The Weight Of Silence Part 12

I began reading and my mother fell asleep within minutes. For the first time that I could remember, I bent down and kissed her while she slept. Her lips felt thin and papery, but warm. Underneath the odor of disease and the sheer exertion of trying to live, I caught her true scent. And I closed my eyes and willed myself to remember. But I went and forgot, didn't I? I forgot everything she had told me.

I was sitting in World History cla.s.s one afternoon, when the princ.i.p.al came to my cla.s.sroom door. The teacher stopped writing on the chalkboard and he went over to where the princ.i.p.al stood; they whispered with their heads close together for a moment and then both looked in my direction. I remember my chest tightening in fear and thinking to myself, I haven't had enough time with you yet, Mom, I haven't had enough time with you, either. I haven't had enough time with you yet, Mom, I haven't had enough time with you, either. I slowly rose from my chair, leaving my books and things behind. I remember Louis following along behind me, gripping my elbow, walking me to his car and driving me home. He stayed with me long into that first terrible night without my mother. We didn't talk-we didn't have to-and now I think we had much the same friendship that Calli and Petra have. I slowly rose from my chair, leaving my books and things behind. I remember Louis following along behind me, gripping my elbow, walking me to his car and driving me home. He stayed with me long into that first terrible night without my mother. We didn't talk-we didn't have to-and now I think we had much the same friendship that Calli and Petra have.

After my mother died I continued to read. Before I went to bed each night I would read a few pages of a book aloud to myself. It took me forever to finish a novel, but it didn't seem right to me to read silently to myself anymore. Odd, I know. Griff made fun of me when I read children's books that I would find at garage sales to Ben when he was in my womb. I learned not to do that when he was around, but I loved cradling my huge stomach with one arm while holding a book in the other, reading to my tiny fetus. I firmly believed Ben could hear me in there, rocking back and forth, maybe a tiny little thumb in his mouth. It was much more acceptable reading aloud like that after my children were born. Even now, I read each night to Calli and even Ben, once in a great while, will let me read part of the book he is reading. When Griff is out of town, I will crawl into my bed and read myself a bedtime story until I fall asleep, book in hand.

Louis asked me a few times, after my mother died, if I would read to him, but I was too self-conscious and wouldn't. He gave up after I told him impatiently not to ask me again. Louis was always there for me, until, of course, I wouldn't let him be. Even when my father pa.s.sed away. Griff and I had been married for three years; Louis sent me a sympathy card. I could tell it was from him without even looking at the return address. I had memorized his small, neat printing back when we were in first grade. I never showed the card to Griff, Louis had signed the card Always, Louis Always, Louis and I did not have the energy to try to explain that to Griff. and I did not have the energy to try to explain that to Griff.

Sometimes I dream of Louis. Of he and I together as we once were, when we were sixteen. In my dreams we are always in Willow Creek Woods walking hand in hand. I can feel the texture of his palm against mine, the brush of his fingers. Even now, when I think back to these dreams, if I sit completely still I can feel his touch. In my dreams, when Louis kisses me, the rush of air that we exchange into each other's mouth remains on my tongue hours after I've wakened. In the back of my mind, even as I am dreaming, I am saying to myself, You're married, Antonia, what about your husband? What about Griff? You're married, Antonia, what about your husband? What about Griff? And in my dream I would force myself to pull away from Louis, to sweep away the feel of his touch. I would awaken then, sometimes with Griff next to me, but more often than not with Griff a thousand miles away in Alaska, my skin hot and my brain addled. And in my dream I would force myself to pull away from Louis, to sweep away the feel of his touch. I would awaken then, sometimes with Griff next to me, but more often than not with Griff a thousand miles away in Alaska, my skin hot and my brain addled.

Still I could go for days, even weeks, without thinking of Louis. But then I would see his police car parked downtown or I'd see his pretty wife in the grocery store with their little boy situated in the grocery cart, kicking his fat little legs and I'd think, That could be me, that could be my life That could be me, that could be my life. Then I'd get disgusted with myself and shut down that corner of my mind for a while. Griff wasn't always so bad. He didn't start drinking really hard-core until after Ben was born. And he didn't hit me for the first time until Ben was three. I don't even remember what it was that I had done to make him so mad, but he hit me so hard that I didn't leave the house without sungla.s.ses for a month. He didn't hit me again for at least a year, but he did get smarter about it. He never hit me in a place where someone would see the marks. But even so, he could be so wonderful. So funny and sweet. And the stories he would tell about his adventures on the pipeline always made me laugh so hard. Even Lou could never make me laugh like that. If only he could stop drinking, things could be so different. No, I know Griff loves me and he's my husband. He was my choice, just like they say, for better or worse.

I need to go and look for Ben now, with or without Louis. I am used to Griff not being around for me. That was one thing that I could count on, Griff not being reliable. I decide I am not coming out of the forest until I have Ben for sure. I'm not confident that Calli is in the woods, but it makes sense that she would be. I will bring her home, too. Mrs. Norland tries to talk me out of leaving, but in the end places several bottles of water into my backpack and gives me a hug. As I loop the backpack through my arms and settle it onto my back I see Martin Gregory trekking his way toward Mrs. Norland's house.

"Now what?" I wonder and I open the door to meet him halfway.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS.

I walk Mary Ellen McIntire to the exit, open the door for her and once again the heat of the day nearly takes my breath away. I tell her that I will let her know if she can be of any a.s.sistance to the Clark and Gregory families and watch her make her way to her car. She looks defeated, broken, and I wonder if this day will ever end. I see Tucci waving me over to him and I close the door on the oppressive heat outside. "Who was the guy that was brought in a minute ago?" I ask him.

"The tall guy with white hair?" Tucci asks, but continues without waiting for my answer. "That was Charles Wilson, the counselor over at the elementary school. And guess where they picked him up at?" This time Tucci waits for my response.

"Where?" I ask, but think I already know the answer and I feel my stomach clench.

"Willow Creek Woods," Tucci says, smacking his hand on his desk. "Says he was out walking his dog. But guess what? No dog. Park ranger noticed him roaming around Tanglefoot Trail and called us. Bender and Washburn went out and picked him up."

"What's he saying?" I ask.

"Nada. Nothing. He's lawyered up. The minute the little girls were mentioned, he clammed up," Tucci says triumphantly. Already he thinks that Wilson is the one who took the girls. Maybe so, but what about Griff?

"Do you think he would talk to me?" I ask Tucci.

"No way. He said he wanted his lawyer, right away. He's sitting in the conference room waiting for her. We got nothing on him. His lawyer will have him out of here in the next hour." My phone rings and I sit back in my chair to answer it.

"Louis, it's Martin. Antonia and I were wondering if you could come over to Mrs. Norland's home."

I sit up straight in my chair. "Did something happen?" I ask.

"Nothing you don't already know about. They found those footprints in Antonia's backyard, but we want to talk to you about searching for the girls."

"Martin, a few officers made a sweep of the woods near your home and found nothing. A larger scale search is being planned with dogs and a helicopter," I say. I consider telling him about Charles Wilson being brought in, but decide against it. I know too little, and I don't want to get his hopes up for nothing.

"I know. I understand you are doing what you can, but time is pa.s.sing too quickly. Please come over to Mrs. Norland's house. We need your help. Please," Martin pleads.

"I'll be right over, Martin. Don't go and do anything until I get there, okay?"

"We'll be waiting. Please hurry."

I hang up the phone, not a little bothered that Toni hadn't been the one to call me. I wonder what it meant. Is she losing faith in me, doubting my abilities as an officer? I hope not. There are few leads. Maybe the school counselor is the guy. Doesn't feel right, though. Tanglefoot Trail, where he was picked up, is nowhere near the girls' homes. We still can't seem to locate Lucky Thompson, the college kid who works at the Mourning Glory. He hadn't shown up for his afternoon shift at the cafe. So many questions. My hand rests on the phone's receiver, and I am debating whether to call my wife. I should have checked in with her by now. I leave the police station without calling her. As I pull away, I switch my radio to F2 so that only Meg, our dispatcher, can hear me.

"Meg, this is for your information only," I tell her.

"Go ahead," she responds.

"I'm checking out the woods along Bobcat Trail for our missing girls. I'll be back in contact shortly."

"Ten-four."

ANTONIA.

Louis is on his way over. It seems so simple now, for us to just go out into the woods to look for the girls. I don't plan to come home until I have Ben, Calli and Petra back with us.

"How do you think we can get past the press or the other officers without them knowing where we are going?" Martin asks.

"I don't know." That same question has been nagging me, as well. While getting as many people as possible looking for the kids would be a good thing, the idea of a camera following us around did not appeal to me. Besides, I wonder how Calli would react if there were a bunch of strangers in the woods looking for her. I think it would frighten her, that perhaps she would hide, making it much more difficult to find her.

Earlier, I had thought there was no way I would survive this day. A hundred emotions have traveled the course of my body and I am exhausted. But now the day is ending and the less sunlight we have, the more difficult it will be to locate the children. I wish we had set out hours earlier and I find myself resenting Louis and Agent Fitzgerald for s.n.a.t.c.hing precious time away.

"He's here," Martin says, seeing Louis through Mrs. Norland's curtains.

I open the door to let him in even before he can knock.

"Hi," I say. "Thanks for coming."

"Sure. Martin sounded urgent." Louis reaches out to shake Martin's hand in greeting. Who did that anymore, I wonder. It is so formal, especially in our circ.u.mstance.

"We want to go looking for the children," Martin informs him. "I know that's not really in the plan that Agent Fitzgerald laid out, but we feel we need to do this."

Louis listens, showing no reaction.

"It's going to be dark in a few hours, Louis," I tell him. "I cannot stand the idea of them being out there in the woods at night. I have to go looking for them."

"I know what you're saying. I don't disagree with you. I just think that we would be able to cover a lot more ground with the organized search tomorrow. We'll have the search dogs and all the people we could ask for."

"We can still do all that tomorrow, if we need to." Impatience fills Martin's voice. "Right now, Antonia and I are going out looking for them, with you or without you. We're hoping you will be able to go with us or at least help us avoid the media as we set out." Martin and I both anxiously await Louis's decision. He has the same look on his face that he'd get when we were kids. That look of indecision right after I would dare him to do something he knew would either get him in trouble or hurt. In the end, Lou always took the dare.

"All right. Where do you want to start?" Louis asks with a sigh.

Martin looks to me. "I'm not familiar with the forest. I wouldn't know where to begin looking, I am afraid."

"Ben said he already tried Willow Wallow and the places on the edge of the woods. Let's head in deeper right away. How about Old Schoolhouse Path and then Bobcat Trail? Maybe the girls tried to find the school and got lost," I suggest.

Old Schoolhouse Path is a winding, mostly overgrown trail only recognizable to those who know the woods well. Settled about three miles into the woods is a small one-room schoolhouse, at least one hundred years old. No one knows why someone would choose to build a school in such a remote, difficult place to reach. Some people who had lived at the edge of the forest believed that a small group of settlers had made their home in the woods and as a community had built the school. It was difficult, however, to keep a teacher interested in staying in such an isolated area. So eventually, the people of the wood moved closer into town and abandoned the school made of limestone and oak. The st.u.r.dy little school was still standing, but engulfed by weeds. The small windows were broken out and many woodland animals had taken up residence there.

I had taken Ben and Calli there once a few years ago and we had talked of cleaning up the schoolhouse, maybe making a fort out of it, our own personal hiding spot. But it was too far into the woods, the hike too tiring for Calli, and we discarded the idea. Maybe Calli and Petra had decided to find the old school and investigate. This idea was much more comforting a scenario than the one that included Calli's footprints in the dust. Calli being dragged off somewhere.

"What about the reporters?" Martin asks.

"Could we distract them somehow?" I wonder. "Tell them that there is going to be a press conference at the sheriff's office, send them there?"

"That's all fine and good until they get there and there's no press conference. You don't want to p.i.s.s them off, Toni. You may need them later on," Louis says.

"I think I know what we can do," Martin remarks. "May I use Mrs. Norland's telephone?"

"Of course," I answer. "Who are you calling?"

"Fielda," he responds. "She was planning on speaking with a reporter from Channel Twelve anyway. I don't think a few more reporters will matter."

"I think I know how we can keep the reporters happy for even longer," Louis adds. "If Fielda wouldn't mind, I know of someone who wants to help in any way that she can. Mary Ellen McIntire is in town." Louis looks at us expectantly.

"You mean the lady whose little girl was murdered? You don't think the same person who did that to her daughter had anything to do with this, do you, Louis?" I ask, my voice cracking.

"I don't know, Toni. I hope not. It's different in many ways, but Jenna McIntire was somehow lured from her home and into a wooded area. There's just enough of a similarity for Agent Fitzgerald to be interested and for the press to be all over this. It will keep the media occupied for a while."

Martin and I look at each other. "I'll call Fielda and explain what we are doing. Louis, call Mrs. McIntire and have her drive over to my mother-in-law's home. Antonia, go outside and tell the reporters that there will be a press conference at the Mourning home in-" he looks at his watch "-in fifteen minutes."

BEN.

I am so tired and I keep nodding off. My eyes are nearly swollen shut and my head is throbbing. Dad looks like he is sleeping, so I relax a little bit. Through my slits for eyes I see Petra move, just a little bit. So she's not dead, thank G.o.d. I stand from where I am sitting, using a tree to steady myself. I feel dizzy and so, so tired. All I want to do is take a drink of water, ice-cold, and crawl into my bed and sleep for days. I stumble over to where Petra lies; she has tucked herself into a little ball, her arms covering her head so I can't see her face, which is prob'ly a good thing. My stomach isn't feeling so great; I don't think I can stand to get too close a look at Petra's face beaten to a pulp. But I need to get her to talk to me, to tell me what happened while Dad is sleeping.

"Petra," I whisper. "Petra!" I say a little bit louder. I kneel down and place my hand on her shoulder. My fingers are covered with dried blood and no amount of wiping them on my shorts will clean them off. Petra curls up tighter into her little ball.

"Petra, it's Ben. Please wake up. I gotta talk to you."

She moans a little bit as if it hurts her even to hear my voice.

"It's okay, Petra. You're safe now. I won't let him hurt you anymore." I glance over to where my dad sits, still sleeping. Petra moans again and I pat her on the arm.

"Mommy," she cries softly.

"You'll see your mom soon, Petra." I try to make her feel better. "Petra, did my dad do this to you?" No response. "Come on, Petra, you can tell me. Did my dad hurt you? Who brought you here?"

No answer. I sigh and sit back on my b.u.t.t. At least she said something; she isn't going to die this instant anyway. Petra is okay for a seven-year-old. And she is real good to Calli. I gotta give Petra some credit. It couldn't have been easy having a kid who didn't talk, ever, for a best friend. It didn't seem to bother her any, though. Those two would just play like any first-graders, except that Petra'd do all the talking.

"Ben," she'd say when she was over, "Calli and I were wondering if we could borrow your baseball glove and bat?" or "Calli's not feeling very good, is your mom around?" It was pretty amazing, come to think of it. As long as Petra was around, I didn't worry too much about Calli.

Those two would go off together with their heads bent toward one another, looking like they were having this serious conversation. It made me wonder sometimes if Calli just wouldn't talk to us. Maybe she and Petra really talked all the time. I asked Petra once. I said, "Petra, has Calli ever talked to you?"

"We talk all the time," she said all casual-like. "But not out loud. I know what she is thinking and she knows what I am thinking."

"Weird," I had said.

"Yeah, I guess," she said.

"But a good kind of weird," I said quickly. Having Petra around made my life easier and I didn't want her to go thinking she was nuts to be Calli's friend.

"Yeah, a good weird," she agreed and then skipped off to where Calli was waiting for her.

It's a mystery to me. I pat Petra on the shoulder again and she cringes at my touch. She begins crying softly and moaning again.

I look back to where Dad is, do a double take. He's gone. I stand up real quick and look around me, spinning in a circle. Not there. He has gotten away. I feel tears burning my already sore eyes. I let him go I let him go. Had Calli gotten down to the bottom yet? I'm not sure how much time has pa.s.sed. She is fast, though, faster than I would have been, but did she have enough time to get to help before Dad got to her? I didn't know. Maybe he's just hiding behind a tree somewhere, waiting for me to turn my back, then he can finish both me and Petra off. I feel only a little bit of shame in thinking that Dad would kill me, but he had broken my nose and Petra was lying there half-dead. I don't feel so big and strong just now. I can almost hear Dad laughing at me, "Oooh, the big hero, Ben! What'cha gonna do now? Them tears, Ben? A crybaby on top of it all."

Then the tears really come pouring out and I can't stop them. What if Dad got to Calli? I let her down again. I was tired of being the big brother, tired of taking the licks for everything. What should I do? Do I stay with Petra until help comes or do I go on down the bluff looking for help myself? I don't know what to do. I am twelve years old and I shouldn't have to make these decisions. What would Mom do? I think about that as I settle to the ground next to Petra, my back resting against a large rock. Not the Mom who was around when Dad was home, but the Mom who was there when Dad wasn't. The Mom who single-handedly whacked down the bat that flew down our chimney one night with an umbrella, and then carried it out to the woods to get rid of it. The Mom who, when I was eight and fell out of a tree and cut my head on a rock, wrapped a towel around my bleeding head and held my hand while the doctor put five staples in my skull. She didn't even cry or get sick. She just sat there, made me look at her, and told me it was going to be okay while they shot those staples into my head. What would that Mom do in my place? I chew on that for a while and finally decide that Mom would stay with Petra until help came. That would be the right thing to do, I could keep Petra safe. That is what I'm going to do. I will stay and hope that Calli made it down the bluff by now. But what would she do when she got there? How would she let them know where we were? I just have to trust her. She'd tell them. In her own way, she'd tell them.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS.

Antonia is describing again to me Calli's favorite spots in Willow Creek Woods, and I am writing them down in my notebook, though I don't need to. I know these places; we both grew up here and played in these woods since we were kids. I know each hollow and gully as I know the curve of Antonia's face. I know the trails as I have known the map that is Antonia's skin.

My cell phone rings and I consider ignoring it, but it might be someone with info on the girls. I answer it and hear my wife on the other end.

"Loras, what are you doing?" she asks impatiently.

"Working," I tell her, turning away from Toni and Martin.

"You weren't even supposed to work today," she reminds me. I don't answer, knowing she has a lot more to say to me.

"Lou?" Toni asks, coming up behind me and placing a hand on my shoulder. "Is there news?"

"Who is that?" Christine asks. "Is that Toni Clark? Loras, what's going on? Are you with her?"

"I'm working," I repeat. I know I'm acting cold toward my wife. But this is serious. Two girls are missing, even if one of the girls belongs to my ex-girlfriend.

"Loras, you need to come home," Christine's voice is dangerously low. "You haven't spent time with Tanner in days."

"I can't do that at this time," I say, my voice professional. I could be talking to the dispatcher. Why am I acting this way? It's as if I don't want Toni to know I'm speaking with my own wife.

"Loras." Christine is on the verge of tears. "You're talking to your wife, not another deputy. I need to know what's going on!"

"That's just not possible at this time. I'll contact you later."

Christine explodes. "Dammit, Loras, knock it off! Don't you care?" Her voice shrieks from the cell phone, and I know that Toni and Martin can hear her. They both look down, embarra.s.sed for me. "You are throwing this marriage away!" she rants on. "You're with her, aren't you? You are going to f.u.c.king ruin our marriage over that sad, stupid woman who can't keep her husband from drinking or even look after her own kids."

I feel Toni's hand on my arm and I look over at her, expecting her to try and yank the phone from me and give Christine h.e.l.l. But she doesn't. Instead she points toward the trees. I follow her outstretched finger and hang up on Christine without even saying goodbye.

Tearing out of the woods is Calli. Seeing the anguish fall from Antonia's face when she realizes her daughter is coming toward us sends a burst of relief through me. I cannot stand to see Antonia in pain of any sort; she has carried around too much of her fair share anyway. Calli and Ben are Antonia's life, even if her no-good husband doesn't have the same priorities, his being a bottle of beer and a place to flop.

Calli is out of the woods and I see Martin looking behind Calli hopefully, searching into the hawthorne trees that edge Bobcat Trail. No one is coming behind Calli, not yet. As she stops beside me, Calli appears unharmed. She could be any seven-year-old playing a running game, but for two things. In her right hand she is holding a silver necklace with a charm in the shape of a musical note. The necklace, I know, belongs to Petra because her mother described it to me in perfect detail when she called me at four-thirty-five this morning to tell me that Petra was missing from her bedroom. As is procedure, I also got a photograph of the girl and a full description of the clothing she was wearing when she was last seen. Short blue pajamas, white underwear with yellow flowers, and of course, the necklace. Petra's white tennis shoes were also reported missing. Martin has seen the necklace, too, and briefly collapses, but he is up quickly. In long, purposeful strides he approaches. I have seen this look before, a tortured, keening need to know brushed raggedly on the face of a desperate parent, most recently on the parents of ten-year-old Jenna McIntire.

Calli clutches at my sleeve and I stoop so as to be face-to-face with her. I expect no words; Calli hasn't spoken for years. Perhaps she will point and lead us to Petra. Hopefully to a positive end. But she doesn't indicate with a finger or lead me by the hand to the woods. She speaks. One word. As Antonia steps closer I see both confusion and relief. Martin is crying, great inconsolable sobs. And I see what they both do not. Bunched up in Calli's other hand is Petra's white underwear with yellow flowers.