House of Stone

by T. K. Thorne

  Daniel climbs onto the sofa beside her, his exuberance disturbing Boo, the black-and-white cat, which Alice calls a “tuxedo.” His ears flick back and forth and with a hiss of complaint, he jumps off the sofa, stalking away. Then he sits with his back to us and begins to lick his paws. Even I know he is sulking. But Daniel is oblivious.

  “Mom, we went on a huge, ga-normous ship, and there was fishing, and Becca caught one, and I tried to help and I fell in, but everything is okay because I had on a jacket, and Mr. Lohan jumped in too and—” He pauses to take a breath.

  Nora has turned her head toward him, but her gaze is unfixed.

  I switch off the TV.

  “Nora,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  She looks at me dully. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you hearing what Daniel is telling you?”

  “I hear him. He fell?”

  “Yes, he climbed over the rail and lost his balance. It’s my fault.”

  “But he’s okay?”

  The thought that he might not be seems to stir her from her stupor, but I decide to search her room. I don’t smell alcohol on her, but alcohol might just be her first drug of choice. It’s really going to piss me off if Alice brought her into her home, and Nora has a cache of drugs here. Not to mention that I’m a rookie on probation. The last thing I need is for Internal Affairs to find out there are drugs in the house where I’m living. By the end of this train of thought, I’m angry.

  Daniel has given up sharing his story and left the living room, dragging a willing Becca with him.

  “Your son could have drowned,” I say. “At least act like you care.” I want to slap her.

  “I care,” she says. “Thank you for watching out for him.”

  Her voice is low. I barely hear what she says. But I do, and suddenly my anger drains. She has been through a lot. Her son was kidnapped while she lay in a drunken stupor, and he nearly died. She must feel pretty guilty about that.

  I know something about guilt. It was my fault he was kidnapped in the first place. If I hadn’t been stubborn about not telling Theophalus Blackwell where my stupid rose-stone necklace was, he wouldn’t have tried to use Daniel to influence me, and Daniel would not have been there when hell erupted—from me—and almost killed him.

  Nora is looking up at me. She sat with Daniel through the weeks he was in the hospital, never leaving his side. Her son has burn grafts on his face and hand and back that will scar him permanently. Life is hard enough to bear without a disfigurement like that. Ask Becca. She suffered throughout her childhood because of her albino eyes. Kids called her “devil” and even adults shunned her. Lots of “religious” people here in the South. Many believe in a real devil or witches—somebody like me.

  “The important thing is that he is okay,” I say, and, “I’m sorry.”

  “I know it wasn’t your fault. You take good care of him, you and Alice. You’re better mothers than me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When Lieutenant Faraday hands us our daily allotment of cases, the boat, Stonehenge, and the trauma of Tracey and me almost drowning seem far away—another world. Perhaps I’m trying to anchor myself in this one by once again bringing up Benjamin Crompton.

  “I don’t think we’ve exhausted everything,” I say to Tracey.

  He lifts his hands in exasperation. “What is it that you think we’re missing?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think we need to go back to The Edge of Chaos and check out Deon Segal again. His boss said he disappears like clockwork every day. I want to know where he’s going so compulsively.”

  Tracey rubs his temples. “We’ve got a stack of other cases to work, including some unsolved homicides, and you want to go see where this nerd guy goes to lunch?”

  My cell plays “2001: A Space Odyssey.” That’s Alice. She rarely calls me at work.

  “Hey,” I answer. “Anything wrong?”

  “You need to come home right away,” Alice says.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Nora. She’s locked herself in the bathroom for hours and will not open the door. Daniel is getting upset.”

  “Okay. I’m with my partner. We’re on the way.”

  “Lohan, can you run me home for a minute? Got some family drama going on. I left my car in the shop this morning.”

  “Sure.”

  When we pull up at Alice’s house, Alice is waiting on the front porch.

  “Who’s that?” Tracey asks.

  “Irene, I hired her as a live-in to watch over Becca.”

  I gave Alice, AKA Irene, fair warning he was coming. The fewer people who know that she is alive, the better.

  Alice, or rather, “Irene,” meets us at the front door.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she says. “Nora said she was taking a bath, but it has been two hours, and she won’t open the door.”

  “That’s strange. She’s stayed in her room before, but she’s never not responded,” I say.

  “I thought about calling the fire department to break down the door, but I called you first. Maybe she’ll come out for you.”

  There are three bathrooms in the house, but only the master bedroom and this one, shared by the two guest rooms, has a full bath. I knock on the door. Everyone is crowded in the hall. If Nora wanted a production, she has it.

  “Nora,” I call. “It’s Rose. Unlock the door.”

  Nothing.

  I try again, louder.

  Again nothing.

  “How long did you say?” I ask Alice.

  “Two hours.”

  “That’s a long bath.”

  “I’m worried she may have fallen or something.”

  “Nora!” I ram my shoulder hard against the door. A burst of pain rewards that brilliant move. “Ouch!”

  The pain makes me angry. I should be investigating a murder and trying to save lives, not busting my shoulder on the bathroom door because of an alcoholic—okay, Nora has stopped drinking, but she is still a wretched excuse for a mother.

  “This is ridiculous,” I mutter, holding my aching shoulder.

  Tracey steps forward. “Can I help you with that door?”

  “Just get it open, please,” I whisper. “Don’t pulverize it.”

  “It’s all about where you put the pressure,” he says. Instead of breaking open the door, he pulls a credit card out his wallet and works it between the doorframe and the latch. In seconds, the door pops open.

  I glare at him, rubbing my shoulder where I’m certain I will have a bruise, and push the door wide.

  Nora is in the tub, fully clothed. Her head lolls back, one hand draped over the edge, a pool of blood on the floor below it. The water is red.

  “Mama!” Daniel cries and starts forward.

  Tracey snatches him back.

  “Oh my God,” Alice mutters.

  “Call 911,” I say. “And get Daniel out of here.” I take a step closer and realize there is nothing to do. Her eyes are closed, but the blood has stopped gushing from her pale wrist. Most people out to commit suicide cut their wrists horizontally, an inefficient method. Nora has slit hers vertically. It was probably one of the few things in her life she had done “right.”

  I stand in the bathroom, staring at her. There were signs I had ignored, not wanting to deal with her problems. She was not a model parent, but she had stayed at Daniel’s side in the hospital when he recovered from his burns. She stopped drinking for him. But she couldn’t stay alive for him.

  I turn to walk out and stop. Tracey has Daniel away from the scene. Alice went to call rescue. But Becca is standing alone in the doorway, staring. She is almost as white as Nora. My heart stutters at her expression.

  “Becca?” I ask softly.

  Oh God, why did she have to see this?

  I go to her, standing in f
ront of her to block her view.

  “Becca, please.”

  She doesn’t look at me. She’s not looking at anything.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Becca, her body rigid, stares at Nora and the crimson water in the bathtub. I turn my friend gently. She offers no resistance. Not wanting to leave her alone, I walk her into the living room where Alice is comforting Daniel.

  “Where is Tracey?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

  Alice rocks a sobbing Daniel. “He went out front to direct the paramedics in.” Taking in Becca’s state, the worry wrinkles deepen around her mouth. “Oh dear.”

  We are both thinking the same thing—what if Becca doesn’t recover this time? What if this catatonia is permanent? I hold myself in “police mode,” wrapped in the protective mindset that freezes emotions.

  The paramedics arrive, followed by Tracey, and I point to the bathroom. “She’s in there.”

  It doesn’t take long before they return. “I’m sorry,” one says to no one and everyone in general. “There’s nothing we can do.”

  I nod at Becca. “Can you check her out?”

  From long practice, I’m able to get Becca to sit in a chair while the paramedics bustle around her. She stares straight ahead, unblinking.

  “Blood pressure is a little elevated,” the tallest one says. “But that’s not unexpected. How long has she been like this?”

  “Just since she saw . . . the bathroom,” I say.

  “Shock then. If she doesn’t snap out of it, you should take her to a hospital to get checked out.”

  I nod, knowing that will not help. Just more pills, more pushing for shock treatment, more psychiatrists.

  A patrol car arrives. Tracey intervenes, letting them know who we are and what’s happened. Once they are here and there’s nothing for me to do, some of the focus and internal ice begins to melt. I sit beside Becca, holding her limp hand.

  This is your fault, Rose, a voice in my head insists. You’re supposed to be a professional. If you had paid attention, if you had made some effort to help Nora—

  Daniel seems to have cried himself out, but remains nestled in Alice’s arms, his face painted with dried tear trails. The paramedics leave. A patrol officer tapes crime scene tape across the bathroom entrance. A detective arrives from our own Homicide unit—fortunately not that ass, Finkman—and asks questions of everyone except Daniel. Becca doesn’t reply to anything, and he gives up on her.

  An evidence technician enters, not bothering to knock on the front door, and walks to the bathroom without speaking to anyone but the detective. The house is no longer our home, but a crime scene. I hear the snap of his camera. Tracey tells me a kitchen knife was found in the water. I’m sure it’s now in a plastic bag in the evidence tech’s possession, who will label it and turn it in to the property room with the details establishing a chain of who touched it and when.

  An investigator from the medical examiner’s office arrives to ask the same questions we have already been asked. Eventually, two funeral home people—the last of the parade of invading strangers—appear. At least they knock. We take Daniel and Becca to the back bedroom while they remove the body. Somebody unplugs the water in the tub. I hear it gurgling down the drain. I hope they are wiping up the blood.

  And then everyone leaves, even Tracey, who promises to check in on me tomorrow and pick me up, so I won’t have to worry about getting my car out of the shop today. I nod and thank him mechanically.

  Daniel is asleep in Alice’s bed. Becca lies alone on her own bed. Her eyes are open, focused on the ceiling. I think the worst is over, but there is a knock on the door. Alice gets up and goes with me to the door.

  The young woman standing on the front porch introduces herself as Tanya Melbourne from Child Protective Services. I assume the detective called them in when he learned there was no next of kin for Daniel.

  “You can’t take him,” I say.

  He is all the hope Becca has.

  “I’m sorry,” Melbourne says, “but I have to while they search for family members.”

  “Where will he go?” Alice asks.

  “A foster home.”

  “Can’t he stay with us?” Alice’s hands knit in a fierce knot and her voice breaks. “He knows us.”

  Is she thinking about when she sent me away as a child? She did it to protect me, but it must have been hard on her to give up her sister’s grandchild, her only living family. Daniel calls her Gran-gran.

  “No, I’m sorry,” Melbourne says.

  “For how long?” Alice says.

  “There’ll be a hearing scheduled in Family Court within seventy-two hours and a judge will decide.”

  “Can we ask to keep him?”

  “Yes, but you have to be at the hearing.”

  Alice sniffs and looks pointedly at me. “We’ll be there.”

  Gently, she wakes Daniel, and he starts crying again. She tries to explain to him what will happen.

  “I don’t want to go!” he screams. He runs to Becca’s room and clings to her. She doesn’t move, remaining prone in the bed, but her eyes widen in fright, the first sign of any emotional reaction since she saw Nora’s body.

  Alice turns to me. “Can’t you do something?”

  “Is there any way you can let him stay here, even temporarily?” I ask Melbourne.

  “There’s nothing I can do. The state has to step in. You can present a case to the judge asking for temporary custody.”

  All I have to do is reach out and touch Melbourne, just a trickle of Iron’s power and a suggestion that she leave Daniel—the temptation is so strong, I’m trembling with the effort to restrain it. I used it before, but that was to save Daniel’s life. What about his happiness? Is that any less important? To lose his mother and be ripped from the people who care about him? I know he loves Alice and Becca. And they love him.

  But I swore I would not use Iron’s power. I can feel the black, oily gush of it already in me. I can’t stop drawing it, holding it at the ready, any more than I can stop breathing. But it’s my choice whether to use it. If I do, I’m no better than House of Iron, manipulating whomever I want. Playing God. And how do I know what is best for Daniel? It may not be what he wants or what we want, but what is best? With a shaky breath, I cross my arms, pinning my hands under my armpits.

  Custody. That is a word I have never considered. But something wrenches my gut when the woman marches Daniel out the door.

  When it closes behind them, the unnatural quiet settles like a thick fog, making it difficult to breathe. The barrier that kept me going and functioning has dissolved. I make my way to the kitchen and sit in the chair I always sit in. Alice follows and without speaking begins to make tea.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It’s impossible to sleep. My mind bounces from one preoccupation to another—guilt about Nora; worry for Daniel; fear Becca is lost forever. For the moment, the fact that the fate of a race of people rests on my ovaries slips into the background.

  Somewhere between two and three a.m., I give up and get out my laptop computer, propping up the pillows. I might as well try to work on one of my problems. Angel gives a meow of protest and resettles into her warm nest against my side.

  A few hours later, I print out the results and stumble into the shower, making the water as hot as possible. Then I dress and check on Becca. When I open her door, I exhale in relief that she is asleep—at least, her eyes are closed. I was afraid she spent the night staring into nothingness.

  I think longingly of falling back into bed, just closing my eyes and let go of all this worry. But I’d have to get up sometime or be AWOL, and I’d have to face Becca with her eyes open, staring into space. I don’t want to have to feed her baby food and take her to the toilet. I’m a coward.

  I make my way to the kitchen, suddenly craving a cold glass of
orange juice. The house seems too quiet and wrong.

  Since when do I like noise?

  I try not to think about Daniel waking up in a strange place with strangers and having to deal with the memory of seeing his mother in a tub of bloody water. No one should have to see that.

  No one should have to see blood-soaked sheets on their sister’s body.

  “Shut up.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Alice asks, stepping into the hallway. She ties the sash of a bathrobe with pink flowers that reminds me of Dr. Crompton’s wife in her kimono.

  “Nothing. I was talking to myself.”

  “What happens next?” she asks, running water for the teapot.

  “About which particular crisis?”

  “Daniel.”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll check with someone in Youth Services and see what I can find out.”

  “Let me know, please. Maybe we can get Daniel back.”

  “I will.” I pour a glass of orange juice. “You want one?”

  “Yes.”

  I get a second glass down from the cupboard and pour it for her. My stomach won’t tolerate anything else. I think I will forgo my cup of morning tea.

  “I shouldn’t leave you with Becca,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Life is not fair, dear. It just is.” She hasn’t put her contacts in yet, the last touch of her disguise, and her eyes, undimmed by age, are the deep green of our House—meaning her and me.

  “How do you feel?” she asks.

  “Like hell.”

  She frowns. “You need to take care of yourself. Yesterday was hard, terrible. Poor Nora.”

  I clunk my juice glass on the table. “I think I’ll wait on the porch until Tracey gets here.”

  At the door, I reach down to Angel, who is at my heels. Understanding I’m leaving, she puts a paw on my leg, rising upward to touch her nose to my outstretched finger—our goodbye-I’ll-be-here-when-you-get-back routine. None of Alice’s cats do anything like this. I guess it’s just something Angel came up with. This time, however, after her ritual “goodbye,” she slips out with me, as if she knows I’m going to sit on the porch, instead of leaving. She doesn’t act surprised in the least when I do. Maybe animals have ways of drawing on magic that we haven’t figured out yet. Or maybe there is some kind of cat rule that says never act surprised at anything.