Their Only Child

by Carla Cassidy

  “Sully, I didn’t mean to reopen old wounds,” Donny’s voice was low and apologetic.

  Sully turned around and stared at the man who’d been his partner for over two years. They’d been good together, worked well as two halves of a whole. Where Sully was sometimes impetuous, Donny was methodical. Sully’s street smarts had been enhanced by Donny’s book smarts.

  “You didn’t reopen them, they just haven’t finished healing yet,” Sully finally replied.

  “Sully…I never really got a chance to tell you I’m—”

  “Don’t say it, Donny. You’ve got nothing to feel bad about. I should have known better than to meet Louie in that alley alone. I should have set the meet for another time. You don’t owe me anything.”

  Donny seemed to visibly relax. A smile curved his lips. “But we did have some good times, didn’t we? You still eat those god-awful burritos?”

  Sully returned his smile. “You still like your pizza with little fish on top?”

  Donny nodded. “Remember the case of Sullivan’s stew?”

  A burst of laughter slid from Sully, the laugh sounding rusty from little use. “How could I forget that one?” It had been the crazy kind of case that usually made for humorous television specials. A man had broken into a restaurant via a narrow skylight. He’d dropped to the floor, his foot landing directly in a stew pot. Unable to remove the pot, incapable of crawling back out the skylight with it stuck on his foot, he’d eventually had to call the police to rescue him.

  Sully had made the arrest, and the newspapers had snapped a picture of him leading the man away in handcuffs…the foot firmly entrenched in the metal pot. Sullivan’s Stew, the local headline had read the next morning.

  For the next week, cans of stew had appeared in Sully’s locker and at his desk as his fellow officers razzed him mercilessly.

  The memory caused a bittersweet pang to sweep through Sully. That had been before somebody, one of his brother officers, betrayed him. Crazy thoughts, that was what Chief Lewis had told him when he voiced this particular suspicion. The resulting investigation had turned up nothing but the conclusion that whoever Louie was about to squeal on had shut him up permanently, and Sully had merely been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  In the weeks that Sully spent in the hospital recuperating from the bullet removed from his chest, his suspicions that the shooter had been after him had only increased, as had his instincts that somebody he’d trusted set him up. They were thoughts he hadn’t voiced to anyone but the chief.

  Now, with the passing of time, Sully no longer knew what to think. Maybe Chief Lewis had been right all along, and the instincts that had made Sully such a good cop had deserted him…along with his nerve.

  He leaned his forehead against the cold windowpane, the past fluttering away as the present anxiety returned.

  “We’ll find him, Sully,” Donny said. “If he can be found, I swear to you we’ll find him.”

  Sully nodded and stared out the window, where gem-colored beams of light danced on the frozen ground. None of his past emotional baggage was important right now. What was important was that Eric be found, alive and well.

  It had been a very long time since Sully said a prayer, but standing at the window, staring out into the dark of night, he prayed for Eric.

  “ERIC!” Theresa sat straight up in bed, the dream so real, so tangible, that for a moment she was completely disoriented.

  She stared around her. The hall light sent in a glow that pierced the darkness of the bedroom. Then she remembered…remembered it all…and she squeezed her eyes tightly closed, willing the tears away.

  She refused to cry…to cry somehow felt like an abandonment of hope…and abandoning hope was like forsaking Eric.

  Rolling over on her side, she stared at the digital clock next to the bed. Just after three o’clock. Dawn was still several hours away.

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She had slept, although she hadn’t intended to. She remembered Sully sitting at the edge of her bed, encouraging her to rest for a little while. She didn’t remember him leaving the room.

  She got out of bed and raked a hand through her hair. She walked to the window and peered out into the darkness, her heart crying out in the night. Eric, where are you? What’s happening? Please, God, keep him safe…don’t let him be afraid. She turned away from the darkness, unable to look at it any longer, knowing that her son, her heart, was somewhere out there.

  She left the bedroom and hesitated outside Eric’s closed bedroom door. She placed her hand on the knob, fighting against the feeling that if she flung the door open fast enough, Eric would be there, tucked into bed, safe and sound. Taking a deep breath, she released her hold on the knob, knowing he hadn’t miraculously been restored to her in the hours she slept.

  In the living room, she found Kip Pearson stretched out on the sofa, his breathing deep and regular in the pattern of sleep.

  The perfectly shaped pine tree stood in the corner, naked and sad without the ornaments to turn it into a splendid Christmas tree. They had been going to decorate it that night. Eric loved decorating the tree.

  A light beneath the kitchen door beckoned her, and she welcomed the scent of coffee that drifted out, that spoke of companionship. She didn’t want to be alone. She was afraid to be alone.

  She entered the kitchen and found Sully sitting at the table, a notebook in front of him. He looked up as she came in.

  “Is that coffee fresh?” she asked.

  He nodded. “And strong.”

  She poured herself a cup and sat down across from him. For a long moment, they merely looked at each other. Their past, both good and bad, didn’t matter.

  At this moment in time, they were simply two parents thrust into an unspeakable, an unthinkable, position. She reached across the table, and he met her hand halfway, enclosing hers in his.

  She’d always loved Sully’s hands. They were big and capable, with long, sensual fingers. She’d always believed his hands held some kind of magic. She’d always felt safe, secure, with her hand in his, but apparently the magic had fled with the demise of their marriage, for this time his hand surrounded hers with warmth, but couldn’t banish the fear inside her heart.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked.

  “Donny went home. He’ll be back in the morning. Some of the men left on other calls, others are still looking.”

  “I owe Kip an apology.” She frowned, remembering those moments of rage when she’d seen that the outside lights had been turned off.

  “Don’t worry about it. He’s a big boy. He knows you didn’t mean anything personal. Did you manage to get some sleep?”

  She nodded. “A little, but I had a horrible dream,” she said. “Eric was lost in a dark fog. He was calling for me, but I couldn’t find him.” Sully’s hand tightened around hers. “The fog was so thick. He kept calling, ‘Mommy…Mommy, help me,’ and just when I’d think I was closer…within touching distance…his voice would move further away….” She broke off.

  She couldn’t lose hope. Hope was all she had, and somehow, in losing hope, she felt she’d lose a piece of Eric. “He’s alive,” she said fervently. “I know all about the statistics, I know with each moment that passes the odds are against it, but I know he’s still alive. I feel him here.” She placed a hand over her heart.

  Sully’s gray eyes darkened. “I’d move heaven and hell to find him, but I don’t know where to begin.” He released her hand and jerked himself up out of his chair. “Dammit, this is what I did for years…. I was a cop, and yet I can’t do a damn thing to find my son.”

  His voice was filled with a helplessness that tore at Theresa’s heart. She stood and went to him, put her arms around him. He hugged her tight, burrowing his face in her hair. They clung together like two weary sailors in a storm-tossed sea.

  Despite the fact that it had been almost a year since she was held in his arms for any length of time, immediately her body conformed to the familiarity of hi
s. There was comfort in his very solidness, in the scent of him and the feel of his large hands against her back.

  She suddenly remembered how his hands had rubbed her back and her legs when she was in labor with Eric. Her pains had focused in those areas, and Sully had patiently, lovingly massaged her for hours.

  At that time, she’d felt as if she were as big as a whale, her hair had been limp and sweaty from the hours of hard labor, and yet Sully’s eyes, when he looked at her, had been filled with such love, such utter devotion, when she finally gave birth to Eric. Oh, God, how she wished she could feel indifferent toward him after all this time. How she wished her heart didn’t still ache with the wonder and despair of loving him. Once loving him, she corrected herself as she stepped out of his embrace.

  She refused to get caught up in the misery of loving Sully now. Something had happened to him when that bullet hit him. Not only had it broken ribs and torn muscle, it had also destroyed a piece of him that allowed him to love.

  “So what happens now?” she asked as she sat down at the table again.

  He shrugged. “First thing in the morning, we’ll start circulating Eric’s picture, hanging posters. The police will do more interviews. Somebody had to see something, and all they need to do is connect with that person.” He, too, sat down at the table, his gaze not quite meeting hers. “You know that with every hour that passes the odds are against us that Eric’s just going to call and say he’s lost.”

  Theresa nodded, trying to get beyond her need to scream, clutching to her a numbing shield that she knew would allow her to function most efficiently. “So, if he hasn’t gotten lost, and he’s not lying unconscious in a ditch somewhere, that leaves only one option left—he’s been abducted.” Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her coffee cup. “And that leaves another question…was he taken for a specific reason by somebody we know, or is it a stranger abduction?”

  Sully looked at her in surprise. “You should have been a cop.”

  She forced a thin smile. “I was once married to one.

  Her words fell heavily and immediately created an uncomfortable silence. Theresa sought words to say, words that would create a comfort zone for them both. She needed to feel a connection to Sully, but knew that in the past year their connection had been pared down to a single thing…their shared parenting of Eric.

  She wanted conversation to pass the time, fill the emptiness, but it saddened her to realize she didn’t know what to talk to Sully about…what would be considered off-limits and what topic would be all right. How much they’d lost…how far they’d drifted from one another.

  She watched as Sully left the table and leaned against the counter near the refrigerator. He looked around the kitchen. “You’ve got a nice place here, Theresa. Warm and inviting. It feels like a home.” He moved to the back door and peered out, then turned to face her. “Eric tells me you’re planning on having a patio put in next summer.”

  “Yeah, Eric keeps insisting we need a patio with a cool brick barbecue pit so he can take over the cooking duties in the summer.”

  “Eric’s happy here. He likes the neighborhood, likes this house. He talks about it all the time when he visits me. He’s happy here,” he repeated. “You made a good choice moving here.”

  Theresa stared down at the tabletop. Had she made a good choice? Or had she moved him to a place of danger? If she’d chosen anyplace else on earth to live, would Eric be sleeping safe in his bed at the moment? Had she remained in the midtown condo, would any of this have happened?

  “Don’t.” The single word eased out of Sully. She looked at him in surprise. “Don’t blame yourself, Theresa. This has nothing to do with your decision to live here. It has nothing to do with us or our divorce. We can’t expend valuable energy blaming ourselves.”

  Theresa got up once again and walked to the window. “ Night is the hardest, isn’t it?” she said softly.

  “Night is always the hardest,” he agreed. “Daylight always brings with it endless possibilities. The night seems to hold nothing but emptiness.”

  She turned and looked at him curiously. “Is that why you work the night shift at that bar? So you don’t have to face the empty nights?”

  He smiled without humor. “I work at the bar to pay my bills.”

  She knew he was shutting her out, keeping her from knowing the workings of his heart. He’d become good at that after the shooting, closing himself into isolation. “But…why a bar, Sully? Especially since…”

  “Since I’m a drunk?”

  She flushed. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. It’s common knowledge.” He sighed and raked a hand through his dark hair. “I took the job in the bar to prove that I could work in a place that served booze, and not give in to the need to drink.”

  Theresa felt a ghost of a smile lift the corners of her mouth. “You always were a perverse cuss, Sullivan Mathews.” She turned back to stare, unseeing, out the window, wondering if this night would ever pass.

  ERIC AWOKE from a bad dream. In his nightmare, somebody had put a stinky old rag over his nose and mouth and carried him to a dark and scary place.

  As sleep ebbed, he cautiously opened his eyes and searched for his familiar posters, his hamster, Petey… the night-light that chased away goblins and creepy things in the dark.

  A single high window was on the wall above his head, a window covered with thick boards. Dawn light seeped in between the slats of wood, making tiny patterns on the concrete walls.

  No posters. No Petey. It hadn’t been a dream. It was real. Oh, God, it was real.

  His stomach rolled, and shiver bumps popped up on his skin. He felt just like he had a month before, when he got the flu. His mom had given him peppermint medicine and soda over chips of ice. But he knew with dreadful certainty that his mom wasn’t anywhere around. There was no way she would allow him to sleep in a room so cold, on a bed that smelled yucky and had no sheets.

  His gaze darted around the room. All cement walls and a concrete floor. A set of wooden stairs led up to a slanted door. He knew it was a cellar. His friend Bobby had a cellar, and they’d often play down there, even though Bobby’s mom got mad at them.

  His sense of panic receded as another, more pressing problem appeared. He had to go to the bathroom… bad. He had to go so bad he felt like he was going to explode. But there was no way he was going to wet his pants. He wasn’t a baby anymore. Still, he had to find someplace to go…immediately.

  Once again he gazed around, this time more desperately. The corners of the room were dark shadows holding unknown terrors. He eyed the stairs and the door at the top.

  Cautiously he tiptoed up the seven stairs and tried to turn the knob of the door. Locked. He fought the impulse to bang on the door, scream out the terror that choked his throat. He was afraid to scream, afraid to let anyone know he was awake. He was afraid of who…or what…might open the door.

  He walked back down the stairs and sat on the bottom step, his bladder aching with fullness. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wet his pants, although he’d had an accident in his bed last year, when he was sick and the doctor gave him medicine that made him sleepy. His mom had told him it wasn’t his fault.

  He half turned on the stair where he sat and peered beneath the stairway. That was when he saw it. He knew immediately what it was, because Jimmy Baker and his parents had taken Eric on a camping trip and they had used one for a weekend. A portable toilet.

  It wasn’t until he’d relieved himself that his fear returned. Where was he? Who had put him down here, and why? He stood on the bed and tried to peer out between the boards on the window, but they were too close together to allow him to see out.

  Still, he could vaguely smell the odor of the country and hear insects clicking and chirping. What he couldn’t hear was the noise of any traffic or the sounds he could always hear from his bedroom window.

  Surely his mom and dad would find hi
m anytime now. If it was morning, then he’d been gone a whole day. They probably had a million cops looking for him. His dad had been a cop. He’d find Eric.

  Eric froze when he heard footsteps over his head. Somebody was coming. “Mom?” he whispered hopefully, the sick feeling returning to his stomach. “Mommy?” His voice sounded funny as it bounced off the concrete walls. “Hey, I’m down here! Help me!” His terror released itself in his screams. And he might have gone on screaming forever, if the door at the top of the stairs hadn’t opened, the creaking noise causing him to fall silent. He stared up with a mixture of wild anticipation and horrifying dread.

  A set of legs appeared in his vision, then a body, and finally a head, covered with a black ski mask. Eric pressed himself against the corner, shoving a fist into his mouth to keep himself from crying.

  A man…Eric knew it was a man, but the ski mask hid everything except the glittering eyes. The eyes were scary. They glittered like a cat’s eyes in the dark.

  “Who…who are you? What do you want?” he asked. His voice sounded little and small. “Why are you doing this to me?” To his horror, tears burned at his eyes. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to show that he was afraid. “My mom and dad are gonna kill you if you don’t take me back,” he added, with a burst of bravery that lasted only a moment.

  The man never said a word, and for the first time, Eric noticed that he carried a grocery sack. He set the sack down on the floor, then turned and went back up the stairs.

  “Hey…hey, wait!” Eric cried, terrified of the man, yet more terrified of being left all alone. “Wait…Tell me what’s happening? Why are you doing this?”

  The door banged shut, and Eric heard the click of the lock being turned. He captured a sob in the palm of his hand. He couldn’t cry. Joe Montana would never cry. When the pressure was on, Joe got cool. Joe stayed calm and in control.

  Eric took several deep breaths, eyeing the brown paper sack on the floor. What was in it? What if it was something horrible? What if it was filled with snakes? He didn’t like snakes. He whimpered, able to imagine eel-like creatures slithering over the top, spilling out onto the floor, wrapping around him and squeezing him to death.