Don't Cry (11 page)

She wore one of the mandatory school uniforms, her apparel today consisting of a red blouse and plaid skirt; and she had her dark hair pulled into a ponytail. With her book bag slung over her shoulder, Zoe opened the passenger door, removed the book bag, and threw it into the back floorboard. She fell into the front bucket seat and slammed the door.

“Bad day?” he asked.

“Bad life.” She snapped the reply as she folded her arms across her chest and stared straight ahead, not bothering to even glance his way.

He didn't respond, knowing if he did it would lead only to more squabbling. In the beginning, he had hoped that they would learn to like each other and their daily lives would fall into a peaceful routine. No such luck. If the counseling sessions with Dr. Sherrod didn't work, then he didn't know what else to do except take Holly's advice and change Zoe's status at Baylor from day student to boarding student. At least that way, they'd have to tolerate each other only on occasional weekends and during summer vacation.

“I thought we'd pick up takeout from McAlister's,” J.D. said.

“Whatever.” Zoe shrugged.

“Decide what you want.” J.D. followed the line of traffic off campus and back onto Signal Mountain Boulevard.

“You mean I have a choice? I figured you'd just choose for me since you're determined to run my life.”

“I'm not arguing with you this evening,” he told her. “I've had a long day and I'll be up late tonight going over some files I'm taking home with me. I know you're upset with me for picking you up late. I've already apologized for that, so drop it. Whatever other complaints you have, save them for our appointment with Dr. Sherrod on Friday.”

Much to his surprise, Zoe didn't come back with a smart-mouth response. And when they arrived at McAlister's, she told him she wanted a Super Spud with chicken and sweet tea. On the ride home up the mountain and during dinner together, she didn't talk except to reply succinctly to whatever he said.

She rose from the kitchen table, picked up the Styrofoam container that held the remnants of her meal and the empty cup. “May I be excused? I've got a lot of homework.”

He glanced up at his daughter and nodded. “Yeah, sure. I'll come in and say good night at ten.”

“Yeah, sure.” She mimicked him.

He grinned. “If you need any help with your homework—”

“Thanks, I won't.” She dumped the foam container and cup into the garbage can and left the kitchen.

J.D. cleaned up, took out the trash that had accumulated for the past couple of days, and then settled down in front of the TV with a beer and the two file folders he'd brought home from work. He kept the sound muted after he caught the weather forecast for the next day, lifted his feet onto the coffee table in front of him, and opened the first folder.

Blake Wayne Sherrod had been three weeks shy of his second birthday when he had disappeared from his home. His mother, Enid Hudson Roberts Sherrod, suffered from migraines and had taken prescription-strength medication and had lain down while her son took his afternoon nap. Blake's older half siblings, Audrey Sherrod and Hart Roberts, had been outside playing with neighborhood kids. Enid had asked them to periodically check on their little brother, which both later swore that they had done. The police and the FBI had questioned both children, but not the day Blake disappeared. Garth Hudson, a young officer on the Chattanooga police force, had been the first on the scene, and only he had questioned his niece and nephew. Wayne Sherrod had stated that he'd been concerned about his wife because she hadn't been feeling well that morning and had asked his brother-in-law to drop by and check on Enid if he got the chance during his afternoon lunch break. Days later when the children were questioned, neither child had remembered seeing anyone enter or leave their home.

J.D. laid the report aside and took a hefty swig from the beer bottle.

Twenty-five years ago, people didn't always lock their doors, even at night. And with the two older children playing outside that day and coming in occasionally to check on their sleeping baby brother, Enid wouldn't have locked either the front or back door. Although unlikely, it was possible that someone had sneaked into the house, unseen and unheard, snatched Blake Sherrod out of his crib, and escaped without being seen.

After downing a few more sips of beer, J.D. set the bottle on the coffee table and leafed through the Blake Sherrod file until he found photos of the house, the front yard and backyard, and the little boy's bedroom. As he flipped through the other photos, one in particular caught his eye. A photo of Hart Roberts and Audrey Sherrod that someone—the police photographer?—had snapped the day of the abduction. If he'd ever seen two shell-shocked kids, it was Audrey and her stepbrother, ages nine and eight. Hart clung to his older stepsister's hand and she held a thin arm around his shoulders. His head was bowed, his gaze riveted to his feet. Audrey stared into the camera, her eyes wide, her little chin lifted bravely, almost as if she was daring anyone to harm Hart.

Who took that picture and why?

Not that it made any difference. He was just curious.

Enid Hudson had committed suicide a few months after her son's disappearance. Apparently, the woman had suffered not only from migraines, but from depression most of her life. And although she'd been treated for the debilitating headaches, she'd never sought professional help for her mood swings.

J.D. considered the evidence. Just because five other little boys were presumed kidnapped and murdered by Regina Bennett did not mean that Blake Sherrod was one of her victims. There was no evidence that linked Blake's disappearance to the woman. But then again, there was no hard evidence linking any of the missing toddlers to Regina, except Jeremy Arden, the little boy the FBI had rescued.

What if the DNA tests on the skeletons found with Jill Scott and Debra Gregory revealed that they were two of the missing toddlers from the Baby Blue kidnapping cases? What would that prove? It certainly wouldn't prove a connection between Regina Bennett and the toddlers, only a connection between the Baby Blue kidnappings and the Rocking Chair Murders.

The hot, humid summer breeze did little to cool the heat of that July afternoon. Sweat beads dotted the faces of her playmates and trickled down her own neck and dampened her hair. At least keeping her almost waist-length hair in a high ponytail allowed the air to hit the back of her neck. As she did every morning, she had ironed her clothes and Hart's and fixed their breakfast of cold cereal and fruit. She didn't mind being helpful. And it was like Daddy had said—Enid had her hands full taking care of Blake, so he expected Audrey to pitch in and help. But sometimes, she missed just being a kid with no responsibilities, a kid who didn't have to do laundry, iron clothes, prepare breakfast, run the vacuum, and make up her own bed. When her mother had been alive…But she'd been a little kid then. Now she was half grown. She was nine.

“Come on, Audrey,” Shanna Moore called. “We're going to race around the block and see who's got the fastest bike.”

Audrey jumped on the shiny new bike that Santa Claus had brought last Christmas. Her father thought she still believed in Santa and since Hart did, she pretended that she did, too.

“Hey, it's your turn to check on Blake,” Hart hollered at her just as she lined up with the other three girls to start the big race.

“You do it this time,” she pleaded. “I'll do it the next two times.”

“You'd better,” Hart grumbled. “I don't see why we have to keep checking on the little spoiled brat. It's not like he's going to run off if he wakes up. He'll come out here crying his head off.”

“Just go check on him, okay?”

And Audrey sailed off on her bike, determined to win the race.

 

Audrey came awake suddenly, her mind in a fog, her senses still reliving a day twenty-five years in the past. Her eyes flew open. She gulped for air.

The dream had seemed so real. But then, those dreams always were.

She shoved the sheet and blanket off her, slid to the edge of the bed, and sat up. It had been several years since she'd dreamed about the day Blake disappeared. As a child and teenager, she'd been haunted by dreams about that fateful day, but eventually the frequency of those nightmares lessened until eventually they had gone away completely, or so she had thought.

It didn't take a genius to figure out why the dreams had returned. The possibility that one of the two toddler skeletons might be Blake had revived all the old memories.

Audrey glanced at the bedside clock. 5:06 A.M. Too late to try to go back to sleep. She slid her feet into her house shoes there by the bed and went to the bathroom.

If they had finally located Blake, did that mean her family would be able to find a sense of closure? Her father and Hart and Uncle Garth.
And you, too, Audrey.
Would holding a memorial service and burying him beside his mother give them—those left behind—some measure of peace? God, she hoped so.

And if neither toddler is Blake, what then?

Either way, whatever the DNA tests proved, the past had been resurrected, their grief and anguish and guilt dredged up from the murky depths of their souls.

 

An hour later, as Audrey finished her third cup of hot tea and downed the last bites of a whole wheat muffin, the phone rang.

Please, don't let it be bad news.

Caller ID was a great invention. Audrey answered on the third ring. “Good morning.”

“I didn't wake you, did I?” Tam asked.

“No, I've been up for a while and already had breakfast.”

“Have you talked to your uncle Garth this morning? Or—or last night?”

Oh, shit, what now?
“No, why?”

“I guess he didn't see any point in worrying you.”

“You're worrying me right now. What's going on?”

“Hart didn't go home—back to Garth's place—last night.”

Great. Just great.

“Hart's okay,” Tam said hurriedly. “We don't know where he'd been or who he'd been with. Garth was out looking for him well past midnight.”

“Where did he find him?”
Not in an alley somewhere, please.
“Was he…had he been—”

“Yeah, he'd been drinking.” Tam cleared her throat. “And Garth didn't find him. I did. Sort of. Hart showed up here around two this morning, so drunk he could barely walk. Apparently somebody had dropped him off outside my house.”

“Oh, Tam, I'm sorry. What did Marcus say?”

“Marcus is still away, thank goodness.”

“I assume you called Garth and he came and got Hart.”

“I called Garth and he came over, but…”

“No, please, don't tell me that Hart is still there.”

“Garth and I both thought it best to just let him sleep it off here, in my guest room. Garth's coming back here around seven-thirty and he may need backup. He wants to put Hart in Parkridge again.”

“I'll be over as soon as I can grab a shower and get dressed.”

 

Tam hadn't slept a wink after her doorbell rang at two o'clock that morning. A staggering, blubbering, barely coherent Hart had fallen into her arms when he'd tripped over the threshold of her front door. She had draped her arm around his waist, pulled him inside, and somehow managed to hold on to him while she closed and locked the door.

“You're so beautiful,” he had told her, his bloodshot eyes focused on her face as she'd helped him to the sofa.

“Why are you here, Hart?” she'd asked. “Why didn't you go home?”

“Can't. Don't want to. I'm a mess, babe. Such a mess.”

He had curled up on her sofa and closed his eyes. She had sat on the edge of the coffee table and watched him for several minutes before she got up, took the afghan from the back of the sofa, and covered him with it. He'd mumbled her name in his alcohol-induced sleep.

She had called Garth and he'd shown up half an hour later. They had roused Hart enough to get him on his feet, but he had adamantly refused to leave with Garth. Short of knocking him out or calling for help to subdue Hart, they'd had little choice. Garth had helped her walk Hart into the guest bedroom.

“I'm damn sorry about this,” Garth had said. “I don't know why he came to you. He knows to leave you alone. Even when he's not himself, he knows better.”

“It's all right. We'll deal with things the best we can.”

“Maybe Audrey was right. Maybe I shouldn't have told him about the toddler skeletons, but…”

No matter what Garth did for Hart, nothing seemed to help. If she hadn't walked away from him years ago and done her best not to look back, she would be caught, as Garth and Audrey were, in the vicious cycle of Hart's never-ending melodrama.

Showered, dressed, and ready for work, Tam paced the floor as she waited for Audrey and Garth to arrive. If Hart woke before they got there, how would she handle the situation? She had no idea what to expect.

“Morning,” Hart said.

Tam nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the sound of his voice. He stood at the end of the hallway leading to the bedrooms. His golden hair stood on end as if it had been styled with an eggbeater, and an overnight growth of light brown beard stubble added to his disheveled appearance.

They stared at each other for several seconds before Tam broke eye contact. She didn't know what to say. Apparently, he didn't either. He walked into the living room in his sock feet. Garth had removed his shoes before putting him to bed at three this morning. When he approached her, she glanced at him and saw that his gaze was still locked on her face. Unnerved by the way he was looking at her, she backed away from him.

He stopped dead still. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here.” His gaze shot nervously around the room. “To be honest, I don't remember how I got here.”

“I don't know either,” she replied. “Maybe a friend dropped you off or maybe you took a cab or—”

“Where's your husband? I'm surprised he didn't kick my ass out. Nobody could have blamed him.”

“Marcus is away on business.”

“Good. Uh…I mean it's good I didn't cause trouble for you with your husband. I want you to be happy. I don't ever want to hurt you again. I swear.”

Steeling her nerves, Tam swore to herself that she could handle this situation, that she was in control of her emotions. “I believe you.”

The tension between them tautened with each passing second, like a wire tightening almost to the breaking point.

The doorbell rang.

Tam actually swayed on her feet as her body relaxed and she released a pent-up breath. “That's probably Audrey.”

“You called in reinforcements,” Hart said.

Tam didn't reply, nor did she glance back at him as she headed straight for the front door.

 

Audrey didn't know who looked worse, Tam or Hart. Her stepbrother appeared to have sobered up after his drinking binge last night. Tam looked like she'd spent the night in hell.

“Go ahead,” Hart said. “Chew my ass out. I deserve it. I fucked up once again.”

Audrey shook her head. What a sad state of affairs for all of them. “Garth will be here soon and we're taking you to Parkridge.” No need to beat around the bush. Straight talk was what Hart needed.

“One little slip and it's back to the dungeon.” Hart grimaced.

“Do you have a better idea?” Audrey asked.

“Yeah, why don't I just go jump off the Walnut Street Bridge and put us all out of our misery?”

Audrey cut her eyes toward Tam in time to see the stricken look on her face as she bit down on her bottom lip. Audrey glared at her stepbrother. “Damn it, Hart, think about how what you say and what you do affects other people, the people who love you.”

Hart stared at Tam, his gaze filled with a mixture of self-contempt and a plea for forgiveness. “I'm not worth loving.”

How many times had Audrey heard those words come out of Hart's mouth?

And how many times had she heard him threaten to kill himself?

What could she say? How do you convince someone who hates himself that he deserves to be loved?

As the three of them stood there in Tam's living room, the silence deafening, the doorbell rang. Tam sucked in a startled breath. Hart cursed.

“That's probably Uncle Garth,” Audrey said. “I'll let him in.”

When she opened the door, Garth stepped inside as his gaze swept over the living room. With a snarl on his lips and weariness heavy on his thick shoulders, he surveyed Hart from tousled hair to shoeless feet. “Get your shoes.”

Hart made no move to obey.

“He doesn't want to go back to Parkridge,” Audrey said.

“Too bad,” Garth said. “He's going.”

“
He
is in the room, standing right here,” Hart told them. “Don't talk about me as if I'm not here.” He glared at Garth. “I'll continue going to Parkridge as an outpatient. You can drive me over there yourself for the first available meeting today, but I don't need—”

“You don't know what you need!” Garth growled the words. “Were you or were you not drunk this morning when you showed up on Tamara's doorstep?”

“Yeah, I was. And I admit that I didn't handle the news about—” Hart glanced at Audrey and then refocused on his uncle. “The news about the toddler skeletons shook me up. But I'm okay now. I swear I am. I promise I won't act crazy about this. I can deal with the possibility that one of them could be Blake.”

“Can you?” Garth asked.

“I can. I swear I can.”

Garth turned and faced Tam. “Did he say anything stupid or do anything that—?”

“No,” Tam replied.

“You don't have to worry about anything, Uncle Garth,” Hart said. “I didn't accidentally let any top-secret information slip out while I was drunk.” Hart laughed, the sound horribly hollow and sad.

“Shut up, will you? You're talking nuts.” Garth grabbed Hart's arm. “You don't have to go back into rehab, but you're going to continue with the outpatient program, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Understand?”

Hart saluted his uncle and tried to click his sock-clad heels. “Yes, sir.”

Fifteen minutes later, with Hart tucked in the front seat of Garth's '06 Mercury, Tam sat down on the sofa, leaned over, and placed her open palms on either side of her face. Audrey sat beside her and flung her arm across Tam's trembling shoulders.

“He'll never get any better, will he? He's always going to be…” Tam's voice trailed off midsentence as she looked at Audrey with teary eyes.

Audrey hugged Tam. “Don't do this to yourself. Hart is not your problem. You don't owe him anything. Do you hear me? You have a husband who loves you. Don't do anything to risk your future with Marcus.”

 

Jeremy Arden faced himself in the mirror as he shaved. He was young, good looking, and reasonably intelligent. He shouldn't be living in a dump like this, working as a busboy at a local restaurant, and fighting his inner demons every waking minute just to stay clean and sober. If his father hadn't died and if his mother hadn't married that jerk-off second husband, maybe things would be different for him. When a kid went through the kind of trauma he had, more than anything, he needed the love and support of his parents.

He really didn't remember much about what had happened when he'd been kidnapped. Not consciously. But more than one shrink had made him realize that on some subconscious level, he remembered more than he was willing to admit. Occasionally, a thought crossed his mind—a memory?—and he was never sure whether what he was thinking about had actually happened or if somebody had told him it had happened.

The dreams weren't real. They were just nightmares. Frightening nightmares that ate away at his brain like drops of acid. Only when he was drunk or high could he escape the reoccurring dreams, the night sweats, the sound of a voice singing inside his head.