Child of Silence (12 page)

Bo bit the knuckle of an index finger and felt the plane's wheels scrape tarmac. Home. But, a thundering unease told her, not home free.

In Houston the bartender at Oak Arbor called the cab to remove Mac Rowe from the club's paneled premises earlier than usual. The tennis crowd wouldn't begin drifting in until around 3:30, and it was always necessary to shovel Mac into a cab before he outraged the club's matrons by urinating into one of their Gucci bags again. Mac looked bad today. Not just wild-eyed and dirty, but sick. Really sick. Bruised and yellowish around the eyes and under the fingernails. The barkeep had seen it before. In that line of work you saw what the amber liquids lined up behind the bar could do. A slow poison. In spite of himself he felt sorry for Mac Rowe.

Mac felt a similar pity when he got home. He'd managed to stagger from the cab into the house only to find Tia gone and that idiot of a new maid sniveling something about being sick. The pain in his gut was like a rivet gun, hot as hell.

“Gimme my pills, damn you!” he roared at the stupid creature. But she just trembled and snuffled.

“Ah cain't unnerstan' ya, Mistah Rowe!
What
you want?”

Deely would have known. Would have been standing at the door with the pills. Mac stumbled at the edge of the hall rug and fell against the table. Who in hell had put a
spittoon
full of flowers in his hall? He threw the brass container against the door in a shower of leaded-glass splinters.

“Mistah
Rowe
. . . “ the girl sniveled.

Where was Deely? He had to find Deely. She'd give him the pills. The pain would stop. Probably up in the attic with the family secret, his idiot grandson.

“
Deely
. . . ?” he screamed and grabbed in both hands the curving banister he'd slid down as a child. She'd be up there. She was always up there.

“Deely ain't here no mo'...” the whine intruded. “And I got to leave now, go to the doctor. . .”

“Get out!” Mac Rowe bellowed hoarsely. He wanted to pull out a stair rail and beat the girl into silence, but the rails wouldn't break loose. Behind him a last shard of leaded glass fell and shattered as the door closed. The creature was gone. Now where was Deely?

On all fours Mac made it to the first landing of the curved staircase his mother had descended for her wedding in imported
peau de soie
and lace mitts. She'd carried a white parasol. Mac could see the picture in his mind as his bowels writhed and then exploded. The pain was white-hot, ramming his guts out, climbing his throat. He fell with his face wedged between two banisters, and couldn't move. From his mouth and nose something warm gurgled and dripped in thin, red strings down a wall of faded photographs.

The last word Mac Rowe would pronounce was “fuck,” but nobody heard.

MacLaren Rowe was dead.

Deely saw the pirogue cutting through bayou mist before she could see who was in it. Her hand tightened on the 12-gauge shotgun resting across her lap. Both barrels were loaded, and she'd known how to shoot since she'd weighed enough to stay on her feet with the recoil. It was probably Raveneau in the hollow-log boat he'd bought from a Cajun. If not, an intruder would find access to the shack on its stilts above murky swamp water impossible. There was only one way in—up a rope ladder lashed to the narrow porch. And that way was guarded by a two-hundred-pound woman possessed of strong beliefs and a loaded gun.

“Allo!” Raveneau's voice barely penetrated the moist afternoon air. “
C'est votre
nephew, Raveneau! Don't shoot!”

Deely smiled. Raveneau had hung around with Cajuns so long he forgot to speak English half the time. The pirogue slipped silently under the shack and soon the young man's huge coffee-colored hands were seen gripping the ladder. His eyes were solemn.

“What's happened? Did you hear from Marguerite?” Deely had to know.

“She called Mama ‘bout two hours ago,” he answered swiftly. “Said a woman come to the door of the house there in Houston sayin' somebody tried to kill the boy out in California. Marguerite, she say she done run out the house and ain't goin' back. Said you to hear, you gotta call this woman in California, tell what you know. Mama sent me to carry you back.”

Raveneau's mama was Marguerite's mama as well. And Deely Brasseur's sister. And she was right. Deely would have to tell somebody what she knew. The plan had failed.

Deely wanted to pray, but lowered herself to the pirogue instead. She'd pray on the way. Pray that it wasn't already too late.

In the San Diego suburb of Alpine, Angela Reavey stabbed a needle in and out of linen fabric. It was a tablecloth, with a Christmas design in counted cross-stitch. Wreaths with holly berries and a Grecian key border in forest green. It was pretty. It would look nice on the table for Christmas dinner.

With a cuff of her sweatshirt she wiped away tears steaming her tortoiseshell glasses. Jennifer Martinelli would never see another Christmas. Never get another pretty gift tied in ribbons. Jennifer would never read Laura Ingalls Wilder books or try out for cheerleader or have a boyfriend.

Angela blinked at her watch. It was over. The broken little body was buried by now, the funeral complete, the mourners and the media gone. In a pile of flowers left by the mortician atop the fresh grave would be a nosegay of pink rosebuds. Angela had ordered the nosegay. It was the one she imagined Jennifer might have been given for her first dance.

In the mirror over the fireplace Angela Reavey regarded herself. A plump, red-eyed woman in her husband's sweatshirt. Kind. Ordinary. A social worker. Not the sort of woman who relished the power of life-and-death decisions involving children.

She'd asked Ben to take the kids out somewhere for the afternoon, to leave her alone during the time of the funeral. It was essential, this quiet, thoughtful time alone. She needed to finish grieving for the child who was only one of hundreds whose case files would lie for a time on her desk.

But this one had died. This one had been killed.

Maybe she could have prevented the tragedy. And maybe not. But she would never forget Jennifer Martinelli.

The sound of a car in the drive disturbed her reverie. Ben home early, but where were the kids?

Then a polite knock at the door.

Angela tugged the sweatshirt over her hips and answered.

Two men in cowboy hats stood in the breezeway.

“We're from the
Dallas Times
, ma'am,” the larger one drawled. “Our paper's doing some articles on child abuse, and—”

“You'll have to talk to somebody in public relations,” Angela recited. “It's DSS policy. I can't talk to you.”

There had been several phone calls from reporters, especially yesterday after the hearing over at St. Mary's and Andrew LaMarche's incendiary comments. But no reporters had come to the house.

The shorter, thinner man placed a toe of his boot deliberately between the door and the frame. Angela noticed that the toe was capped with dull, thick metal. She couldn't close the door on it, but at least the chain lock was still on.

“Now!” the skinny one snarled, and the big one rammed his shoulder against the open door. The chain lock snapped loose easily and hung swinging from a splintered chunk of the white frame.

“You're gonna do us a little favor,” the big one sneered, twisting Angela's wrist behind her back and then kicking her across the room into the TV on its portable stand. She felt the back of her head break the TV screen, but no pain as she slid to the floor.

“The tranquilizers,” she thought. The tranquilizers the doctor had given her obliterated the pain.

“What do you want?” she wept.

They had guns. They were going to kill her.

“You know somebody named Bo Bradley?” the skinny man asked. He'd crossed the room and jammed the heel of his boot into her stomach. The gun in his hand had a black thing on the end that looked like a vacuum cleaner accessory. A silencer. It must be a silencer. They could kill her and the neighbors wouldn't hear the shots.

“She works over in court investigations,” Angela whispered. “I don't know her.”

The boot in her stomach gouged deeper, cutting off her breath. The other man wrapped a paw around her neck and pulled her to her feet.

“Get on that phone,” he roared, “and find out where the fuck the dummy kid is. It's Bradley's case. You work for the same outfit. You can find out. Do it!”

Angela felt herself propelled again, pushed, dragged, her arms breaking. The phone was rammed against her right ear, a gun in her left.

“I can't. . . I don't know what you're talking about,” she sobbed.

“A dummy kid, a boy. He was in St. Mary's Hospital. It was Bradley's case. Find out where the fuck he is!”

The bearlike man thundered into the kitchen and pulled the receiver of the kitchen extension its full length to the arched dining room doorway. “Don't fuck around,” he warned. “I can hear you.”

The other man stood behind her, pressed against her with the gun in her ear and the thumb of his right hand gouging up, under her breastbone. The pain was deadly.

“Do it!” he insisted. “Now!”

She could feel the urgent, angry wiriness of him. His hatred. His fear. In his body she felt the absolute certainty that he would kill her if she failed to comply.

Angela Reavey had not known before the feel of a killer. Her mind shut down, faded to a mere buzz inside her skull. Then something fierce took over. Survival. They were going to kill her if she didn't do what they said. With numb fingers she dialed St. Mary's Hospital.

“Discharge information, please. . .”

The high, husky voice was one she'd never heard, coming from her own mouth.

“This is Angela Reavey with Child Protective Services. . .

“Yes. My worker number is 17-262. I need the placement address for a child discharged from St. Mary's today to the custody of CPS. Bo Bradley did the initial investigation. Her name will be on the chart.

“Yes, I know this is a confidential placement, but there were medical complications and the Department of Social Services has ordered the MediCal documentation hand-delivered to the foster home today to prevent interruption in care when the child is seen by a private physician on Monday. The CPS placement office is closed on Saturday. I need the address.

“Forty-nine seventeen Bayard in Pacific Beach? The Chandlers. Thank you.”

Angela Reavey felt the man's left arm stretch into the air, smelled the acrid odor of his sweat, and then the weight of the gun smashed into the base of her skull.

After retrieving her car from the palm-swaying airport parking lot, Bo forced herself to stop at the university's twenty-four-hour psychiatric clinic for sedatives powerful enough to knock her out. It was difficult to sit still. She'd paced outside the pharmacy until five o'clock, waiting for the stupid pills. But it was going to be okay. She'd get home, jog, soak in a hot bath, pop a sedative, and crash. There was no other way. Nothing else she
could
do, if she wanted to avoid an unscheduled vacation in hell.

The answering machine was blinking in the gloom as Bo got home, kicked off her boots, and snapped the deadbolt. Her apartment was musty, but opening the windows seemed reckless under the circumstances. Even turning on a light seemed suicidal. People with poisoned guns might be watching. Two men coldly determined to murder a helpless child. Two men who had murdered an orderly because he got in their way. Bo watched the throbbing light. Whoever the men were, they would undoubtedly meet any standard criteria for sanity, while she would not. A fact of life.

Ignore the phone
.
Stay away from the whole mess
.
Take care of yourself!

With exaggerated deliberation Bo padded into the bathroom and ran hot water into the tub. Through the steam the transparent bubbles looked like mouths trying to scream, producing only silence. Bo threw a handful of sage leaves into the water and breathed deeply. The scent brought a momentary calm as she peeled off a costume donned three thousand miles ago, and sank gratefully into the hot water.

Killers, hell-bent on murdering Weppo. Who were they? What did they have to do with this cold-eyed Texas politician and her appalling taste in interior decorating? Hadn't LaMarche said they shot at Weppo with a Smith & Wesson .38? What in hell was a Smith & Wesson .38? It sounded Western. Bo imagined the guns wielded by Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, the cowboy heroes of her first movies. Splendid, silver guns pulled from chrome-studded holsters to shoot unshaven villains in black hats from the balconies of saloons. The villains, she knew even then, were stuntmen who fell onto mattresses below camera range. And where was the mattress for Weppo, who wasn't even a villain? Just a deaf kid, like Laurie. A live deaf kid, unlike Laurie. Through the open bathroom door Bo could see a faint, pink pulse from the blinking answering machine light.