The Weight Of Silence Part 16

"I'm fine. Now please go. I'll join you as soon as I can. Tell Petra that I love her and I'll see her soon." I kiss Fielda on the forehead and turn to Mrs. McIntire. "Thank you for looking after my wife. I am grateful."

"I'm glad to help. Fielda and I have become fast friends."

"I'll go get my purse, oh, and Snuffy," Fielda says as she hurries into the house. Snuffy is Petra's stuffed anteater, which she sleeps with each night.

Mary Ellen leans in close to me. "You know who did this, don't you?"

"I think I do, yes." I do not look her in the eye.

"He did terrible things to Petra," she states. I notice it is not a question.

"Yes, he did."

"You're going after him, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am." I now look her straight in the eye, trying to determine if she will tell Fielda, who would rail against my foolishness.

Mary Ellen McIntire and I stand in the shadows of the porch; she briefly touches my arm, but says nothing.

Fielda and her mother emerge from the house, purse and Snuffy in hand. She kisses my lips, tells me she loves me, then gets into Mrs. McIntire's car and drives away. I stand for a long time, watching until the red glow from the car's taillights disappears, and then I trudge up the steps, into the house, and flick off the porch light. I sit in the dark at the kitchen table, trying to gather my thoughts.

Then I stand stiffly, my muscles protesting, and I go upstairs to my mother-in-law's extra bedroom. I open the closet door and reach high behind the photo alb.u.ms and behind Mrs. Mourning's wedding gown, the very same dress that Fielda wore for our wedding. The gown is wrapped in paper and sealed in a box, tied with a blue ribbon. I stand on the tips of my toes and fumble around for the wooden box. My hand grazes the container and I am able to nudge it toward me. I pull the box down and lay it on the bed. It is not locked. I lift the top and hear the slight creak of its bra.s.s hinges. Inside is a gun. I do not know the caliber or the brand name. I have never been interested in firearms. The gun that I have set before me belonged to Fielda's father who had pa.s.sed away many years before, long before I had met her. Fielda's mother does not know why she keeps it; guns scare her, but she cannot bring herself to give it away, and most likely has forgotten that it is up here. I take the gun out of its velvet-lined box and am surprised at its heaviness for such a small gun. One lone bullet rolls around in the box and I pull it out and hold it tightly, warming it within my sweaty palm. I glance at my watch and know that I am short on time. I need to hurry.

ANTONIA.

I look at Calli as she sleeps. Her dirty face isn't peaceful, unlined and untroubled as a seven-year-old little girl's face should be in sleep. Deep grooves have settled in the s.p.a.ce just above the bridge of her nose and her lips are pinched tightly. On another examining table, next to Calli, sits Ben. Dr. Higby and Molly are now tending to him, collecting more evidence. His face is a mess. I have avoided asking Ben the question that has rested on my tongue since I first glanced at him when he entered the hospital. Who did this to you? Who did this to you? I am afraid of the answer. I am afraid of the answer.

I dip the washcloth that Molly has given me in a basin of warm water and begin to wipe the dirt from Calli's body. I start at her face, beginning at her hairline, trying to gently smooth the channels that travel along her forehead. I move down behind her ears, along her cheeks and under her chin, carefully lifting and lowering her head as if she is an infant. I see her nearly naked form on the table, except for her hospital gown and the thick white gauze that is wrapped around her feet; the number of bruises that dot her arms once again startles me, even though I had watched Molly take pictures of them earlier. These are no childhood bruises caused by a careless tumble or by an accidental b.u.mp into a sharp corner. I gently fit my fingers around the even arrangement of the marks and shudder.

I continue my washing of Calli, now focusing on her hands, trying to rinse away the dirt that has collected in the little wrinkles that form her knuckles and in the valleys that score the inside of her palms.

I trace the lines on her palm, now pink from my scrubbing, and I wonder at her future, my little damaged girl. And I wonder about Griff. Where is he?

"Well," says Dr. Higby, "we've got one broken nose and what appear to be three broken ribs on Ben here. You'll live, Ben, but you won't be playing any contact sports for a while."

Ben snorts a little at this and looks sadly at me.

"We're going to get Calli settled into her room for the night. You two are welcome to stay with Calli tonight or you are free to go home," Dr. Higby tells us.

"Stay," Ben and I say at the same time and we smile at each other. We both know we need to be with Calli.

"I'd like to run home and get a few things. Some clean clothes, Calli's blanket and stuffed monkey," I tell Dr. Higby.

"That's probably a good idea," Dr. Higby says. "Calli is going to need all the comfort she can get in the next few days. And, Ben, no offense, but you could use a shower and a clean shirt."

Ben laughs and I am glad. Whatever happened up there wasn't enough to take Ben's laugh away.

"Do you have a way to get back to your house?" Molly asks. I frown. No, I don't. My car is back at the house, I am stranded at the hospital. I very much want Calli to wake up with her yellow blanket and monkey. I think of Rose, the nice paramedic, and her offer to help out in any way that she was able.

"I think I do," I tell Molly.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS.

Tucci, Dunn and I retrace the path that Ben and I came down on the four-wheeler. We pause for a moment at the carca.s.s of the dog that Martin Gregory and I had found earlier in the evening. I wonder if the dog had anything to do with the events of the day and make a mental note to suggest that the forensic team investigate. "Did Charles Wilson, the school counselor, ever find his dog?" I ask.

"Don't know," Tucci answers. "We had nothing to hold him on. His wife said she woke up at about seven this morning and that he left sometime before then to walk the dog on the trails."

"Do we know where Wilson is right now?" I ask, wondering if we hadn't let Wilson go prematurely. From the glow of my flashlight I see Tucci shrug his shoulders. "Call into dispatch and check on it. We need to cover all bases." Suddenly I feel foolish tracking some unseen being in the forest in the dead of night. I don't know what made me think that I would be able to find whomever I had seen crouched among the trees. I guiltily admit to myself that perhaps I hoped that, I, the fearless hero, Antonia's hero, would bring Griff in. Ben had told me that it was Griff up there on top of the bluff. It was Griff who beat him, and it was Griff who left Petra and Ben up there all alone.

"Do you see anything?" Tucci asks after we had been walking for about forty minutes.

"Naw," I say, disgusted with myself.

"He's probably long gone now. We may as well go back. We'll organize a search for daybreak. He could be anywhere by now," Dunn says.

The radio at my hip crackles and the dispatcher lets me know that I have a guest waiting for me down at the bottom of the bluff. Agent Fitzgerald.

"Let's go," I tell Tucci and Dunn, convinced that Griff is still out here, waiting, for what I'm not sure.

When we step out of the forest I can see Fitzgerald deep in conversation with a man and woman dressed in civilian clothing. The headlights from two cruisers light them up from behind. I figure the two people that Fitzgerald is talking to are other agents from his office. When we approach the group they stop talking and look at us. I can tell by the look on Fitzgerald's face he isn't happy with me.

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you were doing?" he spits at me. Tucci and Dunn shift uncomfortably behind me.

"Have you gotten word on Petra Gregory's condition?" I ask, ignoring Fitzgerald's obvious anger.

"She's still unconscious, but stable. There's evidence of s.e.xual a.s.sault," the woman next to Fitzgerald tells me and my stomach clenches as I think of Calli. "I'm Special Agent Lydia Simon. This is Special Agent John Temperly. We're here to help with the investigation involving the two little girls. I understand you've had quite an evening."

"You could say that," I tell her, still eyeing Fitzgerald warily, waiting for his next burst of anger.

"You took two civilians-worse, two of the victims' parents-on an unauthorized search," Fitzgerald says in a threatening voice. Agent Simon places a hand on Fitzgerald's arm and he instantly quiets. I get the sense that she has great influence over Fitzgerald, is perhaps his senior in their department.

"You found the two girls and the boy?" Simon asks me.

"Actually, Calli Clark found us. We were standing right about here when she came out of the woods. She was carrying Petra Gregory's necklace and underwear. We figured out that Petra and Calli's brother, Ben, were still at the top of the bluff."

"You let Martin Gregory go up the bluff," Fitzgerald says accusingly.

"There was no way I was going to stop him." I can't keep my own irritation out of my voice. "I called for an ambulance and backup and followed him up the bluff. He thought that Ben Clark had something to do with what happened to Petra and he was going up there, ready to kill anyone at the top that might have hurt his daughter!"

"You should have followed procedure and waited for backup," Fitzgerald shoots back at me.

"Hold on now," Agent Simon says. "Let's just all get up to speed on the investigation and go from there. We can't change what has happened and the girls are safe. Let's focus on finding who did this."

"Ben Clark, Calli's brother, said that Griff Clark, their father, was the one," I say, trying to make my voice sound professional again.

"Ben saw his father up there with the girls?" Agent Temperly asks.

"Yeah, said his dad was the one who beat the c.r.a.p out of him up there. He was pretty messed up. He was standing guard over Petra when we got to the top. Ben said he tried to keep his dad there, but he got away."

The three agents ponder this for a moment. "What does Calli Clark say about what happened?" Agent Simon questions.

"Calli hasn't spoken in four years," I tell her. "Until today. She said Ben Ben when she reached us at the bottom of the bluff. And that was all. I don't know if she's said more. She's at the hospital in Willow Creek. Her brother should be there by now, too." I look at my watch. It is a little after eleven. I am exhausted, but my night is just beginning. when she reached us at the bottom of the bluff. And that was all. I don't know if she's said more. She's at the hospital in Willow Creek. Her brother should be there by now, too." I look at my watch. It is a little after eleven. I am exhausted, but my night is just beginning.

"Why would she say her brother's name if it was her father who did all this?" Agent Temperly asks. "Why didn't she say Dad? Dad? Could the brother have been lying? Could he have done this?" Could the brother have been lying? Could he have done this?"

"Absolutely not," I say. "Ben Clark is a good boy. He did nothing but spend the day looking for his sister and Petra."

"Well, you tend to have a soft spot when it comes to the Clark family, don't you?" Fitzgerald says snidely. "Does Antonia Clark know that her husband is now the major suspect in this case?"

"I don't know." The reality that the man that my Toni had married has done some truly horrific things. .h.i.ts me hard. I don't want to be the one to tell her.

"We need to talk to that little girl," Agent Simon says with finality. "We need her to tell us what she saw up there on that bluff. Let's go on over to the hospital and see if we can speak with her."

BEN.

I feel better now that I've taken a bath in the little bathroom in your hospital room. I had to be real careful not to get the tape that was wrapped around my ribs wet, not too easy. Dr. Higby gave me some green scrubs to put on. I'm also feeling a little light-headed from the medicine that the nurse gave me for the pain in my nose and ribs. Mom just left to go back to the house to get some stuff. I asked her if she could bring back my Green Bay Packers pillow, not that I needed it to sleep, but when a face hurts as much as mine does, a guy needs something extra soft to lay his head on. Mom borrowed the car of some lady named Rose and asked her if she would keep an eye on us while she was gone and Rose promised she would. She's gone down to the cafeteria to get some food to smuggle in for me. I requested chips and a Mountain Dew, but Rose said I wouldn't want anything too salty or too sweet with the cuts I had all around my lips. I had to agree with that, I guess.

I lie in the hospital bed that is next to you and click through the channels on the TV that is attached to the wall above us. I keep the volume down low so as not to wake you, but from the looks of things you won't be waking up for a while. The way you screamed earlier when I had walked in still clanks around in my head. I wonder if how I looked scared you, I looked pretty monstrous, if I do say so myself. Mom told me that you had said my name when you found them at the bottom of Bobcat Trail, and at first I felt pretty good about that. Then I got to thinking, Calli, why did you go and say my name? Why didn't you say Dad's name? He's the one who caused this big old mess in the first place. I'm hoping you don't think I had something to do with it all; it was pretty confusing up there. I look over to where you're sleeping. What were you thinking, Calli? I want to ask. Why did you say my name?

Calli, when you were born, I was so sad and happy at the same time. I was five and the ch.o.r.e of sharing you with Mom turned my stomach sour. When I first saw your tiny little toes, no bigger than jelly beans, I knew that my mom wasn't just mine anymore. You had a cry that could wake the dead. And how you wailed! She would carry you around for hours on her shoulder, patting your back and whispering in your sh.e.l.l-shaped ear, "Hush now, Calli, hush now." But you wouldn't. She would stumble around, half-sleeping, her eyes all shadowed, her hair sticking up and wild. Even after all your fussing, covered with spit-up, foul and stinky smelling, she'd still be all patient with you. She'd say, "Ben, we have a feisty one here. She's going to keep us on our toes. Big brother, you need to look out for our little whirlwind."

And I have, time and again.

Dad was the only one who could quiet you down. When he'd come home from the pipeline I'd hear the squeak of the back door and the thunk of his green duffel hitting the floor, and I'd think, now Calli will shut up. He'd s.n.a.t.c.h you right out of Mom's arms and say all sweet like, "Stop that squallin', Calli-girl." And you would. Just like that. Your red, squinched-up face would go all smooth, and you'd look at Dad big-eyed, like you were thinking, "Who is this man?" Then you'd rub your little peanut nose into his chest, grab his big, sausage finger with your tiny hand and fall into this deep sleep.

It was as if the house just wasn't big enough for two centers of attention, and when Dad came home you knew it was time to sit back and watch awhile. I think that Mom felt sort of bad that you'd stop your howling for him and not her. I mean, she was the one who would change your s.h.i.tty diapers, and feed you that nasty green gunk from a baby food jar. And she's the one who about went crazy from worry when you were two months old and had a fever of one hundred and five degrees. It was Christmastime and forty below outside, and the walls shook with the force of the wind. But Mom still filled the tub with freezing cold water and stripped the two of you bare naked and climbed into that popsicle water. You both had goose b.u.mps the size of footb.a.l.l.s and blue lips, but she just sat there holding you, the two of you shivering so hard little waves sloshed over the side of the bathtub. She sat there rocking you in that tub until the fever was gone and you started screaming like normal, your crying pinging off the bathroom walls.

I couldn't sleep, what with your fussing echoing through the house, so I made Mom chocolate milk and found her favorite socks, the rainbow striped ones with little slots for each toe to slide into, for her to put on. I climbed over the bars of your crib and pulled out your yellow blanket and that goofy sock monkey Mom made you. I tucked them in Mom's big bed, because I knew she'd lie with you there that night. She sat for what seemed hours, watching you breathe, every once in a while putting her finger beneath your nose just to feel that small rush of warm air coming out. I wonder if she ever does that with me. Creep into my room, even though I'm twelve now, and check to see if I'm still breathing, watch the rise and fall of my chest. I'd like to think that she does.

So I think that Mom's feelings were hurt that Dad was the only one to calm you. I know that you didn't mean for her to feel that way. I know that having Dad home filled up each corner of the house, kind of like someone sitting on your chest. It's real hard to make sounds when each breath just goes into breathing. Funny how Dad was the only one who could quiet you and in the end was the only one who finally got you to speak.

ANTONIA.

I hurry down the hallway and to the elevator. Rose Callahan is so kind to let me borrow her car. I'm not sure of how I am going to thank her, but I will certainly find a way when this is all over. I jangle her keys in my hand as I wait for the elevator door to open. Ben and I still haven't had the conversation that is needed. I haven't asked him who had beaten him so badly. Once again my lack of proper mothering skills is shining through. Wouldn't most mothers exclaim, "Who did this to you?" I'm not ready to ask that question yet. I'm not prepared to hear that Ben's own father has been responsible for this and so much worse. My stomach churns at the prospect of all the devastation Griff doled out this day. But maybe not, though, no one had come right out and said Griff did all this, he could be off in some bar somewhere for all I know. I just want to go home and get my children some clean clothes and items of comfort. The elevator door opens and I step in, push the b.u.t.ton for the main floor and lean back against the wall. I close my eyes and try not to think. The doors open again and I step out. Then I have the urge to retreat into them, given the scene unfolding before me.

There seems to be half a dozen police officers. I see Agent Fitzgerald talking with two people I've never seen before. A few reporters occupy a corner of the main entrance waiting area and Louis looks to be in a heated discussion with Logan Roper, Griff's old high-school friend. Then I see the doors to the main entrance open and in stomps Christine Louis. Louis's wife. Great, I think. She doesn't look so happy. I look around for an exit to take unseen, but it's too late. Christine spots me, gives me a searing look and goes over to her husband.

"Christine?" Louis says looking off behind her. "Where's Tanner?"

"He's out in the car, Loras," she says shortly. She is the only person I know who ever calls Louis by his first name. "He's sleeping."

"You left him out in the car alone?" Louis says in disbelief. "Christine, there's a kidnapper out there somewhere. You just can't leave a child unattended in a car."

"You-" she pokes a finger at him "-gave up any say in what I do with my son the minute you decided that her her children were more important than Tanner." children were more important than Tanner."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?" Louis says, taking Christine by the arm and pulling her out of earshot.

I take that opportunity to exit quickly through the hospital doors, searching for the red Civic that is Rose's car. As I unlock the car door and start to climb in, Agent Fitzgerald and the two strangers he was speaking with surround me.

"Mrs. Clark," says Agent Fitzgerald, "I'm pleased to hear that your children have been found and are safe and sound."

"Yes, me, too," I say brusquely. I want to get out of there before Christine tries to pull me into her argument with Louis.

Agent Fitzgerald introduces me to the two as his colleagues, Agents Temperly and Simon. I smile at them in greeting and settle myself behind the wheel.

"We need to talk to your children, Mrs. Clark," Agent Simon says to me.

"I know you do. Should we set up a time for sometime tomorrow?"

"You don't understand," says Agent Temperly. "We need to speak with Calli now."

"No, you you don't understand. Calli's had a horrible day, she's sleeping right now. No one is asking her any questions tonight," I declare firmly. don't understand. Calli's had a horrible day, she's sleeping right now. No one is asking her any questions tonight," I declare firmly.

"We don't need your permission to speak with a witness, Mrs. Clark," Fitzgerald informs me.

I wonder whatever made me trust this man. "No, but you do need the doctor's permission to speak with her. And if he says my children aren't ready, then you will not speak to them!" I climb out of the car again and march right back into the hospital to let Dr. Higby know that under no circ.u.mstances is anyone to talk to my children until I get back.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS.

I pull Christine to a more private corner of the hospital waiting room. Here we go again. Christine threw her little public fits about twice a year, then she would calm down and say she was sorry and we would carry on as usual until the next time.

"What is going on?" I ask her through clenched teeth. "I'm working here."

"That's half the problem," she cries. "You're working all the time. We never see you!"

"It's my job!" I say, louder than I intend. I can feel many eyes on us. I glimpse Toni hurrying out of the hospital and wonder where she is going. Did she know that Griff was somewhere out there?

"And she's the other half of the problem," Christine's voice breaks as she tosses her chin toward Toni. "You hung up on me, Loras! You were with her. her. Whenever she needs something, you go running. Right now, even, you're looking at her, when I'm trying to tell you that we are leaving." Whenever she needs something, you go running. Right now, even, you're looking at her, when I'm trying to tell you that we are leaving."

That pulls my gaze back to Christine. "What do you mean, you're leaving? Is Tanner really out in the car?"

"Yes, he's sleeping. I locked the doors. He's fine," Christine growls.

"What if he woke up and climbed out? Jesus, Christine, use your head. Let's go out there."

"Yes, let's go out there, Loras. You can say goodbye to him then. I'm taking Tanner back to Minnesota."

"What? Like, for a vacation?"