Live To Tell Part 5

Michael gifted me with a diamond necklace, a two-carat eternity circle to brand me as his elegant, knocked-up wife. He also started a tradition of taking me to a fresh Boston hotspot every Sat.u.r.day night, where we would savor four-course dinners and joke about how, soon, these kinds of evenings would be a thing of the past. He would drink gin and tonics. I would sip cranberry juice. We would stay out until two in the morning just because we could, but also because deep inside, we weren't that sad life was about to change.

We loved each other. We really did. And like so many young married couples, we believed there was nothing we couldn't handle, no challenge we couldn't face, no hurdle we couldn't jump, as long as we had each other.

Then, unbeknownst to me, a bacterial infection reached my womb. On the outside, I looked healthy, vibrant, glowing. On the inside, I'd started to poison my unborn child.

I don't remember much of the ambulance ride. I'd started to bleed. A lot. My neighbor Tracey had the good sense to dial 911. She sat with me in the back. Held my hand while EMTs cut off my suede maternity pants and barked out commands that frightened me. Where were the words of rea.s.surance, the a.s.sertions that this was a minor mishap, Your baby is fine, nothing to worry about, ma'am.

I lost consciousness at the hospital. Michael arrived moments after the ambulance. According to my neighbor, he had such a tight grip on my hand, the doctors had to pry his fingers from mine to wheel me in for the emergency C-section.

Then, ready or not, Evan Michael Oliver was born into the world.

Evan weighed three pounds four ounces. When I first met him, he was the size of a kitten, lying in the middle of the isolette with half a dozen wires and tubes dangling from his tiny, wrinkled body. He was covered with fine hair, and so translucent he appeared blue, but that was really the color of his veins, spun out like fine lace beneath the surface of his skin.

He needed the incubator for warmth, a ventilator attached to a blender to help him breathe, and a feeding tube to deliver essential nutrients. He required a blood pressure monitor and a cardiorespiratory monitor. Then there was the drainage pump, the IV, and various other lines that came and went as Evan struggled to fight off infection while still developing properly working internal organs.

He lived in the enclosed isolette like a china doll in a display case. We could look, but not touch. So we stood for brief moments, shoulder to shoulder, filled with that terrible sensation you get when things aren't just wrong, they are WRONG, and you keep waiting for the situation to end, even as specialists yap at you.

The grief counselor kindly offered to call our parents. "You don't have to go through this alone. Reach out to your community, lean on your families and friends."

Michael, stone-faced, never replied. Finally, the counselor took the hint and disappeared. It wasn't her fault we didn't have families and friends-at least, not in the sense she meant. My mother had never forgiven me for becoming more beautiful than her, while Michael's siblings spent more time in than out of jail. We'd given up on everyone years ago. We had each other, and that, we constantly reminded ourselves, was enough.

I wanted to scream that first day. I was only allowed to visit Evan for minutes at a time in the NICU, then it was back to my own hospital room, where I would lie on my side, my traitorous stomach pooled beside me. Nurses brought me medications. The lactation consultant taught me how to operate the breast pump. I was supposed to sleep, focus on recuperating. Mostly I lay in the dark and reviewed the past thirty weeks in my mind over and over again. Was it the sip of champagne I'd had at New Year's? Maybe the fumes from the paint I'd selected for the nursery? Where had I failed? If I could just identify the moment, then go back in time ...

Michael journeyed between the NICU and my room, an ashen-faced man uncertain of who needed him most, his fresh-out-of-surgery wife or his barely breathing son. He didn't speak. He didn't weep. He just moved, ten minutes in this room, ten minutes in that room, as if movement would keep the situation under control. His dark hair started to gray overnight. His strong shoulders seemed to stoop. But he kept walking, room to room, ward to ward, a man on a mission.

I thought Evan would sleep round the clock. All energy conserved for growing, but inevitably, as nurses adjusted his IV or feeding tube, Evan would wake up, staring at us wide-eyed, as if trying to absorb everything about this strange new world.

"He's a fighter," the nurses would say, chuckling over his waving fists even as he blocked their movements. "That's a good sign, honey. He's a tough one."

And he would kick his thin little legs, as if in agreement.

Eventually, I was allowed to touch his cheek. Then one day I finally got to cradle him against my chest, Michael standing beside me, his hand gripping my shoulder so tight it hurt.

Evan opened his eyes again. He stared at both of us, eyes so round in his tiny, wizened head.

And we did what parents do in the NICU.

We promised everything-our grand house, our designer clothes, our self-absorbed careers. We promised it all. Our very lives. We would give up every single piece of ourselves. We would do whatever had to be done, we would lose whatever had to be lost.

If only our son would live.

I can't find the knife. I've searched around the ficus tree, along the floorboards, between the folds of the shredded curtains. I take up sofa cushions, peer into every nook and cranny of the entertainment system. I beam my flashlight under furniture and over cabinets. I know Evan's favorite places. The knife's not in any of them.

He has it. I know he has it.

He's outsmarted me.

The sun will be up soon. I can see the edge of the night sky beginning to lighten, and for a moment, I'm so tired, I want to cry.

"Mommy."

I whirl around. Evan's standing behind me. He wears his favorite Star Wars pajamas, his hands clasped behind his back.

I'm breathing too hard. I have the flashlight in my hands, so I beam it into his pale face. I don't want him to see how badly he's scared me.

"Evan. Show me your hands."

"I want to see Chelsea."

"Not right now."

"Is it morning, Mommy?"

"No, honey, it's still nighttime. What's behind your back, darling?"

"Can we see Chelsea?" he asks again.

"Not right now," I repeat steadily, still eyeing his hands, still waiting to see what he'll do next.

"I want to go to the park," he says.

"In the morning, honey."

"I want to make a new friend today."

"Evan, turn around now. It's time for bed."

Evan abruptly sticks out his hands. He turns them palm up, so I can see that they're empty, that he hasn't been holding anything. The expression on his face is guileless, but then, as I watch, I can see it. A shadow moving in the back of his eyes. A faint smile curving one corner of his mouth.

He knows what I am looking for.

He knows he has it, and that I don't know what to do.

The shadow in his eyes moves again, and I fight the chill creeping up my spine. Evan isn't the only one in this house who's afraid of the phantom.

I take a deep breath, snapping off the flashlight and putting my hand on my son's shoulder. His body is relaxed beneath my touch. He lets me lead him to the foyer, up the stairs. We follow the bright glow to his bedroom, where I tuck him back into bed. He's already half-asleep, his eyes heavy-lidded as I brush a few blonde wisps from his forehead.

"I love you to the moon and the stars and back again," he murmurs, a line from our favorite book. I caress his cheek.

"I love you, too."

"I don't want to hurt you," he says dreamily, already drifting off. His blue eyes open. "But I do."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

D.D. slept until seven the next morning, an unusual luxury when working a high-burn case. She needed the two extra hours of shut-eye, given the late-night trip to the hospital. More to the point, today would be about interviewing friends and family, and they generally didn't care for detectives knocking on their doors before nine.

She showered, downed two shots of espresso, and considered the morning. Neil had agreed to spend the day with the ME, attending the autopsies. That left her and Phil to follow up on the initial canva.s.s of the Harringtons' neighbors.

D.D. swung by HQ long enough to skim the pile of reports on her desk, including the transcripts from interviews conducted last night with available neighbors. Two individuals stood out: a Mrs. Patricia Bruni and a Mr. Dexter Harding. Both claimed to know the Harringtons well: Mrs. Bruni attended the same church; Mr. Dexter hosted poker night with the father.

As good a starting point as any, D.D. decided. She took the transcripts with her, then headed into Dorchester, where Phil had promised to meet her outside of the Harringtons' sealed-off home.

Neighborhood was quiet this morning, maybe even somber, but that could've been D.D.'s imagination. She always found it eerie to visit a scene the day after. The blood was no longer fresh, the sounds and smells had faded into memory. The house became a sh.e.l.l of what used to be. Once a family had lived here. Maybe they'd laughed and loved and been happy. Maybe not. But one way or another, they'd been carving out a life. And now they weren't. Just like that.

D.D. pulled in behind a Chevy Tahoe. She spotted Phil up ahead, standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Beside him was his new shadow, Police Academy professor Alex Wilson.

D.D. frowned, already aggravated, though she couldn't say why. She opened her car door, felt the ripe August heat slap against her face, and scowled harder. She clipped her creds to the waistband of her jeans, wished she could've been wearing a tank top instead of a short-sleeved blue cotton shirt, and got on with it.

Phil and Alex stood head-to-head in dark suits, apparently becoming fast friends. Both men looked up when she approached. Phil wiped a smile from his face; that already had her suspicious.

"Hey," she tossed out to Phil, then turned her attention to Alex. "Back for more?"

"Glutton for punishment," he a.s.sured her.

"We're interviewing today, building profiles of the vics. Not exactly crime-scene material."

The professor shrugged. "Never know when you might learn something useful."

She remained skeptical. Alex wore a charcoal-colored jacket over a blue dress shirt, dark slacks. He should be sweating, she thought, given the heat. It bothered her that he didn't sweat, especially when she could already feel the first bead trickling down her spine to pool at the small of her back.

"Okay," she said crisply, unfolding her paperwork. "We have two primary targets this morning. Mrs. Patricia Bruni and Mr. Dexter Harding. In the interest of time, I'll take Bruni. You two can take Harding."

Phil looked her. Alex looked at Phil.

"What?" she demanded.

"It would be better if we did them together," Phil told her. "Multiple impressions of what the individual has to say."

"Three on one? We'll intimidate them before they say the first word."

"Then you take the lead," Phil replied easily. "We'll hang back, blend into the backdrop."

"Ride my coattails?"

"Exactly." Phil took the first sheet from her. "Patricia Bruni. Lives four houses up. Let's go."

He started walking before she could say another word. Alex paused a beat, then fell in step beside her. "Heard you had an interesting night at the hospital," he commented.

"Not really."

"I caught the Red Sox game myself."

"Never follow baseball."

"More of a Patriots fan?"

"More of a homicide fan. In case you forgot, fieldwork doesn't keep regular hours."

She sounded p.r.i.c.kly even to herself. Alex just grinned. That was it. He and Phil were up to something.

"What are your thoughts on Italian food?" Alex asked.

"Food is good," D.D. allowed.

"Great. We'll have to get some later."

They arrived at Patricia Bruni's house, another triple-decker with a broad front porch. D.D. was distracted.

"When? Do you mean for lunch?"

"Something like that," Alex said, and with that enigmatic grin still on his face he followed her up the front steps.

Patricia Bruni turned out to be a wizened old black lady who went by Miss Patsy and believed in serving her guests, even cops, megagla.s.ses of iced tea. D.D. had a good feeling about Miss Patsy, and not just for the cold iced tea; in D.D.'s experience, wizened old ladies always knew the most about what was going on in the neighborhood.

Miss Patsy invited them inside, "out of the heat," she said, and they gratefully followed her into her lower-level unit, where window air conditioners chugged away at full throttle. Her home was modest, boasting six rooms, lots of furniture, and an impressive collection of Hummel figurines. From what D.D. could tell, if it was small and breakable, Miss Patsy collected it.

D.D. took up the antique wooden chair across from Patsy. It was fun to watch Phil and Alex stand awkwardly in front of the camel-backed love seat, trying to figure out how to sit on its broken-down form. Alex finally perched gingerly on the edge. Older and heavier, Phil reluctantly followed suit. The love seat groaned, but held.

"You're here about the Harringtons," Miss Patsy said straight off, patting her tightly coiled hair. "I tried to tell that officer last night, don't you be thinking this was drugs or any of that other nonsense. Patrick and Denise were nice folks. Good Christian couple. We're lucky to have them on the block."

"They live here long?" D.D. asked, sipping her iced tea. Sweet and cold. She loved Miss Patsy already.

"Bought the house last fall," Patsy provided, confirming the timeline D.D. already had in her head. "Duffys lived in it before that. Kept a lot of late hours, the Duffys did. Seemed to entertain on a regular basis, if you know what I mean."

"Drug dealers?" D.D. ventured.

"Didn't hear it from me," Patsy said, while nodding with her entire upper body.

"So the Duffys moved out, the Harringtons moved in. Get to see the new family very often?"

"Yes, ma'am. Denise came by the very first week with some pumpkin bread. She introduced herself and the kids, had 'em all lined up proper like. Said they were real excited to be living in the neighborhood and wondered if I could recommend a family-friendly church for them."

"Did you?"

"First Congregational Church. Good community church and you can walk from here to there." Patsy leaned forward again. "I'm not supposed to drive, you know. Had a little problem hitting the wrong pedal last year. But it's okay, they've repaired that wall of the pharmacy now. Good as new."

Alex made a sputtering noise from the love seat; iced tea down the wrong pipe. Phil obligingly whacked him on the back.

D.D. ignored them both. "How often did you see the family?"