Hush

by Anne Frasier

  "Guess that explains why I dumped you."

  "I dumped you."

  "I dumped you."

  She laughed.

  "Don't laugh at me."

  "Asshole."

  "Come on, Hastings. I just tried to apologize, and you keep calling me names."

  "Okay, okay."

  "How about going out again?"

  "It would be a waste of our time."

  "How's that?"

  "As you know, I don't do it on the first date. I don't do it on the second either. Or the third."

  "How about the fourth?"

  "You're so full of yourself. For me, sex has to mean something. I have to feel something for the guy. I don't see it as simply recreation."

  "I think the same way."

  "That's bullshit. You have a reputation, Ramirez. And it ain't a good one."

  "Don't say ain't."

  "I was making a point. And anyway, we shouldn't be talking about this now. Not when we're on duty."

  "Are you a virgin?" he asked, suddenly sounding enlightened.

  "Nope."

  "Sure?"

  "Positive."

  "Start young? With sex, I mean."

  "When I was fourteen I was raped, beaten, and left for dead. So yeah, you could say I started young."

  That shut him up.

  Some so-called musicians were so stupid they couldn't read music. Because of their stupidity, he spent hours listening to cassettes of their songs, transcribing it to notes so other idiots could play the exact same tripe. He'd transcribed some big names. The money wasn't great, but it allowed him more time to himself, less time having to wear his social mask.

  When he was little, other kids picked on him. They used to steal his lunch and steal his money—when he had any—and steal his clothes. Not because they wanted them. They weren't anything anybody would want; they did it just to be mean. His mother had tried to get him to fight back, taunting him with the same words the kids used, words like chicken, sissy, baby. Later, those words evolved, became more cutting. Then he was called queer and faggot and pussy. He didn't like guys.

  He didn't know why everybody thought he liked guys. But he didn't like girls either. He hated everybody equally.

  Above his head, he could hear his mother's snores. She was sleeping like a baby.

  She was building up a tolerance to the drugs, but she should still remain asleep a couple more hours. Yesterday she'd given him a heart attack by waking up unexpectedly, so he'd upped her dosage again.

  She'd sued somebody once. That's how she'd gotten the house. She'd been drunk, coming out of a bar, when she fell and broke her leg—that time in four places. It had been a compound fracture that had required surgery and metal pins. She sued the owner of the bar, and ever since she'd just sat around watching TV all day, getting loaded.

  But he had bigger things on his mind than his mother.

  At exactly 6:00 P.M., he shut off the cassette player and pulled the headphones down so they rested around his neck. Then he turned on the local news. He always gave the news his undivided attention.

  He always hoped to be the lead story, but unfortunately that rarely happened. Usually the reports about him were buried by the media, world happenings taking precedence over his cleansings. Gosh, but that was frustrating.

  Tonight was different.

  Tonight was his night.

  The blond female newscaster sat at her sprawling studio desk, a fake Chicago skyline behind her. The camera moved in close so her entire face filled the screen. She was beautiful in a doll-like way, and her makeup and hair were perfect, her pearl necklace both seductive and sterile.

  "The Chicago Police Department is asking citizens for help in finding the perpetrator of the two mother and son slayings that have recently occurred in the Chicago metro area. Although the killer's identity is yet unknown, he is believed to have a rose tattoo on his forearm."

  The camera cut away and the newscaster's image was replaced by that of a rose tattoo with the word mother floating across it.

  "If you know anyone with this type of tattoo, or know anyone who has had a similar tattoo in the past, please contact the Chicago Police Department As an added note, the police request that you do not approach this person yourself. Instead, please call the number on the screen."

  Adrenaline roared through his veins. A lead. After all these years, they had a lead. It was exciting. Exhilarating. He dropped to his knees and covered his mouth with both hands, trapping the sound of his laughter.

  His heart was thumping erratically.

  His thoughts were tangled.

  How had they known about the tattoo?

  How did anybody know?

  Think. Think.

  The only person who could possibly have connected it to the Madonna Murderer was Claudia Reynolds, the whore who'd lived long enough to talk to the police. But if she'd seen his tattoo, why hadn't her knowledge of it come out sixteen years ago?

  No. It had to be something that had recently come to light.

  Think, think.

  Ivy Dunlap.

  He didn't know why her name sprang into his head, but it did. Why was she involved in the case?

  The answer was there somewhere. He just had to find it. He just had to figure it out. And he would. He was clever. He was smart.

  He scrambled to his feet and opened the locker, quickly removing the combination lock. Then he carefully lifted a shoe box from the top shelf. Sitting back on his bed, he removed the lid. Inside was a blue baby blanket. He pulled out the blanket, then unwrapped the item inside, holding it up to the light.

  He didn't know why he'd gotten the tattoo in the first place. He guessed it had been his last attempt to please the cow upstairs. But it hadn't pleased her. Not at all. She'd taken one look at him, grunted, and said she hoped he hadn't paid money for it.

  It had actually felt good to cut it out, to remove it from his body. Afterwards, when the blood was pouring down his arm, dripping off his fingertips, he'd thought about chopping up the tattoo. Maybe putting it in spaghetti sauce and serving it to the bitch. But that hadn't seemed right. So he'd dropped it into a jar of formaldehyde. He didn't know what he was going to do with it, but he was sure something would come along.

  Chapter 24

  Max pulled into his driveway, hoping to find Ethan at home the way he was supposed to be. He didn't like thinking of his son in terms of what he might do next, but when Ethan had already pulled so many stunts it was hard not to dwell on the negative.

  Using the remote, he opened the garage door, slipped inside, and parked, shutting the door behind him and cutting the engine.

  It had been a week since the tattoo story and photo had run in newspapers and on TV. So far, nothing. Max was even beginning to doubt the authenticity of the tattoo. Not that he thought Ivy was lying, but maybe she was so desperate to come up with a clue that her subconscious had produced one. How had she seen a tattoo and not the killer's face? And why would his face be hidden if he'd planned to kill her?

  The manager at Ivy's old apartment hadn't been able to come up with the name of the person who'd wanted to rent room 283, and while the investigation into the drug thefts had garnered them a few arrests, nothing pointed to anything other than kids wanting to get high on a very dangerous substance.

  Yesterday a small group had begun to picket Police Headquarters, carrying signs that said: PROTECT OUR CHILDREN. PROTECT OUR MOTHERS. No big surprise that they made the front page of the Herald. Abraham had been delighted as hell about that.

  Everyone in the task force was exhausted, so Max had told them to go home early and get a good night's sleep.

  A good night's sleep. He couldn't remember what that was like. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in years.

  The door between the garage and kitchen was unlocked.

  One of the rules was to always lock the doors. Max tossed his keys down on the kitchen table. Maybe they should order a pizza. He got a beer out of the refrigerator, unscrewed
the cap, and took a long drink.

  No music.

  He just realized there was no music playing. Whenever Ethan was home alone, he cranked up his stereo so high that the bass rattled the windows. Max put the beer on the table, then hurried down the hall to Ethan's room. He pounded on the closed door. When there was no answer, he opened it.

  Ethan was in bed.

  Ethan wasn't alone.

  A girl shrieked and pulled the covers over her jet- black hair.

  The needle on the record player had long ago reached the end of the album and it filled the room with a metered, tick, tick, tick.

  "What are you doing here?" Ethan demanded.

  "I live here, remember?"

  Even though it was still light outside, the room was dark. A red lava lamp bubbled in the corner, along with burning incense that failed to mask the smell of pot.

  Max's thoughts scurried along, wondering how best to handle the situation. Things were easier when Dr. Spock could be consulted, but after a kid reached age twelve, you were on your own. You wouldn't find pot smoking or sex next to diaper rash.

  But Ethan was a good kid, a smart kid, and Max couldn't help but take part of the blame for the problems they were having. He wasn't around enough. At a time when Ethan thought he was an adult who didn't need to answer to anybody, Max was working too many tough cases that often required late hours.

  His mind went down a familiar path: He should quit Homicide. He should get another job. What? Police training? He would qualify for that. Private detective? That might give him time off between jobs, but he'd still put in long days when working a case.

  "I'm going to go take a shower," he said. "And when I'm done, we're going to talk." Max stepped back and closed the door.

  Ethan's rigid body relaxed. "Son of a bitch."

  From beneath the covers came a stoned giggle. Heather stuck out her head. "I thought you said your dad wouldn't be home until the middle of the night. Do you think he recognized me? Will he tell my parents?"

  "Last time he saw you, you had blond hair. Anyway, even if he did recognize you, he probably wouldn't say anything."

  "Your dad is so cool."

  "You won't think he's cool in about ten minutes.

  Hurry and get your shirt on and get the hell out of here."

  Ethan hated to think of her leaving, hated to think of facing Max's wrath by himself, but it wasn't any of Heather's business. This was private stuff. Family stuff. Getting-grounded-until-he-was-eighteen stuff.

  With total lack of modesty, Heather stood and put on her bra and shirt.

  She'd been hanging around a lot lately, and earlier that day she'd confessed that she liked him and wondered if he wanted to get stoned and make out—an offer that had both thrilled and scared him. At some point during the last hour, she'd voluntarily removed her bra and shirt. He was wondering if she expected him to go all the way, wondered if he wanted to go all the way, when his dad had shown up.

  Ethan figured that for Heather sex was a newly discovered obsession, like someone else hearing the Pixies for the first time, then going out and getting their hands on every one of their CDs. Which was a hard thing to do, Ethan knew, because there had been so many EPs and b-sides released, not to mention all the bootlegs.

  "Well, bye," Heather said.

  He just realized how fucked up he was. His mind had gone off on some Pixies tangent when he should have been thinking about how to best face his dad. He thought regretfully about how good her skin had felt pressed to his, how great she'd smelled. "Yeah, bye."

  "Hope you don't get in too much trouble."

  Ethan thought he heard the shower shut off. He motioned for her to leave, flapping his hand in the direction of the door. "Go! Go!"

  After she left, he put on his shirt and opened a window, hoping his dad hadn't been able to detect anything other than incense. Then he grabbed the Visine and put several drops in each eye, the excess running down his face. Why the hell had Max come home early tonight? It wasn't like he spent every night rolling around in his bed with Heather Green.

  Thinking about his old man barging in on them, he giggled, then pressed a hand to his mouth. Stop it. He had to think. Defense is the best offense. Defense is the best offense. . . .

  Max wasn't even sure Ethan would still be around when he finished his shower. But surprisingly, he was. Max found him sitting at the kitchen table. Barefoot. Wearing baggy cargo pants and a black Stereolab T- shirt. His arms were crossed, and he was the one who looked pissed.

  "I hope to hell you were using a condom," Max said.

  Ethan didn't answer.

  "Were you?"

  Ethan squirmed a little. "I would have ... if we'd gotten to that point."

  "Do you expect me to believe that's the first time this has happened?" Now was when he was supposed to use a line like, I wasn't born yesterday. Max was about to start in on Ethan's pot smoking when Ethan stopped him cold.

  "I want to know about my mom. My real mom. And my real dad."

  Max stalled. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, I found out Cecilia wasn't my real mom." Ethan got a stricken look on his face, and when he continued talking, his lips and voice shook. But he kept going, getting all the words out. "I found out she adopted me. Is that true?"

  So many times Max had envisioned telling Ethan about his past, his mother, but the right time had never seemed to come along. First he was too young. Then, suddenly he was too old; the he that wasn't really a he had gone on too long.

  But somehow he'd found out.

  Ethan fiddled with the Velcro of his pants' pocket. "There's this place on the Internet where they find your real parents."

  Max felt an overwhelming sense of loss. Ethan. He loved his son. Loved him every bit as much or more than his biological father ever could. Didn't he? Be-cause how could one's heart feel any fuller? But Max also knew that they'd been moving toward this point for thirteen years. With Max trying to hang on and Ethan trying to get loose.

  When Ethan was little, one of his favorite books was The Runaway Bunny. He especially liked the part about the mother bunny finding her baby wherever he went, no matter how lost he was, or how far away he wandered.

  Barefoot, wearing a white T-shirt and gray jogging pants, Max pulled out a chair and sat down.

  "Why'd you adopt me?" Ethan asked, staring at him with bravery and a trembling lip.

  "I adopted you because I wanted you."

  "I don't believe you. You adopted me because Cecilia begged you to, didn't you?"

  Max's heart seemed to stop beating. Who had Ethan been talking to? Who had told him such a cruel truth? Was this what had been driving Ethan? Thinking that Max didn't want him? Didn't love him?

  "I always knew you hadn't known my mother very long. And when I got older, I started wondering why you adopted me in the first place. Then Simon down the street told me that his mother told him it was because Cecilia had begged you to, that she wanted to find me a father before she died. Is that true? I can tell by your face that it is."

  Simon's mother, Isabelle, baby-sat Ethan after they moved to the suburbs. It had been the perfect setup, since she was so close and also watched several other neighborhood kids. Isabelle didn't have a lot of excitement in her life, and she stirred up trouble wherever she could. She'd been guilty of planting the seed of many squabbles between adults as well as juveniles.

  "When I met your mother, she was dying and didn't have anywhere to go," Max said quietly. "I only knew her a short time, but she was one of the bravest women I've ever known and I fell in love with her in an almost spiritual way. She was honest with me and told me right out that she was looking for someone to take care of you. She went shopping for a father, and I never quite understood why, but she picked me. When she told me of her plan, I ran like hell, but then I went back. She was almost out of money and she was dying with nowhere to go, so I brought you both home with me."

  "Who's my real mother? Where's my real mother?"

  "
Cecilia had a friend who became pregnant. Cecilia couldn't have children of her own, so she adopted you."

  "Do you know anything about my real parents?"

  Real, real, real. Max wished he'd quit saying that. "Cecilia said your mother was a college student when she had you—that's all I know. She never mentioned the father."

  Max could see by his eyes that he was losing him. Ethan was imagining a talented mother, a brilliant father. How could he get through to him? How could he make him see how much he meant to him? How could he possibly make him believe it?

  "My whole life has been a lie."

  "It hasn't. There isn't anything false about it. I'm your father. You're my son."

  "Cecilia wasn't my real mother. How do you think that makes me feel, finding that out? And how do you think it makes me feel, finding out I'm just another one of your charity cases? Some orphan you dragged in and had to take care of? I don't have any brothers or sisters, I don't have a mother, and now I find out I don't really have a father either. When I was little, and you used to carry me around on your shoulder— who were you carrying? Your son? Or the kid a dying woman made you take? When I was little and you bought me a cop costume and took me trick-or- treating—who did you take? Your son? Or a welfare case? And when you taught me to skate—who were you teaching? Your son? Or the kid you felt duty- bound to take in? Can't you see what I mean? My whole fucking life has been a lie!"

  He ran from the room, into his bedroom, slamming the door.

  Max followed and found him facedown on the bed, sobbing into a pillow. A man, and a child. Suddenly Max recalled a scene of ten years ago, when Ethan had come home crying because an older child had stolen his Scooby-Doo backpack on the first day of school.

  Ten years ...

  So much could change in ten years. Ethan had been a child then, crying a child's tears. Now he was almost a man. In two more years, he would be old enough to vote and go to war. In two more years, he would be old enough to leave if he wanted to.

  Max knew Ethan didn't want to be seen crying, and Max wanted to respect his privacy, but he couldn't let the evening end like this, not without telling his son one final thing, the unabashed, unvarnished truth.