Son of the Enemy

by Ana Barrons

  “Let it out. If it’s out then it can’t hurt you.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “The carpet was white…and the blood…” She felt her own blood begin to freeze. “And then Edna was there, of all people, cleaning it up, but there was so much. Oh God, I can’t…I don’t want to.”

  “Who was he? Who was the man? Did you see him?” There was an undertone of urgency to John’s voice. She opened her eyes and reached out to him.

  “No more,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s gone.” As she watched him, the tension slowly drained from his shoulders, and they sagged.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to push so hard.”

  She slipped her hand into his. “Don’t apologize. You were trying to help. I don’t put much stock in dreams anyway.”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “You don’t think the memories are real?”

  “The memory of being with my mother? That part felt very real.” So much so, that now that it was over she felt bereft. “I wish I could remember her better.”

  “What about the other part?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t remember any of it. I mean, I’m sure the blood and all that… Obviously it’s related to her death. But I don’t know what really happened. If I saw anything, it’s gone. It’s a good thing the police didn’t need me to identify the killer.”

  “Did you say your cleaning lady was in the dream?”

  “Edna, yes. She was cleaning up the blood.” And clucking her tongue as though the whole thing were Hannah’s fault.

  “How long have you known her?”

  “Barely a month. She’s filling in for my regular cleaner, Mary.”

  “You don’t like her.”

  Hannah shrugged. “She rubs me wrong. I’m not sure why.”

  He paused, looking thoughtful. “Did you see a therapist soon after your mother died?”

  Hannah turned away and rubbed at her forehead with her knuckle. “I guess I did, I don’t remember.”

  “During the trial, surely the court—”

  “I don’t remember the trial.”

  John gently pulled her hand away from her head and squeezed it. “Don’t you remember anything about that time?”

  Why wouldn’t he leave it alone? “I remember everyone coming to the house. After the funeral, I guess. They were talking about me like I wasn’t in the room. I felt invisible. And numb. Can we not talk about this right now?”

  John looked distracted. “Sure.” He leaned forward, kissed her on the forehead and rolled off the bed onto his feet. “I’ll go fix some coffee.” Yawning and rubbing his hand over his stubbly jaw, he headed into the kitchen.

  Hannah took a shower and let the water flow over her for a long time, trying to blot out the disturbing dream images. When she got out she slipped on a terrycloth robe and called the hospital, only to learn that Christian’s condition hadn’t changed. That wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear, but at least he wasn’t any worse.

  John was staring out the window over the sink when she joined him in the kitchen. Whatever he was seeing, it wasn’t the woods or the tiny lawn outside her cottage. He was somewhere else, either far away or long ago, or both, in a place filled with pain and ugliness. It was all there on his face. She laid a gentle hand on his arm.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He turned to her with a smile that was far too jovial for whatever had been going on his head. “Nothing. That green suits you,” he said, admiring her forest-green robe. “Although I have a suspicion I’d like what’s under it a whole lot better.”

  She stepped back, hurt and unsmiling. “Why are you giving me this cheerful crap? We both know something’s bothering you. If you don’t want to tell me what it is, that’s one thing, but please don’t insult my intelligence by pretending everything’s hunky dory, okay?” She grabbed a mug off a hook and poured some coffee. Her hand was shaking.

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “I don’t like to play games.”

  He laid his hands firmly on her shoulders, turned her to him, then tilted his face to the ceiling and let out a long breath. “You scare the shit out of me, Hannah Duncan.”

  “Because I expect you to be honest with me?”

  “Being honest means being vulnerable.” He framed her face with his hands. “You want honesty? Here it is.” His gaze was clear and unapologetic. “I’m scared to death that if you knew the real me you’d hate my guts.”

  She hadn’t expected that and it shook her. “Hate you? Why would I?”

  “And you want to know something else?” He was gazing into her eyes with a kind of fierce tenderness that she realized was so perfectly John Emerson. “Not making love to you last night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.” Then he wrapped his arms around her so tight, almost as though he was afraid she would slip away, and just held her to him for several beats. He let her go as suddenly as he had grabbed her. “I gotta go.”

  She followed him to the door. When he had his jacket on and his motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm, he turned to her. “Do you often dream about your mother?”

  She would have to add “tenacious” to the list of qualities that defined this man. “I can’t remember the last time I dreamed about her.” A wave of sadness washed over her. “My parents have been on my mind more lately than they have in—” A thought flashed into her mind. “My God. I’m the same age my mother was when she died.”

  A cloud darkened his features. “What time of year did she die?”

  Hannah wrapped her robe tighter around herself. “Right before Christmas. I remember because there were no presents that year. They were all under her bed and—”

  The ring dropping onto the white carpet…I love you, I love you…screaming…blood, so much blood…

  She put a hand to her head.

  “Are you okay?” John asked.

  No! She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It was just such a disturbing dream. And right on the heels of Christian nearly dying. But the part about my mother, it was your lap I was snuggled up on and you that carried me to bed and held me. There are good reasons for all of it.”

  He ran the back of his hand down her cheek. “Let’s leave it there for now. But will you do something for me?”

  “If I can.”

  “I want you to keep a pad and pencil by your bed and write down your dreams as soon as you wake up, especially if they wake you during the night. Will you do that?”

  She had to smile. Geoffrey had asked her to do the same thing. Maybe John had missed his true calling by not sticking with psychology. “If it’s that important to you.”

  “It’s more important than you know.”

  Hannah stood at the window and watched him wheel his motorcycle down the dirt track to the road. She had plenty of time to dry her hair, get dressed and get an early start on her paperwork. She took a long sip of coffee and carried the cup into the kitchen. When the phone rang she cursed, assuming it was a teacher calling in sick. It was Larissa, sounding upset.

  “Did you watch the channel-four news this morning?” Larissa asked.

  “No, why?”

  “Well, you better sit down.”

  Hannah gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, a sinking feeling in her gut. “Just spill it, Larissa.”

  “Well, Ty and his rich daddy made the news, and so did we. Only it wasn’t exactly what I would call good PR.”

  “Shit! What was it?”

  “The news guy with the mustache, what’s his name?”

  If Larissa were in the same room, Hannah would have strangled her by now. “Marvin something. What did he say?”

  “Well, apparently Bradshaw’s supposed to go to court today to testify for that crooked judge, you know? The one who’s accused of taking bribes from drug dealers and stuff? Palmieri?”

  “Judge Andrew Palmieri,” Hannah said. “Oh, yes.” She remembered how outraged the locals had been when Palmieri
had let a big-time drug dealer walk on a technicality. They claimed the dealer had been responsible for the deaths of five teenagers who died in a fiery crash after they’d taken Oxycontin traceable to him. The prosecution had built what everyone had considered an airtight case against the dealer, but Judge Palmieri had found a loophole and let the guy squeeze through it. The parents of those five kids had mounted a crusade against the judge, and were expected to be on hand throughout his trial.

  “So anyway,” Larissa said. “These people are holding up signs outside the courthouse saying the judge is a murderer—no big surprise—but they also have signs saying the key defense witness is a drug dealer.”

  “That’s outrageous!”

  “Yeah, well, they showed a clip of the signs with a picture of Thornton on it, and then the news guy, Marvin, says something about Bradshaw’s son, Ty, being involved in a ‘drug incident’ at the Grange School, where a kid overdosed yesterday.”

  “Good Lord,” Hannah said in disgust. She slumped against the counter. “I’ll bet you anything Bill Smythe leaked that story to embarrass Thornton. And us.”

  “Yeah, well it worked. I was dying, watching that.”

  “Poor Thornton.” Hannah glanced at the clock over the stove and was thankful classes wouldn’t start for another two hours. “As if it weren’t bad enough that his son’s missing.” She shivered. “I just hope to God Ty’s okay.”

  “One of the kids has to know where he is,” Larissa said. “He’s not stupid, and he doesn’t strike me as the kind of kid who’d go sleep in an alley or something.”

  “Not unless he had something to hide,” Hannah said, knowing in her heart that he probably did.

  “And Hannah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I kind of hate to bring this up, but you know that woman who was butchered yesterday?”

  Hannah felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. “What about her?”

  “I swear, when they flashed her picture on the screen…I thought it was you.”

  Philip nearly spilled the coffee down the front of his shirt when he heard what the newscaster said. He and a couple of truckers were the only customers in the tiny convenience store, and he was the only one who seemed to be paying attention to the small-screen TV sitting on a low counter behind the cashier.

  …Bradshaw’s son, known as Ty, was involved in a drug incident at the Grange School yesterday, in which a student overdosed on powerful stimulants. The boy remains in critical condition at Middlesex Community Hospital.

  He recognized the man, Bradshaw, from the Washington Post photo that had led him here several weeks ago. That was the man who was giving so much money to the school. And now he knew the name of the boy he had met in the woods—Ty Bradshaw.

  Excitement wound its way through his gut. He wouldn’t have to go back to that damp hut in the woods. Bradshaw had a lot of money and a lot to lose if the police found out his son had given the other kid those drugs. He patted his jacket pocket, where he had stashed the baggie and the rolled-up fifty-dollar bill with the white powder still on it. He had known at the time it was a good idea to hold on to it, and he had reminded himself of that just yesterday when he had been so tempted to spend it on that necklace he saw in a store window. If he played his cards right, he could buy his Belle as many necklaces as she liked.

  “Hey, mister, you listening to me?”

  He pulled himself from his fantasy long enough to notice the small dark man behind the counter was frowning at him. He allowed himself the briefest image of slicing through the man’s throat, watching the blood spurt out and cover the brown-and-tan argyle vest he was wearing. “Sorry,” he said instead. “I was lost in thought.”

  “You going to pay for that coffee or what?”

  Philip smiled and reached into his pocket for a dollar. Then, on second thought, he grabbed a big blueberry muffin from the display case beside the cash register. He could afford to spend a little more money today.

  Ty felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked awake with a cry. “No!”

  “Hey,” John said. “It’s only me.”

  “Oh, Christ.” The relief was so overwhelming it made him want to cry. “Oh God, oh shit, oh thank you.” Tears ran down his cheeks but he was too happy to care.

  It all came back to him in a rush—the certainty that he was going to die and then the shock when the freak pushed him out instead of dragging him down. Running through the woods, falling, scraping his knees and elbows, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure the guy wasn’t tracking him. Being more scared than he’d ever been in his whole life. Busting the basement window and dropping down into John’s office and making a little nest out of old costumes from the drama department.

  He raised himself up on one elbow and dragged a forearm over his eyes to dry them. Then he noticed the frown on John Emerson’s face.

  “I was planning to clean up the glass,” he said, knowing how lame it sounded.

  “What are you doing here, Ty?”

  It was a simple question, really. But boy oh boy, he sure didn’t want to answer it. It was bad enough he’d had the pee scared out of him without having to tell anyone about it.

  “I didn’t want to go home last night, after…you know, the thing with Christian.” He pushed himself into a sitting position. “Is he…I mean, he’s not…”

  John shook his head. “He’s not dead. I called the hospital a little while ago. But he’s in bad shape.” He looked Ty over. “You don’t look so good yourself.”

  Ty felt the tears start again. Jesus, when had he become such a fucking weenie? “I’m okay.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  Ty shook his head.

  “Well, come on, then.” John stood up and held out a hand. “We’ll get you some breakfast.”

  Ty blinked in disbelief. “Aren’t you going to yell at me?”

  John actually grinned. “On an empty stomach? What do you think I am? Come on, get up.”

  Ty grabbed on to his hand and started to get up when the draft hit his leg and he realized his pants were still wet. He jerked back and banged his head on the table. “Shit!” He rubbed at his head to buy himself some time. What the hell was he supposed to do? No way was he going to tell John he peed his pants, but he couldn’t go out like this. He’d rather put on the ratty old suit pants he’d been using as a pillow than go out smelling like piss.

  “Look, I’ll meet you in the parking lot,” John said, proving that he was either a mind reader or had a damn good sense of smell. He snagged a helmet off his filing cabinet and walked to the door. “Don’t take too long.”

  A few minutes later, dressed in a pair of loose, wrinkled pants, a sweater, a ripped jacket and a helmet, Ty wrapped his arms around John’s waist and tore out of the parking lot on the back of his Harley. It was the first time since Arthur Weiss had left the school that he felt like maybe, just maybe, he was worth caring about.

  Chapter Nine

  John leaned back in the red leatherette booth and sipped coffee while Ty attacked a plate of bacon, sausage, eggs, home fries and toast. He caught the middle-aged waitress’s attention and pointed to the empty glass of orange juice sitting by the boy’s elbow. She came back with the juice and filled John’s cup with fresh coffee, earning her a wide smile and a flirtatious wink.

  Ty finally finished eating, leaned back and belched. “Ah, that was good.”

  “When was the last time you ate?” John asked.

  Ty shrugged. “I got something out of the vending machine at school yesterday, before…you know.” He picked up the tray of jams and proceeded to stack the little plastic squares with great precision.

  John waited.

  “The police have probably already talked to my dad,” Ty said without looking up from his building project. “I wonder if they’ll, like, search my room and stuff.”

  “They’d be hard-pressed to get past your father, with or without a search warrant.”

  “He’s going to kill me for emb
arrassing him, you know, with the police. Or God forbid, if anybody else hears about it.” A thought seemed to strike him then, and his face fell. “If I get busted again they’ll put me in juvie. And if Christian— I could go to jail, right?” He glanced up at John with a bleak expression that John found startling in its familiarity—he’d seen it countless times in his own mirror at Ty’s age.

  John leaned forward and crossed his forearms on the table. “Listen to me carefully.” He waited until Ty was making eye contact before he continued. “I’m assuming there are no drugs on you now, okay? Just like there won’t be when you come out of that restroom over there.” He nodded toward it. “Do you understand?”

  Ty’s blue eyes were wide and moist. He nodded slowly.

  “I’m also assuming there are no traces of drugs in your room or anywhere else in the house or on your property. No stems, no seeds, no roaches, clips, papers, mirrors. Nothing. Are you following me?”

  “I think so,” Ty said hoarsely.

  “So there would be no reason why you would have to tell anyone, including me, that you’re in possession, so no one would ever be in a position to give you advice that might be considered unethical, or even illegal.” He sat back. “That worry will be gone from your mind, and your father will probably let you live.”

  Ty gave him a shaky smile. “And the cops won’t have any reason to arrest me.”

  “Right. And I won’t have any reason to kick your bony little ass around the block.”

  Ty stared at him. “You’d really kick my ass?”

  John leaned forward until his nose was only inches from Ty’s. “You want to find out?”

  Ty slid from the booth and stood. “No way.” He backed toward the restroom. “No thanks.” There was fear in his expression, but John could see right through it to the relief in the boy’s eyes.

  Somebody gave a shit.

  Ty entered the house through the kitchen and literally tiptoed up the back steps to his room. The first thing he had to do was get rid of every bit of dope he had in there, if he could remember where he’d stashed it all. He pushed the door open and was greeted by a strong lemony smell—some kind of cleaner. The carpet had been newly vacuumed, his bed was made, his clothes picked up. It didn’t look like his room at all. What the hell was going on? Nobody ever touched his room unless he said it was okay. It was his sanctuary, and up until now it hadn’t been breached. He’s gone one night, and they come in and sanitize the place?