Hush

by Anne Frasier

  "Ramirez and I will take the address west of Pulaski. Cartier—you take the Delaware Park address."

  Ivy got to her feet, prepared to go. Max stopped her. "Stay here and answer phones. And don't do anything else. You've done enough already."

  "What are you talking about?"

  He grabbed her by the arm. "The dead-baby letter set him off," he said harshly. "Now he's after everybody involved in the case. He knows I'm in charge, so how can he hurt me the most? By hurting my son."

  Max was almost out the door when a breathless Harold Doyle from Documents caught up with him. "I think we may have a handwriting match from the Human Services office. He applied for welfare back in '93. The name's Grant Ruby."

  Max immediately recontacted the SWAT team leader. "We've got a positive ID," he said. Using police code, he instructed them to converge on the Delaware Park address. They would station themselves three blocks away and wait for further instructions. He radioed air patrol and ordered two units to rendezvous at the target site.

  Ivy sat down at the desk, the ringing phone near her elbow going unanswered.

  Grant Ruby.

  He had a name. Finally, he had a name.

  Grant Ruby.

  Ethan was missing, kidnapped by the Madonna Murderer, a murderer who now had a name.

  Max hated her, but that wasn't important, that didn't matter.

  Ethan.

  Had he taken Ethan because of the letter? Or because of Max? Or was there more to it than that?

  Think, think.

  Max. He's heading for the killer's house right now.

  Ethan might already be dead.

  And Max will find him there, his dead son.

  Oh, God.

  Think, think.

  Was there more? Something she was missing? Something all of them were missing?

  The target rendezvous was in a part of town most officers had never seen, located at the end of a cul- de-sac with a chain-link fence around a yard that was overgrown with weeds. The one-story house was shoved under an interstate on-ramp, all of the shades pulled down tight, hiding dark secrets.

  Max and Ronny Ramirez got out of the unmarked car and approached the house, the gate creaking as they passed through. One block away the SWAT team waited for instructions. One block in the other direction were four squad cars ready to cordon off the area and follow the SWAT team in if necessary. A mile away, police air-patrol helicopters hovered.

  Max knocked on the door while Ramirez stayed to one side, his magnum drawn and ready. When no one answered the knock, the men picked their way around the house, but already Max's heart was sinking at the air of abandonment.

  The garage was empty.

  There was a wide, dark stain across the floor where it looked as if a body had been dragged, the trail stopping abruptly near the garage door. Regina's blood? Or Ethan's?

  "They're not here," Max said, straightening from where he'd been examining the floor.

  Max radioed the SWAT team commander, sending one group away. The remaining team converged on the house, shields in front of them, guns drawn. With one shot, they blasted through the front door and hurried through the house, their boots echoing on the floorboards. Within five minutes, they confirmed what Max had feared: Nobody was there.

  The smell in the house was so bad that some of the men gagged, others held their hands over their noses and mouths.

  Death.

  Max knew that smell.

  He sent the SWAT team away. He sent the choppers away, then radioed for the crime lab.

  Ramirez and another police officer took the basement, where the foul odor seemed to originate from.

  The room was illuminated by a line of fluorescent bulbs down the center of the ceiling. The cement floor was shiny, almost black, as if it had been scrubbed again and again. Along one wall was a desk and computer, the Microsoft logo twirling and bouncing from one edge of the screen to the other. Not far from the computer was a single bed, neatly made, one white pillow fluffed and in place, waiting to welcome a weary head. Along another wall, under the small basement window that had been covered with cloudy plastic, were wooden shelves full of neatly labeled canning jars. The glass jars had been lined up with precision, the exact same distance between each jar, the exact same distance from the shelf edge.

  Ramirez trained his flashlight on the jars. "Big fan of spaghetti," he commented, feeling the hairs on his arms stand erect. All the jars were labeled "spaghetti sauce." He shifted the light to train the floor where a small puddle had formed near a gym-size locker.

  "Think we found the source of the stink," he said loudly, for the benefit of the officers waiting upstairs. "We're gonna need a hacksaw."

  The shudder of boots on the stairs announced the arrival of an officer with the hacksaw. By the time the lock was removed, a crowd of cops had gathered.

  Ramirez opened the door. Out poured sawdust and lime, along with a mutilated, rotting body with no head.

  A call came in from Ramirez, letting the remaining members of the task force who'd stayed behind know that the shakedown had been unsuccessful. "But they found a decapitated body," announced the female officer taking the call.

  Ivy sat down heavily. "Ethan?" she asked, all of her attention focused on the officer. Oh, God, oh, God. Not Ethan.

  The officer slowly hung up, and just as slowly said, "They don't know yet."

  "And the killer?"

  "He wasn't there."

  Ivy had to get away. She had to get some air.

  Moving in a haze, she left the room.

  She ran up the stairs, bursting through the heavy metal door into the blazing sunlight on the rooftop where she and Max had gone the day she’d told him who she really was. Even though the sun was boiling the tar under her feet, the heat of it felt real, reminding her that she was alive.

  While Ethan wasn't.

  No! She couldn't accept that.

  Oh, Max. Max. What was he doing now? Saying now? Feeling now?

  The Madonna Murderer, still out there. Still out there.

  Somewhere.

  Where?

  Where would he go?

  Max sat on the front step of the porch of the house that belonged to the Madonna Murderer. As soon as they said they'd found a body, he suddenly couldn't breathe. His chest hurt so much he'd wondered if he was having a heart attack, not really caring, considering it in a purely detached way.

  Snatches of conversation crept to him, echoing hollowly in his mind like a dream. Somebody said the body was leaking, and fluid was running all over the place.

  And there was no head.

  The body had no head.

  Max let out a choked sob and covered his face, praying it wasn't his son.

  He should have gotten out years ago. This day, this moment was the future he'd felt hanging over him for the last ten years. This was the destiny he'd been moving toward.

  Ivy pulled Max's car to a stop across from the brick building, near the spot where Max had parked the day they'd come there. Not even thinking about the meter this time, she hurried across the street, dodging traffic.

  She pushed the manager's button, but nobody answered. She pressed her face close to the glass door and peered inside. The office was dark. Saturday. It was Saturday. She began jabbing buttons at random, begging someone to let her in.

  The security door buzzed.

  She jumped on it, yanking it open.

  She walked past the elevator to take the stairs to the second floor. The dimly lit hallway smelled like incense and something else she couldn't place. She reached under her jacket and unsnapped the leather holster, slipping the solid, heavy revolver free.

  When Max gave her the gun, she never thought she would use it. She'd hoped that she wouldn't. Now she prayed she would. Over the years, she'd imagined helping to catch the Madonna Murderer, helping to bring him in, picking him out of a lineup, identifying his voice. . . .

  The woman who cried when Jinx killed a rabbit, the woman who took in ba
by robins that had fallen from their nests, now imagined the way it would feel to pull the trigger, to put a bullet through the center of Grant Ruby's forehead.

  He had made her want to kill with ten times the passion and hatred he felt toward his own victims. He had made her want to kill with the fervor and single-minded intensity that only a person steps away from madness could feel.

  She moved silently down the empty hall until she reached the door of her old apartment. 283.

  Cool, detached, she raised her fist and knocked.

  Chapter 41

  He wouldn't stand out in a crowd. You probably wouldn't even notice him unless you looked directly into his black, hollow eyes.

  "Say something," Ivy commanded with a two-arm stance, never blinking, never taking her eyes from his. A snapshot image flashed in her brain. He was the man from the hockey game, the man who'd talked to Ethan and waved to Max.

  He stepped back and she moved forward. The door swung closed behind her. Inside the apartment, candles and incense burned. Lots of candles, with flames that danced and bobbed against red glass.

  That smell. What was that horrible smell?

  The hand with the gun began to tremble. Ivy shifted her support arm, readjusted her stance. "Say something! Say something, you son of a bitch! Say something so I know it's you!"

  He smiled a sweet, awful, empty smile that implied everything was working out. Then he spoke one word: "Claudia."

  In her mind, Ivy tumbled backward, falling into the deep, dark, stagnant pool that was her subconscious. In there were all the things she'd never wanted to remember, all the things she couldn't face. Memories of that night.

  That smell. My God. What is that smell?

  With the gun still aimed at his face, she fumbled in her pocket for the mobile phone Max had insisted she carry.

  Max walked blindly toward the front door.

  A hand reached out, stopping him.

  Abraham. When had he gotten there?

  Max pushed Abraham's hand aside. "I've got to see the body. I've got to know if it's Ethan."

  "It's in bad shape, Max. I'm not sure you'd even be able to tell. Dr. Bernard's on her way here. She'll let you know what she finds out."

  "I'd know," Max said. "I'd know my own son."

  Abraham stared at him for a few moments, compassion and pain in his eyes. "You stay here," he finally said. "I'll look."

  Abraham left Max waiting on the porch. As soon as he opened the door, the stench hit him. He lifted his tie to his nose and mouth, pressing tightly, willing himself not to gag as he made his way downstairs.

  The smell in the basement was so bad that the officers had cleared out, waiting for the specialists to arrive.

  When the locker was opened, sawdust and lime had spilled to the floor, the mutilated body following so that now it lay on top, a congealed tangle of coagulated blood and rotting tissue.

  Jesus. Oh, Jesus. It can't be Ethan. Don't let it be Ethan, Abraham prayed as he approached. Standing directly over the body, he bent closer, his gaze moving over butchered limbs, picking out landmarks that proved the carcass was human. Fat. A lot of fat, and Ethan was slim.

  He needed more information.

  He looked around the room and spotted a broom. He shouldn't touch the body, not until the crime techs and coroner were done with it, but Max was waiting. Abraham had to give his friend an answer, one way or the other.

  Using the broom handle as a lever, he shifted the body, stirring up a fetid wave of odor. The entire mess rolled, then stopped, exposing a sawdust-covered pubic area where a black X had been drawn with Magic Marker.

  A woman.

  The body belonged to a woman.

  Max heard Abraham shout his name. Then the front door flew open and Abraham burst out into the fresh air and sunlight. Gasping, he grabbed Max by the arms, saying, "It's not Ethan. The body belongs to a woman. It's not Ethan."

  Max's legs went weak and he dropped to the steps, burying his face in his hands. Thank God. Thank God.

  His phone rang.

  Automatically, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone, his mind disconnected from a response that was second nature. "Irving."

  "Max."

  The breathless, tension-filled voice belonged to Ivy.

  "Max, I'm at my old apartment on Division. The Madonna Murderer is here. Max? Did you hear me? I've got a fucking gun pointed at his head right now so you might want to get somebody over here."

  Dial tone.

  End of call.

  "Here she is," Ruby said, his voice rising.

  It was the voice of Ivy's nightmares, the voice of her horrors.

  "Here she is!"

  It took Ivy a moment to realize he wasn't talking to her. With her heart hammering, her breathing coming in short gasps, she pulled her gaze from him for a fraction of a second—long enough to look in the direction he was speaking.

  Against one wall of the kitchen was a refrigerator— probably the same white, rounded refrigerator that had been there when Ivy had rented the apartment. The door hung open, light spilling on the floor, cold air seeping out, curling around her feet. On the center metal rack was a human head.

  Her gaze shot back to Ruby, her mind refusing to believe what she'd seen. Ruby was still there. That's a good psycho, don't go anywhere. Don't try to move.

  A head. A goddamn head in the refrigerator.

  No.

  Yes.

  Look again. You have to look again. Quickly now. Be fast. Now! Look now!

  The eyeballs were swollen, almost ready to pop. Straggly, blood-encrusted gray hair framed the face.

  Gray hair. Not Ethan. Not Ethan.

  Then who?

  The mouth was taped into the Madonna Murderer's hideous signature grin.

  "Here she is, Mother. She came. Just like I said she would." His voice suddenly changed, becoming cheerful and childlike. "Watch me! Watch me!"

  Ivy stared at the head—she couldn't seem to pull herself away—it was so mesmerizingly horrible.

  When you see something you don't understand, your unconscious forces you to keep looking until you figure it out. Ivy kept looking, looking. . . .

  "Watch me! Watch me!"

  She dragged her gaze away from the decapitated, grinning head to see candlelight reflecting off something Ruby held in his hand, something he swung at her in a long, sweeping motion.

  It struck her wrist. The gun clattered to the floor like a toy. Ruby kicked it, and it spun away into the fetid darkness.

  A knife. He had a knife. Where had it come from? Had he had it all along?

  A sensation of heat enveloped her arm, and she realized she couldn't feel her fingers.

  Something splashed down her leg. She thought she'd wet herself, but then distantly realized it was blood.

  Her hand. Had he cut off her hand?

  No. It was still there. Covered with blood, but still there. Blood dripping off the fingertips, falling plop, plop, plop to the floor.

  She looked up in time to see the knife coming at her again. She sidestepped, the blade just nicking her arm.

  It was a reenactment.

  Or maybe her life had gotten caught in some kind of weird time loop. But here she was, reliving the same nightmare of sixteen years ago.

  Her will to survive kicked in. Somehow she grabbed his arm—but he was strong, so strong, his hands like talons, his muscles like taut, sinewy rope. As the woman in the refrigerator watched, never blinking, grinning in pride, the Madonna Murderer plunged the knife again and again, some thrusts hitting their mark, some deflected by Ivy's struggles.

  They tumbled to the floor, falling near the bed, Ruby on top.

  As Ivy lay there, feeling the stickiness of her own blood on her hands, she sensed the futility of it all, felt her strength and will to live draining away. This was her destiny, and destiny couldn't be changed. She'd tried. Hadn't she tried?

  She just wanted it all to stop. Wanted her life to stop.

  Socrates said
the perfect society would be based on a great lie. People would be told that lie from the cradle, and they would believe it, because human beings need to make order out of chaos.

  Ivy had told herself a great lie, a lie she'd lived with and believed. She'd thought she could make a difference. She'd thought if she studied hard enough, if she learned everything she could learn about men like Ruby, then she could catch him.

  But her baby was dead. Nothing would bring him back.

  Her baby was dead.

  She had been able to save herself, but not her baby.

  She was alive; her baby was dead.

  If only she'd been more careful. If only she'd been stronger, faster. If only she hadn't gone to the store that night. If only she'd put her baby up for adoption the way everyone had begged, suggested, cajoled, he'd still be alive.

  She hadn't been able to live with the full memory of that night, so her mind had grown a protective skin around that memory and put it away.

  Her baby was dead.

  Whenever she thought of him, his face was a blur. But she could see him now, in her mind, blue lips, blue fingers. Dead. Dead. Dead.

  She let out a sob. Let him kill me. Let him finish. A beginning, a middle, an end.

  Ivy turned her face away so she couldn't see the madman hovering over her.

  Across the expanse of hardwood, lying on his stomach on the floor almost beneath the bed, was Ethan.

  Ethan. Oh my God. Ethan.

  Are you alive? Please be alive.

  His mouth was sealed with duct tape. His hands were taped behind his back, his cheek pressed to the floor, his pupils large and glassy.

  Are you alive? Please be alive.

  He blinked.

  Thank God.

  His eyes reflected all the horror he'd seen, and all the fear he felt. And now someone was finally there who wasn't the Madonna Murderer. With his eyes, he reached out to Ivy, begging her for help, begging her to make this stop, make it all go away.

  How can I save you, she thought, when I couldn't save my own child? How can I save you?