Hush

by Anne Frasier

  "If that's the case—and I'm not conceding anything here—was there anyone else he could perceive as being involved in the letter writing?"

  "I suppose he could suspect other employees of the paper, all the way from the editor to the people in the print room."

  "That's strictly supposition. We need hard facts. I'm still not sure this was the Madonna Murderer at all."

  "What if we discovered that one of the Madonna Murderer's victims has been buried at that cemetery? Would that give us enough of a connection?"

  He picked up his cell phone and pushed speed dial. "This is Detective Irving. Get in touch with Records and find out if any of the Madonna Murderer's victims were buried at St. Anthony's Catholic Cemetery." That was followed by a long pause. "What's the address? Okay. Got it." He ended the call. "Write this down," he said to Ivy. She dug into her bag and pulled out pen and paper, quickly jotting down the address.

  "What's going on?"

  "Regina Hastings. She's been reported missing."

  Chapter 35

  "Grab that map out of the glove compartment, will you?"

  Ivy found it, quickly locating the street Max had given her.

  "Tuesday was the last time anybody saw her," Max said.

  "The day she canvassed. You're going to have to get in the right lane to take exit 12B. Didn't Ramirez go by her place?"

  "Yeah, but there was nobody there. Said he just figured she'd spent the night somewhere else."

  "What about the forms she faxed?"

  "Maybe she didn't fax them."

  He grabbed the mobile phone again, punching a single digit for speed dial. When someone answered, he said, "Get the forms that were faxed from Officer Hastings's place. First make sure there's a questionnaire for every name on the printout sheet. Then take the faxes down to Documents. Have them determine whether or not they were all written by the same person. My hunch is that one of the printout names won't have a matching answer sheet, or one of the sheets will have been written by someone other than Hastings."

  He ended the call and focused on the road and the traffic, edging his way in between two semis to finally hit the right lane just as the exit came up.

  Ivy continued to guide him through several turns. "There it is. Spring Green Apartment Complex."

  A black-and-white patrol car was wedged in at an angle near the doors.

  Max pulled in and stopped in a no-parking area. Inside the double doors, he flashed his badge, which quickly granted them access to the heart of the building. The manager spewed out directions to Hastings's room, as if she'd already done it several times in the last few days. "There's already people up there!" she shouted after them as Max and Ivy took to the stairs.

  Up three flights and down the hall to the right. Apartment 324.

  The door was open; they could hear voices long before they got there.

  Inside were two women, one close to fifty, the other about twenty-five. They were speaking to a uniformed officer who was taking down notes.

  Max introduced himself and Ivy.

  The women turned out to be Regina's mother and sister.

  "Regina always calls me every two or three days," the older woman said. "Never goes any longer than three, ever. I called her several times, leaving messages, but she never returned my calls. I have a key to her apartment, so I came over. Her car was here, but she wasn't. But she doesn't always drive, so I tell myself she's probably at the police station. I know how she's been working with you, Detective, and I know she's been putting in long hours. So I told myself not to worry, even though I was worried, even though I couldn't help it because that's the way mothers are, isn't that right?" she asked, directing the question to Ivy.

  Ivy smiled and agreed.

  "My daughter tells me I'm worrying for nothing, but she'll put my mind at ease. She calls the number Gina gave us, the emergency number of the task-force office, and they say she hasn't been there for three days. Something's wrong. I can feel it. Something's very wrong."

  She began to cry, and her daughter put her arm around her, trying to comfort her.

  "If that Madonna Murderer got her, I don't think I can live. I don't think I can live with that in my mind every single day of my life. It's the first thing I'll think of when I get up, and the last thing before I go to bed at night." She broke down completely and her daughter led her away to a couch in the corner.

  "What about contamination?" Max asked the officer.

  "They told me they've both been in and out of here since yesterday. Probably touched almost everything." He lowered his voice so the women couldn't hear. "Even though they called to report her disappearance, it seemed like the sight of me and the uniform made everything that much more real. She's been going off like this every few minutes."

  Max nodded and pulled out his phone. "We need the mobile crime unit," he said into the receiver. He gave them the address. "We'll need them to comb the place for fibers and possible bloodstains, plus dust every surface for prints. Also tell them they'll be examining and transporting a car."

  As soon as he disconnected, his phone rang. It was the third time Ramirez had called in an hour. "We don't know anything new," Max told him. "But when we do, I'll call you." He disconnected and slipped the phone into his pocket.

  "Don't touch anything else until the crime lab is done," Max said as he and Ivy left the officer to finish questioning Regina Hastings's mother and sister.

  From the description they'd been given, they found Regina's car—a little green Toyota—in the parking lot, under the shade of a corrugated-steel-covered carport.

  "It looks brand-new," Ivy said as they approached.

  Without touching anything, they peered in the windows. Nothing. Not a piece of trash, a gum wrapper, nothing. Using the remote and extra set of keys Regina's mother had given them, Max popped the trunk. The lid flew open, and they stepped closer.

  "Oh my God," Ivy said, bringing a hand to her mouth.

  There was Regina, or what used to be Regina. She'd been badly beaten, her face bruised and grossly swollen.

  Ivy leaned closer. "My God, Max. She's still alive."

  Chapter 36

  "You can't get these refilled," the pharmacist said, trying to give back the empty brown containers. "Not for another week."

  "But my mother's out of her medicine. She's in pain. What if I pay out of pocket?"

  "I'm sorry. These are both controlled substances. If she's been taking them as directed, she should have enough for another two weeks. She hasn't been giving her medicine to anyone else, has she?"

  "Of course not."

  He was sweating, and acting suspicious, but he didn't care. It took all of his willpower to keep from jumping across the counter and wrapping his hands around the guy's throat, choking him, then taking the drugs he needed. "She can't see very well, and she dropped some down the sink. She's not supposed to stop these things cold turkey. You know that."

  "I can't refill them."

  Was the guy smirking at him? It looked like he was smirking. It looked like he was glad he couldn't refill the prescriptions. "Let me use your phone," he demanded. "To call her doctor."

  The pharmacist dragged the phone across the counter, dialed the number on the prescription container, and handed him the receiver.

  "Dr. Paragus is out of town," the receptionist said. "You'll have to call back Monday."

  "This is an emergency," he said through gritted teeth. "An emergency. Do you understand the meaning of that word?"

  "If it's an emergency, you should go to the emergency room," the female voice at the other end of the line said coolly. "Otherwise call back on Monday."

  He slammed down the receiver.

  Kill the bitch.

  Kill them all.

  You don't know me. You don't know who I am. You don't know what I've done, and what I can do.

  "Wait!" The pharmacist yelled from behind the counter. "You forgot your containers."

  Without turning around, the muscles in his
neck as taut as piano wire, he lifted one arm and threw the finger. He strode out of the pharmacy, only slightly aware that people were staring at him. Fuck you, he thought. Fuck you, ugly old man. Fuck you, ugly old lady. Fuck you.

  He walked, with no thought of his direction. Angry, angry, angry. Shit, shit, shit. He ducked into the first bar he came to and ordered a shot of tequila and a beer.

  Shit, shit, shit. What was he going to do? She was waiting for him. Waiting for him to return with her pills. Things had been going so well, they'd been getting along so well.

  He couldn't go back.

  How could he go back empty-handed?

  He could tell her they couldn't refill the prescription. But then she would wonder why. And maybe she would figure out that he had upped her dosage.

  For a few days, he'd actually liked her. One night, he'd even sat next to her bed and read to her from Reader's Digest.

  He couldn't go back.

  He had to go back.

  He ordered another tequila and beer.

  An hour later, he was coming out of his slump. What was he afraid of?

  Baby.

  She was a crippled old woman. What could she do to him? Nothing. He was the one in charge, he was the one with the strength, the power.

  Shouldn't drink, a voice in his head said. Remember what happened last time?

  Nothing.

  Nothing happened.

  Are you sure, the voice taunted. Are you absolutely sure?

  YES! YES! I'm sure. I'm absolutely sure. So shut up. Just shut up!

  He ordered another drink.

  Time became nonexistent. Occasionally, he would look at the hands on the clock above the bar, but they meant nothing.

  "Closing in five minutes," a voice announced. A voice that seemed to come from the end of a long tunnel. "Want me to call you a cab?"

  You talking to me?

  "Hey buddy. You need a cab?"

  "No," he said clearly, straightening away from the bar.

  He turned and left the seedy building, stepping out into a confusing collage of rain and darkness and reflected neon.

  He walked, the rain falling down on him, plastering his hair to his head, but he couldn't feel it. He stopped and raised his face to the sky, his eyes wide open, droplets hitting him, blinding him, but still he couldn't feel it.

  He continued walking.

  Suddenly he was beside his car. Correction: his mother's car. He tore the parking ticket from the wiper and tossed it to the street. Then he got inside and stuck the key in the ignition.

  Autopilot. The car seemed to be on autopilot, making all the correct turns, going the correct speed, staying in the correct lanes, finally taking him home, finally parking, not in the garage, where he'd hidden that bitch cop's car for a while, but in the alley behind his house. Correction: his mother's house.

  Lights were on upstairs, but he tried to ignore them. He let himself in the side door that led directly downstairs, to the basement. He moved quietly, each wooden step creaking, telling on him.

  "Is that you?" she shrieked from upstairs.

  He froze.

  "Get your ass up here!"

  He stood there trembling.

  "Get up here! NOW!"

  Something warm and wet ran down one leg, filling his shoe and spilling over. The overpowering smell of urine hit him in the face.

  Slowly, because she was his mother and he was a good boy, he went up the steps. He walked through the kitchen.

  He found her in the living room. She hadn't left her bedroom in weeks, but somehow she'd managed to drag herself to the couch. She shoved herself to her feet and stood there, tottering, trying to balance on her good leg.

  She was the only person who had power over him. She was the only person who could still make him tremble in fear, still make him wet his pants.

  "I . . . was in an accident," he said. Anything to keep her calm, to keep her from yelling at him. "I mean, I saw an accident, and had to stay there and talk to the police."

  "You're lying."

  "No. No, it's the truth. It was a hit-and-run. This guy was hit and left in the street to die."

  Light from the kitchen reflected from the metal chain around her neck, the necklace taken from the whore Sachi Anderson. It was there, caught in the sweaty folds of her skin, winking at him, beckoning.

  "You're a worthless piece of shit. I should have drowned you when you were born. I should have tied a concrete block to you and tossed you into Lake Michigan."

  "That would have been murder," he said woodenly.

  He could feel himself retreating, and suddenly he was watching the scene with the detachment of a non- biased observer. It was safe here. The power was still within him, but it had gone into sleep mode, ready to be called forward when he needed it.

  "It ain't murder when you don't even qualify as a human."

  "Qualify." That wasn't a word she would normally use. "Have you been watching People's Court again?"

  He could see that his question baffled her, just as his question had baffled the bartender. He picked up a lamp and began walking slowly toward her, jerking the cord from the wall socket as he moved.

  The fear in her face!

  It was glorious!

  Glorious!

  He would like to have a photograph of it, but this wasn't the time. And anyway, he would never forget her expression. It would be etched deeply into his memory, beside all of his other memories of her.

  "Put that down."

  Never taking her eyes off him, she took a step back. She tried to fall into her mother-bitch role, tried to scare him into obeying her, but this time it didn't work. And even when she was yelling at him, he could see the fear in her eyes, the terror.

  He didn't want the moment to end. He wanted to embrace it, savor it, draw it out for as long as he could.

  "Who's your sweet cakes?" he asked.

  "Y-you are."

  "Who do you love more than Elvis?"

  "Y-you."

  "Who do you love more than that dumb-ass on that stupid soap opera?"

  "You! You! You know it's you! S-so p-put d-down the lamp," she pleaded, reaching imploringly toward him, then pulling back her hands to clasp them together in front of her.

  He smashed the lamp down on the table. It shattered, and he pulled the cord free of the broken ceramic. "Say the words," he commanded, wrapping both ends of the cord tightly around his hands. "Say the words."

  "I love you!" She was sobbing now. Tears of fear running down her cheeks, her jowls shaking.

  "Again!"

  "I LOVE YOU!"

  With one swift movement, he wrapped the cord around her neck and pulled tightly, his muscles bunching from his power, his incredible power.

  Across his mind flashed a picture.

  A boy and a woman.

  Mother and son.

  Mother and son.

  He watched as her face turned purple. Watched as her eyes bugged out. He pulled and pulled and pulled. When he finally let go, she fell heavily to the floor, air escaping her lungs, rushing past her lips in a hiss.

  There.

  Finally.

  Now she was quiet. Finally she was quiet.

  Now she was the good mother. The mother he loved.

  "Time for bed," he told her. "You've been staying up much too late."

  He unwrapped the cord from her neck and dragged her across the floor to the bedroom. Deadweight, a voice in his head taunted. Deadweight. The bitch is dead, now go to bed. The bitch is dead, now go to bed.

  It took an enormous amount of strength, an enormous amount of time. He shoved and lifted, shoved and lifted, finally getting her into bed. He tugged at her arms, tugged at her legs, trying to achieve a natural arrangement, but nothing worked. He jerked the sheet from under her weight and covered her with it. He was walking away when he thought he heard her say something.

  "What?" he asked, turning around.

  Dirty boy. Dirty, dirty boy.

  "Shut up!"

/>   He found a blanket on the floor and tossed it over her face so she'd quit staring at him.

  Dirty boy, dirty, dirty boy.

  "I'm a good boy," he whispered, backing away while not taking his eyes off the bump in the bed. "I'm a good boy." He reached blindly behind him, found the wall switch, and turned off the light, dousing the room in darkness.

  Goodnight, sweetheart.

  "Goodnight, Mommy."

  The next morning he woke up late. He jumped out of bed and ran upstairs, quickly putting together some juice and oatmeal. He placed it on a tray, wishing he had a flower, then he carried it into his mother's room.

  "Time for breakfast," he announced, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. "Rise and shine."

  She didn't move.

  "Rise and shine," he repeated.

  She didn't move.

  Grasping the tray with one hand, he slowly approached the bed, then carefully lifted the edge of the blanket with his free hand.

  He dropped the blanket and jumped away.

  His mother stared back at him, her face grotesquely swollen, eyes bulging, tongue protruding. The tray slid from his fingers and fell, the glass shattering, juice and oatmeal splashing his pants. He dropped to the floor, shards of glass embedding in his knees. He put a hand to his mouth and emitted a choking sound. A gasp. A gag.

  She was dead. His mother was dead.

  Tears poured from his eyes. He could feel them falling over the back of his hand, hot and burning.

  She's dead.

  The bitch is dead.

  His mouth was hanging open. His breath came in short, quick gasps, and he made a sound that was a cross between a sob and a laugh.

  Something sparked in his brain. A recent memory. A blond-haired boy in a hockey uniform standing next to a red-haired woman. If you took away the hair, they looked remarkably alike.

  Mother and son.

  Mother and son.

  Chapter 37

  "If you had to choose between having a big head or a little one, what would it be?"

  Preoccupied with the CD in his hand, Ethan didn't answer at first. "Huh? Oh. I don't know. A big one, I guess. People with big heads are smart. If you had a little tiny head, then you'd be a moron."