Say Nothing

by Brad Parks

  But, ultimately, I decided I had a certain duty to Karen and the rest of the night watch. My perhaps-paranoia and trust issues aside, they needed to understand—for their own safety—that even though there had been no actual delivery the previous night, there had been a virtual one. The threat level had not subsided but had, in fact, increased.

  Besides, I missed Sam.

  So I pointed my car toward the Lowe residence, which was located in a subdivision filled with nearly identical houses, all of them well over four thousand square feet. The Lowes’ place always had a too-big feel to me. There were large expanses of empty carpet everywhere you looked. A year ago or so the heat pump broke, and the unit they needed to replace it was so monstrous, they didn’t have the cash on hand to buy it. Alison and I loaned them the money.

  Still, there were benefits to having at least one house in the family with that much interior real estate: There was space for everyone to sprawl out, which was sometimes the only thing that kept a family functioning properly during the high holidays.

  I found the children outside the house, tearing around with great velocity but no apparent direction. I grabbed Sam just long enough to extract a sweaty hug, then let him continue in his aimless careening.

  When I reached the front door, I didn’t bother knocking. I just went in and let the smell of caramelizing onions draw me into the kitchen, where all four Powell women—Gina, Karen, Jennifer, and Alison—were wearing aprons and busily creating several savory somethings.

  “Hey,” Alison said warmly when she saw me. She walked over and kissed me. “You look worn-out,” she added, stroking the back of my head.

  “Yeah, I feel it.”

  “You want to take a quick nap before dinner?”

  “No, I think that’ll just make things worse.”

  “Okay,” she said. “We’ve negotiated a we-cook-you-clean treaty with the guys, so they’re out on the deck, having a drink. Do you want to get a beer and join them?”

  “Sure,” I said. Then I spied the empty wine bottle, which gave me an idea. The Lowes had one of those floor-to-ceiling IKEA wine racks in the corner of their laundry room.

  “Actually, I think I’d rather have some wine,” I said. “Karen, would you mind helping me pick a bottle?”

  “Just grab whatever,” she said.

  “I don’t want anything too expensive,” I protested. “You know I’m not a wine guy. It’d be wasted on me.”

  She glanced up at that point, which allowed me to give her the kind of meaningful look that told her this wasn’t about wine.

  “Okay, hang on,” she said, blotting her hands on a towel.

  She followed me to the laundry room. There, in a hushed voice, I told her about the video. She asked if she could see it and I told her she really didn’t want to. But she insisted.

  So I queued up the video and handed her my phone. Then I excused myself, shutting the laundry room door. I really couldn’t handle seeing the thing again.

  When she was done, she opened the door. Her face had lost some color.

  “Now you know why I said you didn’t want to see it,” I said.

  She was shaking her head and sucking air through her teeth. “Those bastards,” she said, then swore again. “If I could get my hands on them . . .”

  Her look was faraway, her thoughts fixed on vengeance.

  Then she came back to me. “Look, I know you’re not asking my opinion, and I know I agreed to do this your way. But can you at least think of taking this to the FBI now?”

  “Are you nuts? No way. What would that accomplish?”

  “Don’t you think they’ll be able to trace the origin of this and bust those guys? A video like that isn’t like some little text message. It’s a lot of data to transmit. I bet between the IP addresses and the cell towers, the FBI can figure out—”

  “No,” I said firmly. “These guys are too careful for that. I’m sure they covered their tracks. It’s easy to obscure IP addresses. The kiddie-porn guys do it all the time. And we . . . we just can’t risk it. This is what they did to her after the cops visited us for a grand total of maybe ten minutes and I made it as clear as possible I wasn’t cooperating. I don’t want to think about what they’d do to her if they figured out we were working with the FBI. They’re obviously watching us at home. They’re probably watching me at work. I just . . . no.”

  “Okay. I’m just saying if it was my daughter—”

  “But it’s not. Alison and I have already settled on how we’re doing this,” I said, invoking the higher authority that was her sister. “I’m only telling you about this because I feel you have a right to know given your . . . nocturnal activities. But you have to respect our wishes on this, okay? Please.”

  I looked at her imploringly. With her hand, she combed away a strand of blond hair that had come loose. The gesture reminded me of Alison.

  Then Karen’s face softened a little. The skin under her eyes was loose and baggy. I had been so focused on my own exhaustion, I wasn’t taking the time to recognize everyone else’s. Spending every third night—or more—outside my house with a rifle in her hands was wearing on her.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “For the record, I disagree with you. But okay.”

  She grabbed a bottle off the rack at random and we returned to the others.

  * * *

  I soon joined the husbands out on the porch, where they were sipping beers and sitting in deck chairs, staring out at the woods that backed up against the rear of the property. Mark had his feet up on the railing. Jason was a bit slumped. He had to be getting tired too.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” I said.

  “Hey,” Mark said, with a nod of his carrot-topped head.

  “No offense, dude,” Jason said. “You look like hell.”

  “No offense taken. I feel it.”

  I slid the door closed behind me. As I sipped my wine, we started talking. I sensed they had just changed conversation topics and were now trying to keep things light, for my sake. This translated into Jason talking about his fantasy football team. He stopped only when the sliding door opened again.

  It was Alison, still with her apron on. Her eyes were blazing and she steamed toward me. Jenny was just behind her but couldn’t seem to reach her. Jenny, in turn, was trailed by Gina and Karen. They were also trying to slow Alison down, only they couldn’t reach her in time.

  She pointed at me and screamed, “You absolute son of a bitch.”

  And then the woman I loved, the woman who had spent more than half the nights of her life sleeping at my side, charged at me and started flailing at me. Not knowing what else to do, I pulled up my arms to shield my face, in essence going into duck-and-cover mode.

  “Is that why you didn’t want to have sex with me last night?” she yelled. “Because you were spent from banging your girlfriend?”

  Her hands, which had been open at first, balled into fists, which she slammed off my shoulders and upper back. Finally—and it was probably no more than three seconds—Gina and Jenny managed to pull Alison off me.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I managed to say.

  Alison’s eyes still had that crazy look about them. She was separated from me now by her mother and sister, but she was straining against the arms that were holding her back. If they weren’t there, she would still be pounding me with everything her 112-pound body could put out.

  “Tell him, Jenny,” she demanded. “Tell him what you told me.”

  Everyone turned toward Jenny, who, for her part, looked sheepish.

  “All I said was that I saw Justina at the mall . . . and . . . and that she was wearing a really nice jacket.”

  “A nice leather jacket,” Alison corrected, as if the material changed everything. “Is that what the money was for, Scott? A leather jacket? Or was it a leather jacket and an apartment?
Or was it a leather jacket, an apartment, and all the blow jobs you could handle?”

  All eyes were now on me.

  “Honey, I have no idea what you’re—”

  “You miserable liar! You think I’m that stupid? I told myself I should give you the benefit of the doubt, thinking you’d explain it to me later. But now I get what that money was for.”

  “What mo—”

  “I went to the ATM today, genius. Did you really think I wasn’t going to notice the balance in the checking account was so low? Did you really think I wasn’t going to find out about a seventy-two-hundred-dollar cash withdrawal? Seriously, couldn’t you have at least tried to hide the money you’re spending on your whore? Siphoned it off the kids’ college funds or something classy like that?”

  “Alison—”

  “I mean, my God, how did I not see it? You had her living right next door for years until I went and screwed it up for you. But you couldn’t stop seeing her, now, could you? No, you had to—”

  “Would you shut the hell up and listen?” I roared. “I’m not sleeping around on you. I hired a private detective, okay?”

  This news had at least some impact on Alison. Her arms were still up, like she was going to throw more punches, but she was no longer trying to push through her family to get at me.

  I continued: “You remember how I spent last Saturday following Roland Hemans, the plaintiff’s lawyer? You told me I was being an idiot, and you were right. So I got a private detective to follow him instead. His name is Herb Thrift of Herbert Thrift & Associates. He’s in the Yellow Pages. You can call him if you want to. Tell him your name is Mrs. Carter Ross, because that’s the alias I used.”

  By this point, Alison’s arms had fallen by her sides.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Everyone was just standing there, not wanting to say anything as the emotional charge slowly drained out of Alison.

  “It’s okay,” she said to her mother, who let her pass through to me.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, and she hugged me.

  “I’m just done,” she said. “I’m so done.”

  I understood all too well what she meant.

  * * *

  That night, shortly after we got home, my body finally shut down on me. I barely remember falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. In the morning, I still couldn’t pull myself out of bed. Every time I tried, I drifted back off again.

  By the time I got myself upright it was after nine o’clock. There was cold French toast and bacon waiting for me in the kitchen. Alison had left a note saying she and Sam were roaming in the woods.

  It made it as good a moment as any to call Herb Thrift. There was no point in wasting any more of the man’s time—or our money—on Roland Hemans.

  After three rings, I heard: “Yes.”

  “Yeah, hi, it’s Carter Ross.”

  “Hello, Mr. Ross.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. I’m inside a condominium complex right now.”

  “Is it called Kensington Mews by any chance?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  Give Hemans and Joan Smith this much: At least they were consistent.

  “How did you get past the gatehouse?” I asked.

  “Mr. Ross, give me some credit. I do this for a living.”

  I thought of Thrift’s high-mileage black loafers.

  “Yeah, I guess you do,” I said. “Well, for as much fun as I’m sure you’re having in that parking lot right now, I wanted to call you off the tail.”

  “Sure. Can I ask why?”

  “I just . . . I was mistaken about something.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “The way I see it, you’ve been on the job for close to forty-eight hours now. That’s thirty-six hundred. Okay if I just stop by the office on Monday to pick up what’s left of the money?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ross, but the agreement you signed said no refunds, remember?”

  I didn’t, actually. “Oh. Right,” I said.

  “Would you still like to see the report?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I said. I had paid for it. I might as well get something for my money.

  “How can I get it to you?”

  “I’ll set up a Gmail address and send you a note. You can just reply to that.”

  “That’s fine,” he said. “I’m sorry again about the no-refunds thing. Sometimes that’s just the way the dog hunts.”

  “Hey, I signed the form.” Well, Carter Ross did, but it hardly seemed like a moment to split hairs.

  “If you want me to follow someone else for two days, I’d be glad to.”

  I didn’t know if he really meant it or if it was supposed to be a throwaway line. But, without giving it too much thought, I seized on the suggestion and rolled with it. I probably should have realized it the moment Roland Hemans filed that motion, but now it was blazingly clear to me: I was having Herbert Thrift follow the wrong person.

  It was time to put him on someone who just might be the right one.

  “Actually, that would be great. Could you?”

  “You paid for it, Mr. Ross.”

  “Okay. You wouldn’t need to watch this person twenty-four hours. Ten hours a day would be fine. Say, eight A.M. to six P.M. You can start Monday morning if that works for you.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I’ll e-mail you a picture and an address,” I said. “The subject’s name is Alison Sampson.”

  FORTY-THREE

  The younger brother was up to level 42 now, steadily mowing down a new adversary. The older brother was off . . . somewhere. The younger brother hadn’t even bothered asking.

  A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray nearby. He had just brought it to his lips and was taking a deep drag when an earsplitting wail filled the air.

  He stood up so forcefully he knocked the chair over. It was the alarm, obviously. But why?

  From where he was standing, he could see both the front door and the side door. Both were closed. Then his attention went to the door of the little girl’s bedroom, and enough synapses finally made their connections for him to realize:

  The little girl was trying to escape.

  He threw open the door to her room to find her standing at attention against the wall, frozen with fear. The nightstand had been shoved next to the window, which was open perhaps a foot. She must have hopped down as soon as the alarm sounded.

  “Hey, hey!” he barked. “What are you doing?”

  The little girl shrunk away from him, into the corner.

  “Don’t do that,” he said.

  He looked at the window. He had thought the thing was painted shut. But upon further inspection, he saw abrasions around the edge of the window. She must have found some piece of metal and scraped the paint away.

  Now he’d have to find some plywood and nail it to the other side of the window to make sure she couldn’t get out. It was work that would keep him from attaining level 43.

  “You’re a bad girl,” he said. “And this is what happens to bad girls.”

  He grabbed her wrist. Then he plucked the cigarette from his mouth and jabbed the lit end against the inside of her arm.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Knowing what I had set in motion made it difficult to make eye contact with Alison for the remainder of the weekend.

  There was part of me that felt awful about it. Really: What kind of man hired a private investigator to tail his own wife? Was that really what I had become?

  But there was a much larger part of me that was convinced it was the right decision. At least I would soon know what was really going on.

  Alison seemed to keep looking for opportunities to connect with me, which I
continued to deflect. I poured my attention into Sam instead. He appeared to have adjusted, at least somewhat, to Emma’s absence. He had developed games he could play by himself. He didn’t mope quite as much.

  That said, I still saw the worry brow come out a lot more than it ever used to. And there were constant reminders she was not far from his thoughts. Sometimes, he would talk to Emmabear as if it were his sister. Other times, he would do—or conspicuously not do—something Emma would have enjoyed. Or there was Sunday morning. I was making pancakes and asked him if he wanted one in the shape of an S.

  His reply: “Actually, Daddy, could you make E’s?”

  I ended up making those pancakes with a lump in my throat.

  Those kinds of small moments aside, we survived the next two days. Before I knew it, I was face-to-face with Joan Smith, doing our usual Monday-morning routine—which I now knew more than ever to be a farce.

  “How was your weekend, Mrs. Smith?” I said as I entered the office.

  “Very good, thank you. Pastor finished up Matthew.”

  I smiled and said, “That sounds wonderful.”

  Then I went inside my office to view the evidence that would someday—after the attention from ApotheGen had subsided—lead to her quiet dismissal. I had set up an e-mail account under the name Carter Ross and sent Herb Thrift a note on Saturday. His reply was waiting for me:

  Mr. Ross/Mr. Sampson,

  Enclosed is my report on your previous subject. I will consider this matter closed unless you tell me otherwise.

  I have performed some preliminary surveillance on the new subject property. Or I should say your property. Next time you try to hide your identity from a private investigator, don’t drive your own car to his office.

  However, now that I know the subject is your wife, I am hoping you can give me permission to enter your property. Your house is a long way from the road, and it will make it easier for me to track her movements.