Silent Slaughter

by C. E. Lawrence

  “What can I get you?” asked the pixyish girl behind the counter. Her dark bangs came to a perfect point in the center of her forehead, and a pair of silver lip rings adorned the left side of her mouth. Her eyes were dark and heavily kohl-lined, and she wore a multicolored wool vest, obviously hand-knitted. He guessed she was a Solebury student, probably a senior art major.

  “Coffee, please,” he said, inhaling the deep, rich aroma of an African roast. His mother was a fine cook, but she’d never quite gotten the hang of making good coffee. Spotting a pay phone on the back wall, Lee took his coffee to a small corner table and dug a handful of coins from his pocket. First he dialed Butts’s cell phone and reached his voice mail. He left a message telling the detective that he would drive back to the city as soon as the roads were cleared.

  Then he dialed the voice mail to his own cell phone. When the recording told him he had two messages, he entered the four-digit code and waited. He heard the crackling sound of bad reception, then Brian O’Reilly’s voice.

  “I didn’t hear the (crackle) . . . this thing recording?”

  He covered his other ear and listened intently. The connection was bad—not on the pay phone but between O’Reilly and his cell phone. The detective’s voice came in and out, so that what he heard was: “. . . thought of something. . . might be . . . sister . . . if you get this . . . I’ll be here.”

  The message ended in the sputtering of a bad connection; then a recording came on, ordering him to put more money into the pay phone.

  “Damn,” he muttered, his hand trembling as he fumbled for more coins. He slid a couple of quarters into the slot and listened to the next message. It was from Kathy. This time the reception was better.

  “It’s me,” she said, sounding both forlorn and irritated. “Look, I—I just want to say that I’m sorry if I’m being a jerk about this. I’m just not sure, okay? About anything, I guess. I just . . . oh, I don’t know. I suddenly wanted to hear your voice. But you’re not there, so—guess I’ll catch you later.”

  He deleted the message; he didn’t need to deal with her right now. He wanted to know what Brian O’Reilly had said. He pressed the button to repeat the message again, but he caught even less the second time. A burst of laughter from the table of plow drivers obscured O’Reilly’s words. He put his finger into his other ear again and played it a third time, with no improvement. There was no way to tell when O’Reilly had called; cell phones were notoriously slippery about giving the time messages were recorded.

  Behind him, one of the drivers, a short, black-haired man with tobacco-stained fingers, was waiting to use the pay phone, so he pressed the button to save the message and turned the phone over to the plow driver.

  He returned to his table, where his neglected coffee sat cooling. He took a sip. It was good, but he had lost his interest in coffee. What he wanted more than anything was to know what Brian O’Reilly had said. His hand closed around his useless cell phone in his pocket. O’Reilly’s number would be on it, but that did him no good unless the phone was charged. His number was unlisted, and Lee didn’t want to hit up his source in the NYPD for the number a second time. He cursed himself for neglecting to bring the charger with him to the store.

  Gulping down the rest of his coffee, he headed for the exit—maybe the electricity was back on at his mother’s house. A blast of cold air hit him in the face as he opened the door to the outside. Inside, another burst of laughter was cut abruptly short as the storm door slammed behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Driving back on River Road, Lee felt a sense of urgency and tried to compensate by driving more carefully. The sun had melted the top layer of snow into a surface of slick ice, and he coached himself to slow down, but a gnawing in his stomach and a tightening in his right temple urged him on. Too much damn coffee, he told himself, but it was more than that. He needed to be back in the city, and with miles of snow-packed roads between him and his goal, his impatience grew with every passing minute.

  The snow was beginning to topple from the branches now, as the heat of the sun made it wetter and heavier. The wind had picked up too, blowing great clouds of white mist across the road, obscuring it from view.

  “Christ,” he muttered, shifting into low gear as he crept around a curve in the road. His cell phone let out an abrupt beep, and he swerved, startled by the sound. The rear tires lost their traction, sliding on the smooth surface of the road, and suddenly the car was traveling sideways.

  Dimly recalled driving advice darted through his head: pump the brakes, and turn in the direction of the skid. But what did that mean? Should he pull the wheel toward the direction the rear tires were headed in? Pumping the brakes, he wrested the wheel toward the center of the road, to avoid having the car swing in a full circle. It worked—to some extent. The rear of the car swung back in the other direction, but now the car was headed toward the opposite guardrail. He steeled himself for the impact, keeping his hands firmly on the wheel. He was grateful there were no oncoming cars as he braced his body for the impact.

  The sound was louder than he expected. It rang like the report of a rifle through the wintry air, startling the stillness of the postcard landscape. His body was protected by the shoulder harness, but his head rapped sharply against the steering wheel with a thunk. Dazed, he sat staring at the snow cascading down from the tree branches overhead. He felt the ripple of adrenaline, thin and cold, as it drained from his veins. It was followed by a welcome sensation of relief that turned his limbs to lead and made him suddenly sleepy. He could see the Delaware through the thin layer of trees, the slate gray water sluggish, pockmarked with swirling currents and eddies. His anxiety melted like the top layer of snow in the afternoon sun, and peace settled over him like a blanket. He wanted nothing more than to stay there, in the warm car, staring at the river.

  Just then he realized the car was sprawled over one lane of the road—anyone taking the curve too fast would surely hit him. He reached for the gear shift, his hand shaking. He put it into Reverse and pressed tentatively on the gas pedal; the rear drive wheel spun a little before gaining traction. The big car backed obediently into the road, the eight-cylinder engine humming quietly. He straightened up and pulled over to the side as much as possible, given the drifts of plowed snow along the road. He put on the emergency flashers and stepped out to view the damage.

  When the frosty air hit his face, he was seized by a wave of dizziness, and he leaned on the door handle until it passed. To his relief, there wasn’t much damage to the car. There was a dent in the front bumper, and a deeper one in the metal guardrail, but other than that, the car looked sound enough. He sighed a prayer of relief for his mother’s old-fashioned ways; the Ford’s sturdy bumper barely showed any damage at all. She was right when she said they didn’t make cars like they used to. As he slid into the driver’s seat, it occurred to him that maybe the same thing was true of mothers. For better or worse, Fiona would always be Fiona.

  He looked behind him to see if there was any oncoming traffic; not a single car had passed since his collision. Just as he was about to pull back onto the road, his cell phone chirped again. He snatched it from the dashboard and looked at it, wondering why it had suddenly come to life. The metal was warm to the touch. It had been sitting in the sun for some time now, the heat intensified by the effect of the car’s windshield. The battery must have revived a little, he thought as he flipped it open.

  There was a new text message from Butts: CALL ASAP.

  He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and considered whether he should go back to Lumberville or continue on to his mother’s and hope her power had been restored. He decided to continue on. He swung the big car back onto the road, the packed snow crunching under its heavy tires. Gritting his teeth, he peered at the road ahead, forcing himself to crawl along at twenty miles per hour.

  He maintained that speed all the way to his mother’s house. When he arrived, he saw Fiona, in a bright red parka, shoveling the fro
nt walk. He pulled into the parking spot and sprang from the car. Another wave of dizziness swept over him, and he almost fell, but he caught himself by leaning on the hood of the car.

  “Mom!” he called to her. “Why don’t you leave that for Stan or me?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she puffed, heaving a shovelful of snow over her shoulder. “It’s good exercise, and you have enough to do. Besides,” she said, with a sweep of her gloved hand, “Stan already cleared the path. I just want to make it wider.”

  He started to argue but realized it was no use; at the same moment he was hit by a wave of nausea. He took two steps, sank to his knees and vomited. Dazed, he stared at the steam rising from the coffee-colored contents of his stomach splattered over the pristine white snow.

  He looked up to see his mother standing over him, her cheeks blazing from the cold and exertion. She looked worried.

  “What on earth happened to you?” she asked, reaching down to touch his forehead.

  He drew back, his skin tender to the touch, and raised his own hand to feel the egg-shaped lump rising from his head.

  “Shit,” he said.

  He was so concentrated on trying to reach Detective Butts that he had forgotten hitting his head on the steering wheel. Two things were immediately clear to him:

  1. He had a concussion.

  2. He wouldn’t let it slow him down.

  He looked up at his mother. She was leaning on her snow shovel, her breath coming in thin white gusts. He paused; he wanted to make sure whatever lie he formulated was a good one before speaking.

  But she was too quick for him.

  “You have a concussion, don’t you?” It was an accusation, not an expression of sympathy.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “I just drank too much coffee, and it upset my stomach.”

  “And this?” she demanded, pointing to the bump on his head.

  That was going to be harder to explain, he thought as he rose unsteadily to his feet. But he was determined to get back to the city as soon as possible, even if it meant taking the bus. Whether he had a concussion or not, Butts needed him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  His mother followed him into the house, clucking and scolding, shaking her head when he asked to use the phone.

  “You know, one of these days you’re going to just—” she began.

  “Please,” he said. “It’s important.”

  “Of course you can use the phone, if it’s working. But you’d better lie down and rest before you faint dead away.”

  “I will,” he lied. “I just need to make a couple of calls.”

  She went into the kitchen and returned with a package of frozen peas wrapped in a towel.

  “Put this on your head,” she said. “It’ll help with the swelling.”

  There was no point in arguing. He went to the phone extension in the living room and picked up the receiver. To his relief, the phone line was working, though it sounded scratchy. He called Butts, got a busy signal, then dialed Brian O’Reilly’s number. A woman picked up on the second ring.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Lee said. “I must have the wrong number.”

  “Are you trying to reach Brian O’Reilly?” Her voice was low and thick, as if she had been crying.

  “Uh, yes. I—”

  “Brian is dead.”

  The news hit him like a body blow. He took a step backward and sank into the armchair next to the couch.

  “What? What happened?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Well, what—”

  “Are you a friend of Brian’s?”

  “My name is Lee Campbell. I’m—”

  “I know who you are. I’m very sorry about your sister. Brian wanted more than anything to find out what happened to her.”

  “I know. I—I saw him just a couple of days ago.”

  “Then tell me something. Did he seem suicidal to you?”

  “Well, no—depressed, maybe, but not—”

  “The police say it was suicide.”

  Just then Kylie wandered into the room, carrying Fiona’s big, ill-tempered tabby, Groucho. The cat was growling and trying to break free, but Kylie had him in a half nelson.

  “Who are you talking to?” she demanded, with the tactless directness of a child. She was still wearing her pink flannel pajamas, and her uncombed blond hair shot out in all directions in wispy cowlicks. Lee was surprised his mother was allowing this, but maybe she was treating her granddaughter delicately, hoping to stop her self-destructive behavior.

  Lee covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “I’m on a business call, sweetie,” he said.

  “Why are you wearing peas on your head?”

  His hand went up to the package of peas, which he had placed on top of his head when he sat down. He had completely forgotten about them.

  “This is to help with the bump on my head. Do you mind playing with Groucho in the other room?”

  Kylie shrugged. “Okay. I think he wants to watch cartoons. Do you, Groucho?” she asked, nestling her face close to his. The cat responded by throwing a left hook in the direction of her cheek, but she was quick, pulling away in time to avoid the flying claws. She tightened her hold on him and padded into the parlor.

  “I’m sorry,” Lee said into the phone when Kylie had gone. “That was my niece.”

  The woman sighed, or shuddered, or maybe it was a sob; he couldn’t tell.

  He lowered his voice. “I need to . . . are you Brian’s—”

  “I’m his sister.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know he had a—I really didn’t know very much about him.”

  “Nobody did. That’s the way he wanted it.”

  “Can we—can I see you when I get back to the city?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks—I’ll call you.”

  “Good. I have to go—I have a lot of calls to make.”

  “Can I just—what’s your name?”

  “Gemma.”

  “Thanks, Gemma.”

  He was about to hang up when he heard the beep of call waiting. He clicked the receiver once and answered it.

  “Hello?”

  Detective Butts’s growl of a baritone came ringing through the phone line, as clearly as if he was standing next to Lee.

  “Oh, man, I’m glad I got you. Your cell phone is bouncin’ straight to voice mail.”

  “I know. The storm—”

  “Sorry to track you down at your mom’s, but we got another body.”

  “Oh, God. Where was she—”

  There was a buzzing sound, a series of clicks, and the line went dead again.

  “Damn,” he muttered, slinging the receiver back into place. “Goddamn it!”

  His mother appeared in the doorway, her arms folded. “Please don’t swear in front of your niece,” she said icily.

  He stood up, swayed a little and caught himself on the back of the chair.

  She scowled at him. “Am I going to have to tie you down to prevent you from doing something foolish?”

  He started to explain, but the room took his head for a little spin, and he had to sit down again. His head was beginning to pound.

  “I’m going,” he muttered. “Even if I take the bus, I’m going back to the city, now.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said airily as she left the room—but he knew he would have hell to pay later.

  Lately, it seemed, there was a lot of hell to go around.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Hunterdon County buses were running on a cut-back schedule, but there was one leaving at four o’clock that afternoon for New York. Fiona gave up trying to make him stay and agreed to return his rental car in Somerville, the nearest large town, where there was an Enterprise office. Of course, Stan Paloggia was only too delighted to help. He had come and gone twice already since Lee had returned from Lumberville—once to deliver mail from Fiona’s mailbox at the end of the long driveway, and the other to bring coffee and Danish from Errico’s
Market, which was giving out hot coffee to everyone who had lost electricity in the storm. Fiona’s house had power, but any excuse for a visit would do for Stan. Afterward, he chugged off in his John Deere to find someone else in need, humming tunelessly to himself, his nose red and dripping from the cold. Lee had never seen him happier.

  Kylie spent the afternoon sledding with her friends Meredith and Angelica before going over to Angelica’s house for hot chocolate and video games. Lee stood at the kitchen window listening to the shrieks of glee from the girls as they piled on top of one another on his old Flexible Flyer, wobbling unsteadily down the hill leading to the springhouse until one of them fell off, amid more squeals and giggling. He swallowed a couple of ibuprofen to control the drumming in his head and gulped down a couple of glasses of water. For some reason, he was very thirsty.

  Listening to the girls, he found it hard to believe his niece was struggling with the kind of issues that lead to self-mutilation. To his eyes, she looked like a normal, happy little girl. Before she left for Angelica’s house, she wrapped her arms around him in a bear hug and planted a kiss on his cheek.

  “Thank you for coming to my concert, Uncle Lee.”

  He nestled in the warm scent of her hair, inhaling the fresh smell of the woods.

  “I really enjoyed it. I’m so glad you’re enjoying music; it’s something we share.”

  She pulled away and looked at him searchingly for a moment. “Fiona says my mom liked music too.”