around the room. A seam of light slipped through the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door. He tapped lightly on the door. When Gracie didn’t respond, he opened it.
She was standing in front of the mirror with her pajama top off, poking her right breast with her index finger. “It’s growing,” she said, referring to a small lump just below the nipple. She was close to tears. Her hands fluttered around her face, as if ready to wipe them a
way. “Feel it.”
He did.
She was right. It was nearly twice the size it was two weeks ago when she first discovered it.
Their faces in the mirror blurred and he swallowed hard against his fear. “Have you made an appointment with the doctor?” He wanted to tell her he was sorry for the way their discussion in the barn had gone—that he loved her more than anything in the world. The words accumulated in his mouth as if they were going to boil over. But he couldn’t say them.
“Not yet,” she said. “I thought it would go away.”
“You have to.”
“It’s probably only a cyst. You know how pregnancy messes up the hormones. Besides, I’m way too young to have breast cancer. And there is no history in my family. I called my mother to make sure.”
Gracie was so alive and full of energy and enthusiasm it was impossible for him to imagine her sick, especially with something like cancer.
“We have to go to the doctor,” he said. “If you don’t make an appointment, I’ll make one for you.” He spoke so fast his words tumbled over each other. Nothing mattered to him as much as Gracie did.
A single tear slid down her face. “I’ll call tomorrow,” she said, turning away from the mirror. She ran her index finger across his cheek.
It was a feather-soft touch, but with the power of an electrical shock.
She moved into his arms.
He cupped her head in his hand and held it against his chest. “I love you, Gracie. More than anything in the world.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch about the clemency hearing.”
He held her tighter. “It’s okay.” The warmth of her skin seeped through his shirt. “It’s not important now. I know you’re afraid it might be cancer. And I am, too. But knowledge is power. It might not be anything. If it is, we’ll handle it together. You’re a fighter.”
After they made love and she drifted off, he tucked the blankets around her and, still unable to sleep, returned to the kitchen. He wanted to do something special for Gracie to show her how much she meant to him. Even though he tried to tell her, his mother always said love was action, never just words. “What would you have wanted me to do for you, Laura?” He waited to hear her voice, the way he did in the barn office. But no words came.
Maybe he would surprise Gracie with breakfast in bed. The chrysanthemums were in full bloom. He could cut some blossoms and put them in a small bud vase on her breakfast tray.
As he checked the refrigerator for bacon and eggs, a call from dispatch came in. Skyler Sterling was dead.
The need to weep welled up inside Radhauser’s chest like a balloon. He could feel it inside him, that old wave of sadness, with him for over a decade—that awful awareness that tragedy loomed all around us. He left a note for Gracie, got back into his car and headed to Bryce’s house on Pine Street. Radhauser’s questioning could wait until later in the morning, but he remembered all too well what it felt like to go back to an empty house where a dead child once lived.
Besides, there was something about Bryce. It wasn’t easy to put into words, but in his job Radhauser was forced to deal with so many people whose motives and personal agendas were to deceive, that he was drawn to people who gave him the sense they were simply honest and doing the best they could. Despite the fact he’d lost his temper with Scott, Bryce gave him that sense. But Radhauser was also aware of the possibility he could be wrong.
It was nearly 4 a.m., the sky still dotted with stars, the moon icy white and nearly full when he pulled into Bryce’s driveway. Radhauser’s stomach felt as if he were digesting gravel instead of a cup of hot chocolate. The porch light was on and both living room windows flooded with light.
He stepped out of his car and climbed the stairs onto the narrow porch.
Bent over at the waist, Bryce adjusted something on the screen door.
Radhauser waited for him to look up. When he did, Radhauser touched the rim of his Stetson in a gesture of respect. “I heard about Skyler. I’m very sorry for your loss. May I come inside?”
Bryce loaded his tools back into the red metal toolbox, then stepped aside for Radhauser to enter the house. “I installed a new latch. I should have…” His eyes were red-rimmed.
Once Radhauser stepped inside, Bryce tested the door again. It held, no matter how hard he pushed. “Are you h…h…here to arrest me?”
“No. At this time, we don’t have any reason to think Skyler’s death was anything but a tragic accident. I could have waited until tomorrow to ask you these questions, but I thought you might want some company tonight.” He gestured toward the sofa.
Bryce sank onto the center cushion.
The living room was clean. The tarot cards were stacked neatly on the coffee table, the glass from the broken oil lamp picked up, and everything back in place. Radhauser was glad he thought to take photos when he first arrived. “Are you here alone?”
Bryce nodded. “Scott is still over at Tilly’s. She’s keeping him until morning. I don’t know how I’m going to tell him about Skyler.”
“Where’s his mother?”
“I don’t know. She must still be with Reggie.”
Radhauser sat on the edge of the coffee table, face to face with Bryce. He questioned him slowly and patiently and Bryce repeated everything he could remember about what happened. As he talked, his stutter gradually disappeared. If sadness were a color, it would be a gray-blue band wrapped around Bryce’s muddy voice.
He remembered his watch read 11:45 p.m. when he awakened on the living room sofa, but he didn’t know exactly what time he put the toddler to bed. He said it was earlier than usual because of the difficult day he had with Scott. That Reggie and Henry came by at 7:30 and the kids were already in bed. He didn’t know when he pulled Skyler from his crib or how long before he phoned for help. And he was unsure if he spent minutes or hours trying to resuscitate Skyler.
It didn’t matter. Radhauser had the 9-1-1 call at 12:05 a.m. Skyler was at the Ashland hospital by 12:45 a.m.
What Radhauser knew and Bryce didn’t, was that his final moments with Skyler would stay with him wherever he went. Whatever he did in the future, Skyler Sterling, forever frozen as a toddler, would be there too.
“Did Skyler like to wear a red rubber band on his wrist?”
“No,” Bryce said. “Why?”
“I noticed one when the paramedics loaded him onto the stretcher. I thought it was some kind of medical alert bracelet.”
“I guess I was so frantic I didn’t see it. But it wasn’t there when I gave him his bath and put him to bed.”
Radhauser jotted a note in his book. A little kid with a rubber band around his wrist was no big deal. But if this house turned out to be a crime scene, he never knew what little detail would turn out to be important. He stood. “You’ve been through enough for one night. I may have to ask some more questions later so don’t leave town, okay? I’ll need to talk with Reggie and Dana, too. After we see what the medical examiner finds.”
“The medical examiner? Sk...Skyler will have an autopsy? They’ll cut him open and take out his organs?”
“It’s routine,” Radhauser explained. “The medical examiner investigates all accidental deaths. The physicians at the Ashland Hospital aren’t sure why he stopped breathing. An autopsy might help them find out. Maybe even help some other kid live.”
Bryce walked Radhauser to his car. They stood in silence for a moment beneath the light of a street lamp.
“I thought it was only a seizure, that Skyler would be fine.” Bryce shook his head. “People don’t die from seizures, do they?”
Radhauser paused, his hand on the car door. He pivoted a little to make sure Bryce could see his lips. “Not usually. But as you know he sustained some internal injuries either in the fall down the front stairs or when you tripped over the coffee table. Or both.”
“Either way,” Bryce said. “It’s my fault.”
“Let’s wait for th
e autopsy report,” Radhauser said. “Before assigning blame to anyone.”
* * *
The Jackson County Medical Examiner’s office and morgue was located in Central Point behind the State Highway Patrol Building. It was late afternoon on Thursday by the time Radhauser arrived. The sun wouldn’t set for hours, but dark clouds rolled into the Rogue Valley, keeping the sunlight at bay. He hoped it wasn’t an indication of things to come.
Radhauser hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Bryce. The poor man was torturing himself and Radhauser wanted, more than anything, for Skyler Sterling’s death to have come from a natural cause. From something like an undiagnosed heart defect. Even if the medical examiner ruled the death an accident caused by Scott pushing him down the stairs, or Bryce tripping over the coffee table, he would blame himself.
Though Radhauser had been present for more than his share of autopsies and stopped being squeamish, he purposely came late today, not wanting to witness the post mortem on a child as young and small as Skyler Sterling.
He tapped on the ME’s office door. His name was Steven Heron, but everyone called him Blue. With his tall, thin frame and dagger-like nose, he actually looked like one of the Great Blue Herons that roamed the banks of the Rogue River. His neck was so long and sinuous, it delivered his head into the room before the rest of his body arrived. Heron was a good man, smart as a Rhodes scholar and with a poet’s sensitivity. Radhauser liked Heron, chose to be more respectful, and referred to him only as Heron.
Paying a visit to Heron always brought Radhauser back to his days with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department in Tucson, where the ME, a Dr. Irvin Crenshaw, was nicknamed Melon because of his last name and the yellow tint to his skin. He shook his head and tried the door. It was locked.
Assuming Heron was in the autopsy suite, Radhauser continued down the hallway through a set of swinging steel doors labeled Morgue, then twenty steps further to a single door with a metal plate engraved with the words Autopsy Suite. He stepped into an alcove, dropped his half-filled coffee cup into the trash can, took off his hat and hung it from a hook. He grabbed a green gown and face mask from a stack neatly folded on a metal cart beside the door.
A River of Silence Page 7
