The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1)

by A. J. Flynn

  “Can’t you do anything but sit and stare? My life’s going to be destroyed, my business will be flushed down the toilet, and all you can do is sit there and stare at the bowl, for Christ sake.”

  She stood slowly. “I’ll make us a little something to eat.”

  “Eat!” he shouted. “Is there anything you can’t fix with food?”

  She continued toward the kitchen. “Don’t yell at me. I’m not deaf.”

  Harry watched until the door closed behind her, then kicked the ottoman violently, threw himself into a chair, and buried his face in his hands. What made the little bastard sneak out? He asked himself this question over and over. Why couldn’t he have just gone to bed and stayed there?

  Hayley made them sandwiches and cracked open some cans of beer. It was unlikely that either of them were going to be able to eat, but it gave her something to do.

  As she stood over the sink, she could see the house next door and the window where Charlie had climbed out. She’d never liked him all that much, not that she disliked him much either. There just weren’t all that many things she could remember about him. He had been a thin child, and he had worn glasses with tortoiseshell frames. He had been far too self-effacing to make anything close to a lasting impression, so although she was able to picture his form, his face nevertheless remained a persistent void.

  She shook her head, lifted the tray and eased her way towards the living room. Harry was still sitting with his head in his hands.

  He looked up and watched as she set the tray down on the coffee table. “I won’t be able to eat. It feels like there’s a softball in my throat.”

  “Well, you should try anyway.”

  They sat in silence together, each pretending to eat, but really just picking at their food. Finally, they both gave up the pretense and just sat back with their beer.

  After some time, Hayley asked, “Why don’t you call up Lieutenant McPherson and tell her about your record? If you’re certain they’re going to find out for themselves anyway, it might look better if you told them.”

  Harry smiled bitterly. “You don’t know cops. Once a bad guy, always a bad guy.”

  “Even so, it may look better if you told them. After all, cops are human beings, too. And besides, you’ve already paid your debt to society.”

  As she made her suggestion, she shuffled to the window and looked out.

  “There’s a police car at the Turners again. You’d think they might leave them alone, at least for tonight.”

  “Yeah well, that’s cops for you,” Harry snorted. “Stinking pigs…”

  “Oh, Harry,” her voice was sharp as she spoke, “you talk like a cheap hoodlum. You robbed a store and got caught. What did you expect?”

  “That’s my loyal little wife, everybody,” he said sarcastically to no one. “You never could stand the fact that you were the wife of an ex-con, could you? It doesn’t matter to you that I nearly lost my mind staring at those walls all those months. All you ever seem to think about is yourself.”

  “Don’t say that,” she said with a sob. “We needed money, and you did what you thought you had to do.” Her throat was thick as she struggled to stop from crying. Harry hated women who cried.

  “Yeah,” he said dejectedly, “…what I thought I had to do. I might as well have sent the cops an invitation. I didn’t even have enough sense to leave my gloves on, and if that wasn’t bad enough, I went and left my hat behind at the store.”

  “You served your time, Harry. Try to forget it. A robbery is a long stretch to a murder. Let’s try to get some sleep.”

  He smiled weakly. “You go ahead. I’d prefer to stay up for a while and think.”

  She placed her hand on his shoulder and pressed down gently. “Please don’t run away. It wouldn’t do us any good.”

  He patted her hand. “No. I just want to have some time to myself to think. Why don’t you take one of those sleeping pills? You said there was supposed to be a special sale down at the store tomorrow, and it wouldn’t be good for you to be tired on your feet.”

  “Okay, but don’t stay up too late. You have to go to work tomorrow too, you know.”

  She kissed him softly on the cheek and left the room, hopeful that he might conquer the fear that had taken hold of him.

  V

  Sergeant McGill was on the night shift, and as usual he wasn’t happy. He was a widower of ten years and had only two interests left in his life—his job and food.

  Maybe Mrs. McGill had been a poor cook, or maybe he was just one of the last remaining middle-aged men that liked restaurants, but every one of his days had two high points. His large meal before work, and his even larger one after it.

  Everybody within hearing range of him knew that they were in for a bad night, because he had overslept and there had been no time to eat.

  His face always wore a frown, but the four roast beef sandwiches, wrapped in tin foil, sitting in front of him on the desk, were responsible for an even deeper scowl on his jowled face. He was a man who felt that a meal without potatoes was nothing short of a personal insult.

  With a cross gesture, he shoved the stem of his foul-smelling pipe between his thick lips. Everything about him was super sized. His thighs bulged out his pant legs, and he was forced to wear his belt far down below his sizable paunch, giving him a look rather like a penguin.

  He picked up the papers in front of him and, after struggling into a more comfortable position, leaned back in his swivel chair, which groaned in protest.

  As usual, his comfort was short lived. He read a few lines off the report, then lunged forward, banging his desk with a ham-sized fist.

  “Just my damned luck,” he roared. McGill was not a man to keep his feelings tempered. “You know, that stupid bastard had to go and leave behind tire tracks, which means I’ll have to spend the whole damned night wandering around to every overnight gas station and back-woods garage in town.”

  Nobody bothered to answer. By now McGill’s tantrums were just another part of the scenery.

  “Imagine being stupid enough to do a dumb thing like that, and in this day and age! I guess tomorrow he’ll go up to some beat cop and ask where’s a good place to get tires. In the meantime, I got to wear my feet down to the ankles wandering all over town.”

  There was still no reply, so he lifted one of the sandwiches, peeled off the foil and took a huge bite. The bite was so big that he took almost half of it off in one go and was chewing steadily when McPherson came in.

  It was now after eleven and the lieutenant was exhausted, but she knew from years of experience that she would have to wait until the sandwich was finished before she could even attempt communication with McGill.

  She sank into a nearby chair with a sigh and put her feet up. Once comfortably settled, she sat quietly, watching McGill feed himself.

  Irritating as he was, McPherson had to admit that McGill was one of the most hard-working and trustworthy officers on the force. He’d bitch and moan until he was dead, but you always knew that if McGill told you something was done, it was done. He prided himself on not having had a sentimental thought for the last ten years, but McPherson knew that the man had a soft spot for children, and the task of finding a child-killer was sure to gain his co-operation. That was something one police officer could appreciate in another, whether they liked him personally or not.

  McPherson waited, while McGill’s heavy jaws demolished the remainder of the sandwich. When he’d finally gulped the last of it, McGill asked in an almost casual tone:

  “They mess the kid up much?”

  “No. Looks more like someone wanted to keep him quiet, and went too far.”

  “Yeah well, he’s just as dead.” McGill’s eyes were cold.

  “No argument there,” McPherson agreed.

  “I suppose you think I’m looking to wag my tail all over town, questioning the owners of all-night gas stations?”

  “From the little we found, I can’t say there’s much else to do.
”

  “What about the folks you talked to? Were any of them acting suspicious?”

  “Only Valentine. He’s frightened…too frightened. The man looked like he was about to wet his pants.”

  “I’ll look him up.” McGill lifted his heavy body from the chair and continued, “Well, if I have to hang around garages, I might as well get started. What about out of town? Have you called up the state department?”

  “No. I haven’t had the time yet.”

  “Well, I’ll take care of it. I suppose you’re ready to get out of here?”

  McPherson suppressed a smile. The remark was so typical of McGill. He knew perfectly well that McPherson had been on duty since sunrise, but he couldn’t bring himself just to say, ‘Go on home. I’ll take it from here.’ Instead, he insisted on needling her.

  “Yeah, I think I’ll knock off. See you later.”

  McGill grunted and turned to grab his coat.

  McPherson walked slowly down the stairs to the street and picked up her car at the parking lot next door.

  It was no more than a short drive to the big frame rooming house she called home. After she’d parked the car she let herself in through the glass-paneled door and tiptoed carefully up the carpeted stairs. Once in her room, she took off her clothes and quietly crawled into bed. Then, with the relative ease of long experience, she put the day’s problems out of her mind and thought about Liam and their future. A few minutes later she was sound asleep.

  VI

  Robb Johnson paused in the run-down vestibule and glanced up and down the street. He’d told himself hundreds of times that he didn’t care if he was seen, and that whatever he did was his own business, but he had never gotten over the habit of making a quick exit.

  The girl had been like all the others. Not too pretty and not too clean. He had long since given up looking for intelligence in a woman. According to him, the only smart thing a woman could do was hold out until a man was hot enough to marry her, and Lord knew he was one of the billions throughout history that had fallen into that trap.

  Sometimes, if he had the time and was sober enough, he would wonder why he stayed with Claire, considering his great distaste for her.

  When he’d first met her, the kind of remote untouchability about her had driven him wild. He would have signed anything in order to get his hands on her. Even now he could still remember the nights running up to their wedding, when he had lain in bed thinking of how he might teach her about sex and love, about how he might mold her from a girl into a passionate young woman, with eyes that were only for him. Christ, that was a laugh. She had gone from an unknown girl, who was always sick to her stomach, to a woman whose favorite remark was, “Oh don’t act like such an animal.”

  Robb covered the remaining half block to his car with quick steps. He paused behind the wheel in order to light up a cigarette and admire the fine dashboard. It was a large, impressive car, and it never failed to give him pleasure when he looked at it. Sometimes he would feel a twinge of guilt about the cost of it, but a professional car salesman couldn’t be seen driving a junker.

  The powerful motor roared to life, and he eased his way smoothly into the street. Once he was in the lane of traffic, he settled in more comfortably and allowed his thoughts to return to Claire.

  Mississippi was where they had met, and if there was a more godforsaken place in the world, he had never seen it. The sunny south was colder than a whore’s heart, and the people were even colder. From the way they acted, you’d think every guy stationed there had asked specifically to be sent to a lousy state, just so it would irritate them.

  Maybe that was the reason why Claire had looked so good. She’d been a waitress at the time, and while she didn’t fall head over heels trying to be friendly, at least she was civil.

  She had been pretty too. Blonde waves, blue eyes with heavy lashes, and a body that was a shade bit heartier than was fashionable, but there was softness about its curves that shouted female. That was the first thing that hooked him. All that innocence, and the vague promise of what might develop.

  If anything, it sure proved just how wrong a man can be in his own judgement. Like tonight, for instance. She’d be tucked away in bed, breathing in her own special way. It was a soft sound, somewhere between a sniffle and a snore. Her head would look like something out of Greek mythology, with pins sticking out at every angle. Even if by some chance she was still up, she would ask where he’d been so late, and whether he would like something to eat. Then, feeling satisfied that she’d done her duty, she would go back to bed and sleep like a baby.

  In some ways it worked out just fine, though. Once he’d given up trying to make her into a wife, he made up his mind to do whatever he damn well pleased, and nothing pleased him more than frequenting second-rate bars and picking up second-rate women. He especially liked the ones he wouldn’t be able to recognize the next morning. Ladies with class didn’t appeal to him. He felt most at home with loose women who warmed up to him after a few drinks. The self-disgust and guilt he sometimes felt the morning after was just something he tolerated until he could return to them the following evening.

  It surprised him to see that the lights were still on in most of the neighborhood houses as he pulled into his driveway. It was nearly two in the morning, and the people who lived there were usually asleep by now. Even from his own house a blade of light peeked its way through a slit in the heavy drapery.

  He opened the door quietly, mostly out of force of habit, and stepped into the living room, where Claire sat working on her nightly crocheting.

  “Kind of late for you to be up, wouldn’t you say?” he asked.

  She set down her yarn and hurried to help him take off his coat. “Oh, Robb, the most terrible thing just happened. Charlie Turner was murdered.”

  Robb watched as she took his coat to the closet. The drinks were starting to wear off and his head was pounding.

  “Who the hell is Charlie Turner?”

  “The boy from across the street,” she said as she carefully placed the coat upon a hanger, making sure the seams hung down straight. “The police said some man found him out in the woods tonight. Said he’d been strangled.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill a little kid?”

  Claire hurried over to his chair to smooth the crocheted pieces out on the back and arms before he sat down. “That’s what’s so scary. When the police were here, they assured me he hadn’t been molested. They insisted he’d died of strangulation, but I know they were only trying to spare me. It had to have been a pedophile.”

  Robb took a seat and looked at his wife. Murder or not, she’d taken the time to twist pins in her hair and smear goo on her face, and now she was standing there with her mouth compressed into a thin line of disapproval, talking calmly about pedophiles.

  A rush of rage swelled through him that nearly made him sick to his stomach. “There just has to be some dirty old man in it somewhere, doesn’t there?” he asked in a deceptively calm tone.

  Claire stared at her husband in surprise. “Well, it only stands to reason. Charlie was a nice, quiet little boy. He stopped by a few times for cookies, and he wasn’t the sort to cause trouble. For someone to kill another human being, there has to be a reason, unless he’s insane. The police just don’t want to let anybody know, for fear of frightening us.” Her tone was like that of a schoolteacher explaining something to a flunky.

  Robb was so angry his hands began to shake. For a moment he felt like he might even give in to the nausea. In an effort to regain control of himself, he reached for his pipe, but his hand knocked into one of the numerous ceramic statues Claire had scattered all over the house.

  The statue was of a vacuous-faced girl dressed in a hoop skirt, with flowers and ruffles bursting from every possible surface. He stared at it for a moment, his rugged face set in hard lines, then he picked it up and flung it across the room, where it hit the wall and exploded into pieces.

  Smiling, he took in the shards
of clay, then stood up and strode into the bedroom, blithely ignoring Claire’s startled protests.

  VII

  Sleep had been impossible at the Fitts’s. Both Karl and Marla finally gave up trying around three thirty, and got up.

  “I’ll make us some cups of hot chocolate. They might help us sleep,” Marla said softly, so as not to wake the children.

  “Okay,” Karl answered. “I’ll turn up the thermostat.”

  Karl turned up the heat and went to glance out the window at the quiet and still neighborhood.

  For some reason there was something frightening about all the houses. Each seemed like its own small fortress, with everyone huddled inside and on guard. Almost instinctively he surveyed each of the houses separately, measuring the guilt or innocence of the people who had been his friends. Then he turned abruptly, uttering something to himself about how he was acting like a damned fool, and threw himself back on the couch. He closed his eyes and tried to recapture some of the contentment and good feeling that had filled the room such a short time before. He was still lost in his thoughts when Marla entered, carrying twin cups of hot chocolate.

  He looked up at her, his expression appreciative. She was a good-looking woman, not quite beautiful, but pretty. Even with the strain around her blue eyes, and her blonde hair showing a shade darker at the roots, she still made a nice picture.

  She handed him his cup and took a seat next to his feet. They quietly sipped at the rich liquid, until Marla finally broke the silence.

  “Karl, I don’t care what the police say, I want to take the children with me to Mother’s, at least until all this blows over. The strain I feel worrying about them is just too much.”

  Karl sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He had expected this. It wasn’t that he wanted his kids to be exposed to suspicion and fear, it was just that whenever something happened in their lives that needed to be dealt with, Marla’s first instinct was to run back home to her mother’s. Last time he had tolerated two months straight of hysterics before he was finally able to convince her to leave Fullerton, even though the job he was being offered paid nearly twice as much and there was a fair chance of advancement.