Unspoken Fear

by Hunter Morgan

  * * *

  The knock at the door startled Pam; she sat up on the couch and ran her hand through her hair, pushing it out of her eyes. Had Ed forgotten his keys?

  She didn't think she had locked the front door.

  She hadn't heard the Harley pull into the driveway. She knew she'd been dozing, but she must have been sleeping harder than she thought not to hear that racket.

  The knock came again, and she rose off the couch. "I'm coming," she called, pleased he was back. So maybe there was some hope for the guy after all.

  Pam opened the door and was surprised to find that it wasn't Ed at the door after all. "Hi," she said uneasily. It had to be close to midnight. She knew the visitor—must have been having car trouble or something. "Can... can I help you?" she asked, stepping down onto the first cinder block step as she reached up to push her hair out of her eyes again.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the baseball bat as it came around. She gave a little cry of fright, of confusion, and then her head felt as if it had exploded. Pain shot from her temple, through her eyes, and down her spine. She threw out one hand to catch herself as the bat came around again.

  Pam felt herself lose her balance and begin to fall; there was no way to avoid the second strike. As the baseball bat made contact with her head and the side of her face, she heard bones shatter, making a sickening, crunching sound. The pain was excruciating, yet the only thought that went through her mind as she tumbled off the steps to the ground was of Amber. "Please God, protect her," she prayed as she hit the dirt and her life dissolved into darkness.

  * * *

  Ed saw the flames as he came around the bend in the road, and his chest tightened in fear. "Holy shit," he muttered. Was the damned trailer on fire?

  He hit the gas, and as he turned the corner off the blacktop, he nearly spun out in the soft, sandy driveway. It wasn't the trailer on fire. Something was burning on the ground in front of it.

  Sand and grass spewed upward as he slid to a stop, leaping off his bike. Whatever was burning smelled god-awful, like nothing he'd ever smelled before. "Pam!" he called seeing the open door. "Pam, you all right?"

  He halted near the bottom step that led up into the trailer. For a moment, he couldn't figure out what the hell he was looking at; it was like he knew but what he saw wasn't registering in his brain. When he realized what was burning, bitter bile rose in his throat, and for a minute he thought he was going to upchuck.

  "Oh, shit. Oh, God," he murmured, taking a step back.

  It was a body, black and smoking, fabric melted to the skin, still flaming. Not some thing burning. Someone.

  Ed covered his mouth with his hand as he stared into the flames where a piece of blue fabric fluttered, unburned. It took a moment for him to realize what the blue was. Whose it was.

  "Pam!" he screamed covering his head with his hands in horror. "Oh, God, no, oh, God." He knew she was dead already. She wasn't moving, not making a sound. No one could survive that.

  How could she have done such a thing to herself? How was it even possible?

  Then, suddenly, he thought of Amber. Amber and her blond curls, asleep in the house. God let her still be asleep in the house. "Amber!" he cried, taking the steps two at a time.

  He ran through the living room where the TV was still on, shadows and light flashing on the curtains behind the couch. His pounding footsteps echoed in his head as his boots hit the thin, stained carpet. The hallway was short, but it seemed like it took forever to get down to the end. He threw open the flimsy bedroom door, and even in the dark he could see Amber's still form.

  He threw himself down on the bed grabbing her up. He had to know if she was alive. She made a little sound and opened her eyes with surprise. Tears running down his face, he slid onto the edge of the bed holding Amber tight against him, and rocked back and forth.

  Chapter 8

  Noah walked into the kitchen to find Mallory and Mattie eating stacks of Mrs. Santori's hotcakes. "Morning," he said, coming up behind Mattie and messing up his hair.

  Mattie looked down at his hotcakes without smiling, but Noah could tell he was pleased by the attention.

  "Hello, Mr. Noah." Mallory looked up at him with a grin, syrup dribbling from both sides of her mouth. "Did you sweep good?"

  "I slept quite well, thank you," he answered, amused that she could behave so adultlike at times. "And you?"

  "Quite wewll, thank you," she mimicked, and then stuffed another forkful of hotcakes into her mouth.

  At the kitchen counter, he poured himself coffee in the mug left out for him. Mrs. Santori always left two mugs on the counter. Rachel was up; he'd heard the upstairs shower running more than an hour ago, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  Mrs. Santori bustled out of the pantry. "Hotcakes on the table," she told him, a frozen chicken in her hands. "Fried chicken, asparagus, potato frittata for dinner."

  "Thanks. Sounds good. I'll get myself some hotcakes in a minute." He sipped his steaming black coffee. "Mallory, where's your mama?"

  "Outside in the garden," she said, her mouth full. "Burying something."

  He frowned. "Burying something? Something die?"

  She shrugged and stabbed at another piece of hotcake.

  Noah nodded curiously. "I think maybe I'll go out and see what she's doing. After breakfast, I'm heading out to the Chancellor field to tighten some trellis wires. I might be able to use some help."

  "I'll help!" Mallory declared, raising her fork. She looked at Mattie. "Mattie says h 'w hewlp too."

  "Oh, he says that, does he?" Noah lifted a brow, taking another sip of coffee. Everything the little girl said to him amazed him, amused him, or made him curious about her or her mother. He found her to be a bright light against the darkness inside him. "Funny, I didn't hear him say a word."

  She made a face, wrinkling her freckled nose. "He said it."

  Noah looked askance at her. "I've never heard Mattie say a word and I've known him my whole life."

  She shrugged as she picked up her juice box. "Maybe you're just not wistenin'."

  Not certain if she meant that literally or philosophically, Noah chuckled and walked out of the kitchen, onto the porch, and down the stairs. As he walked around the house, he noticed the overhead door on the shed next to the garage was open. Inside, he could see the lawn tractor parked crookedly. The previous night when he'd put it away, he knew that wasn't how he'd left it. Pretty early in the morning for Rachel to be using the lawn tractor....

  He found her out in the garden, her coffee mug sitting on the edge of one of the raised-bed salt-treated frames. Dressed in a lavender T-shirt, a pair of calf-length pants that had apparently become the rage while he was in prison, and a pair of sneakers, she was busy raking a bed that was dark and moist with freshly turned soil. Her hair, pulled back in a high ponytail, appeared to still be damp from the shower.

  A picture of her naked in the shower crossed his mind, surprising him. It had been a long time since those kinds of thoughts had wandered through his head. "Hey," he said lightly.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, then back at the bed she was dragging a light rake through. She'd built them the perfect size, four-foot by eight-foot and a foot off the ground so that any plant could be reached without stepping into the bed. "Hey."

  "You're at work early."

  She shrugged and continued to rake. "Couldn't sleep."

  "More bad dreams?"

  "I took enough Benadryl last night to knock out a pony. Still didn't sleep well."

  "What are you burying?" He indicated the freshly turned soil with a nod of his chin.

  "What?" She set down the rake, turning to him.

  He picked up her coffee cup and handed it to her, his fingers brushing hers. It was a simple gesture but somehow seemed intimate in the cool morning air. "Your daughter told me you were out here burying something."

  She sipped her coffee. "I'd be smarter digging for something, buried treasure or China, maybe."
<
br />   He half smiled, glancing away. It felt good to be here with her, alone in the early morning when there seemed to be more possibilities in the world than there had been last night. He'd made it through another day without drinking... or killing anyone. Had to be a good start on the day.

  "You out mowing or something this morning?" He reached up to pluck a fallen leaf from between the branches of a dwarf apple tree on the edge of the garden area.

  "No."

  "The tractor." He hooked his thumb in the direction of the shed. "I saw you'd moved it."

  She shook her head, looking at him oddly. "No, I didn't. I was going to ask you where you'd been."

  "I haven't been anywhere. I parked it last night after supper. You saw me."

  His tone sounded convincing even to himself, but as he spoke, the thought crossed his mind that maybe he had been somewhere last night. Maybe he'd had a blackout as he was dozing off and just couldn't remember.

  "Hmm," she intoned as she lifted her stoneware mug to her mouth again. "Pretty bad parking job, bub."

  He wanted to insist he hadn't left it parked that way, but his niggling doubts made him just change the subject. He didn't want Rachel to know he was still suffering from blackouts after five years of sobriety. "I told Mallory and Mattie that I was going out to the Chancellor field to tighten up some trellis wires. I thought they could like to tag along, if that's ok with you."

  She hesitated for a moment, and he couldn't help wondering if she was considering whether it was safe to leave her child in his care. It made him feel small.

  "Sure. That's fine, I guess. Just keep an eye on Mallory. She likes to wander away." She set down the mug and picked up the rake again.

  He nodded, getting the distinct feeling he was being dismissed. Rachel had been that way all week, ever since the night they'd sat in the hallway on the floor in the dark. One minute it would seem to him that she was trying to reach out to him, the next minute she was definitely blowing him off.

  He started to walk away, then turned back. "Hey, you need anything from town? I've got an AA meeting this afternoon."

  She shook her head without turning to face him. "You want a ride in?"

  "No. I've got my trusty tractor," he said, trying to make a joke of it.

  She didn't laugh. "Whatever."

  He walked away, wondering what was up with her this morning.

  * * *

  "Holy Mary, Mother of God," Delilah whispered, her voice ragged.

  "Take deep breaths." Snowden spoke quietly, standing over the body. "Try to breathe through your mouth rather than your nose."

  Delilah felt as if she was going to be sick, but she couldn't look away. She'd never smelled anything so horrendous, never seen anything so unspeakable. The young woman—charred black, posed gruesomely, her limbs drawn in to her torso in a fetal position—barely looked human any longer.

  "Anyone move the body?" Snowden glanced at the paramedic standing closest to him.

  "No, Chief. On arrival, we checked for a pulse, but we didn't move her. No need to. She's been dead a couple of hours from what the boyfriend said."

  Delilah took a step back, gritting her teeth, swallowing hard. "He inside?"

  "Yes, ma'am." The paramedic flashed a quick smile at her.

  He was cute. Name was Jason, Jason Cline. She'd met him a couple of times before, but she wasn't in the mood for flirtation. Certainly not standing at the feet of the charred remains of a twenty-seven-year-old woman.

  "I say we go talk to the son-of-a-bitch boyfriend" she murmured under her breath.

  Snowden waited until she walked around the steps to mount them and then put out his hand to stop. "Sergeant," he said quietly.

  She swallowed again, halting, staring at the cement blocks that were crumbling at the edges. Tears burned behind her eyelids, but she remained dry eyed.

  "We need to remain objective," he reminded her, his voice surprisingly kind. Gentle.

  "I know."

  "We have no idea, at this point, what we're looking at."

  "I know that," she intoned, fighting to get control of her emotions.

  "We don't know that he did this. It could even be a suicide." His hand remained on her forearm.

  She looked up at him, her temper taking over. "Then why the heck did he wait until six-thirty in the morning to call 911? Can you tell me that, Chief?"

  "We're going to ask him." Snowden still remained calm and collected. "Now, are you ready for the initial interview or would you be more comfortable out here running this circus?"

  She glanced up to see that the yard was teeming with commotion—cop cars, both state and local; paramedic vehicles; an ambulance; and even a fire truck. There were police and emergency personnel everywhere, everyone talking at once, traipsing through her crime scene.

  "I'm goin' with you, boss," she said drawing out the last word with a thick Georgia accent.

  He gave a nod, dropping his hand to his side. "That's fine, just let me lead."

  She looked up at Snowden, about to ask why she couldn't interview him, when she realized what he was saying. Biker dude inside, tattoos, Harley in the yard and all. What was more intimidating, a five-foot-two blond police chick or a six-four black man? "Fine," she murmured.

  Snowden led the way up the stairs, knocked on the doorway—the door was standing open—and walked in without waiting for an invitation. "Mr. Parson?"

  "Here," Delilah heard a man say from the right.

  The trailer was dim, but the moment she stepped foot inside, she saw a burly guy dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a black leather vest sitting at a cheap set of table and chairs in the kitchen. She noticed a tattoo of an eagle on one of his arms. The biker boyfriend, had to be. Across the table from him sat a little girl in her pajamas, slowly spooning Cheerios into her mouth.

  "I'm Chief Calloway—"

  "I know who you are. You ticketed me twice last year," the man grumbled.

  "Sergeant Swift," Delilah announced, taking a look around.

  The trailer was old and the furniture had seen better days, but the place was as neat as a pin. No dirty dishes in the sink like at her place. Nothing on the counters or the table except for the usual: salt and pepper shakers, flour and sugar canisters, a blue glass cookie jar that looked like Cookie Monster.

  In the living room behind her was a worn plaid couch and a beat-up coffee table with a couple of accounting textbooks and a notebook on it. Across from the couch were a mismatched recliner and a large TV, by far the newest piece of furniture in the place. On the floor near the couch sat a laundry basket of neatly stacked clothes, and it immediately caught her eye. Most of the clothes were folded in the basket, except that there were a couple of pairs of boxer shorts and men's colored pocket T-shirts that looked as if they'd been balled up and thrown on top of the folded clothing. It appeared to her as if the woman had done laundry and the boyfriend had come by and thrown stuff on top. Had the boyfriend been doing some early morning laundry, she wondered, making a mental note to collect the clothes for trace evidence.

  "Would you like to come into the living room?" Snowden glanced at the little girl.

  The boyfriend seemed hesitant, but he nodded. "You sit tight and eat your Cheerios, Amber," he told the little girl.

  She continued to chase the last of her cereal around in the bowl with her plastic spoon.

  Snowden and Delilah entered the living room. The man walked past them, around the coffee table, and took a seat on the couch. He lowered his head for a moment, covering his face with his hands.

  Delilah noted two empty beer cans beneath the couch.

  Too much to drink? A fight that got out of hand? The guy seemed sober enough now, but they had no time of death on the victim yet. She could have been dead close to twelve hours for all they knew. Plenty of time to sober up.

  "Could I have the full name of the decedent?" Snowden asked, taking a small notebook and black pen from his breast pocket.

  "I don't even know if it's her,"
the boyfriend snapped. His voice changed, and for a moment he sounded as if he might cry. "But it's got to be. Her T-shirt—" He lifted his head. "Pamela Jean Rehak."

  "And your name, sir?"

  "Ed... Edward Parson."

  "And your relationship to Miss Rehak?"

  "I'm her old man. Her... boyfriend, I guess. I live here too."

  "The little girl?" Snowden continued to jot in his notebook.

  "Amber Marie Rehak. God." Ed dropped his face into his hands again. "She wants to know where her mommy is. What the hell am I supposed to tell her?"

  "And Amber is not your child, Mr. Parson?"

  He shook his head. "Nah, but her dad's long gone. Left the state when they started withholding part of his paycheck for child support."

  "His name?"

  Ed sighed and looked up again. "Charles Eikenberry, Eikenbury, somethin' like that."

  "And you don't know his whereabouts?"

  "State of Delaware can't find him. How the hell could Pam?"

  The guy seemed touchy on a number of subjects. Didn't necessarily mean anything. Might.

  Delilah glanced at Snowden and shifted her gaze to the photographs in cheap frames hanging on the walls. Most of them were of the little girl at different ages—a baby, then a toddler, maybe a preschool picture—but there was one of a thin young woman with brownish-blond hair, holding the same toddler. The young woman was sitting on a swing in someone's backyard, smiling at the camera as if she didn't have a care in the world.

  Snowden looked up from his notebook. "Can you go over with me what happened last night?"

  Ed threw himself back on the couch. "I already told the other cop. The first one here."

  "I understand, but I'd like you to tell us," Snowden said patiently.

  Delilah noticed he did not sit down across from the guy. By standing while the possible perpetrator was sitting, Snowden put himself psychologically in a position above Ed Parson. She admired Snowden, the way he always proceeded with any investigation. He never screwed anything up, and he always did things the best way they could be done.