A River of Silence

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  Scott pulled his thumb out of his mouth. A thin line of saliva trailed after it. “You’re not my real dad and you can’t make me.” The boy’s gaze landed on Radhauser. He looked up at the Stetson, paused at the silver belt buckle, then checked out the boots. “Are you a real cowboy?”

  “Well,” Radhauser said, moving closer and then kneeling so he was eye level with the boy. “I have a small ranch with a barn and three horses. I like to ride the dirt trails up into the mountains. And I shovel out their stalls, brush them down after a ride and keep them well fed. I guess you could say that makes me a real cowboy.”

  “I want a horse.” The boy turned his attention on Bryce. “But he never gives me anything.” He looked around the room, his gaze settling on the cardboard playhouse. “I stood on the rail and looked inside. Skyler’s not in his crib. How come he’s allowed to be up late?”

  Radhauser moved aside.

  It was obviously painful for Bryce to squat, but he did. He held the boy by his shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. “Skyler got sick and had to go to the hospital. But he’s going to be okay, Scotty. He’ll be home before you know it.”

  The boy jerked away, his blue eyes wide and accusing. “Did you hit him?”

  Bryce winced and a wave of something hopeless washed over him.

  “You did hit him,” Scott said. “Just like you hit me. You said you were gonna murder me.”

  “Listen, Scotty. That’s not true. I didn’t hit Skyler. I said something to you that I didn’t mean. But right now, I need you to cooperate. I’m going to the hospital to check on Skyler. So go get your robe and slippers. Miss Tilly is making up a bed for you.” There was anguish in Bryce’s voice—a torn slightly hollow sound, as if this day was about to destroy him.

  Scott put his hands on his hips. “I’m not going. I hate her.” He turned and ran into his bedroom, his bare feet thumping against the floor. “And I hate you, too.” The door slammed.

  There was a moment of stunned silence.

  Radhauser needed to talk to Scott, preferably without Bryce around. This could change everything.

  Still, there was something about Bryce that Radhauser had begun to trust—something in the gentle way he treated Miss Tilly. The way he hadn’t tried to hide his grief over what had happened with Skyler. And the way he fought through the obvious pain in his leg in order to be eye-to-eye with Scott. It must be tough to be hearing impaired.

  Scott seemed like a defiant and angry kid, but if he was telling the truth, Radhauser had no sympathy for a grown man who’d hit a small child and threaten him with murder. If Bryce could do that, what else might he be capable of doing?

  Legally, Radhauser shouldn’t question a child without a parent or guardian present, but he could with permission. “I have a daughter about Scott’s age. Maybe I can calm him down with a story about cowboys. Is that okay with you?”

  Bryce nodded, but said nothing.

  * * *

  When Radhauser finished talking to Scott, he paused outside the boy’s door and took a slow, even breath to center himself. A wall of awards hung in the hallway. Caleb Bryce Employee of the Year at Gilbert’s Grocery Store for 1987, 1991 and 1994. Seven years of plaques for coaching area Little League teams. Two of his teams won state championships. Three wood and bronze plaques for poems winning first prize in the Oregon State poetry contest.

  Somehow Radhauser hadn’t taken Bryce for a poet. But he shouldn’t be surprised. He’d been a detective for twenty years and learned a long time ago not to judge a man by anything external.

  He brushed his fingertips across the etched bronze surface of the Someone Cares award the hospital had presented Bryce for his volunteer work in the newborn nursery. The lavish plaque depicted an adult hand with all the baby’s fingers wrapped around the adult’s little finger. If you made a judgment based on this wall, you’d believe Bryce was a good man. A poet. A sensitive man who gave back to his community. A man who cared about and supported kids.

  Radhauser shook his head to change his mindset. People were multi-layered. Anyone could have a dark side that verged on the dangerous. In his line of work, he encountered elementary school teachers who were pedophiles. Priests who committed murder. Doctors who were sadists.

  But he always believed he could read people. That he could stare right into their heads and see what it was they didn’t want seen. When one of the other detectives had a solid suspect they couldn’t break, they called Radhauser—the man known as the cop who gets a confession every time. Somehow, he missed this one. Had actually felt sorry for that deaf asshole who smacked a four-year-old and threatened to kill him. He returned to the living room.

  Bryce sat on the sofa with his head in his hands.

  Radhauser tapped him on the shoulder and waited until he looked at him. His face was streaked and wet.

  The phone rang, loud as a school fire drill.

  Bryce grabbed a tissue from the box on the end table and blew his nose, then hurried into the kitchen to answer. He returned a moment later.

  “That was Dana.” There was even more mud in his voice now. “She and Reggie are at the hospital. Skyler’s in surgery.”

  His voice was full of prayer and there was so much misery in his eyes that, once again, Radhauser looked away. “It’s good both parents are there,” he said. “Hospitals are pretty terrible places. Maybe you dodged a bullet.”

  For the first time that night, Bryce gave Radhauser a weak, somewhat sad smile. “I’d sure as hell need a bullet if that little guy died.”

  Radhauser was taken aback by his response. But over the years, he learned there was a lot of denial in humans, even ones who weren’t suspects. It wasn’t so much what a suspect showed you, but what he chose to hide that mattered most. Why hadn’t Bryce told him about the fight with Scott? The way he lost control of both his words and his actions. “You mind answering a few more questions?”

  Bryce shrugged. “I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

  You can tell me what you did to hurt that little boy. “How often do you take care of the boys?”

  “Dana works most nights until at least midnight and often later, so I’m with the kids a lot. She usually sleeps until noon or so.”

  “Do you feed them dinner and get them ready for bed at night?”

  “Since the accident where I ruptured my Achilles tendon, I’ve been out of work and do most of the cooking.”

  “Don’t you resent it?” Radhauser tried to sound sympathetic, though after what Scott told him, he felt some contempt for this man. He tried to keep it out of his voice. “What kind of life does that leave you? And they’re not even your kids.”

  Bryce explained his relationship with Dana, the injury he sustained to his Achilles tendon and their decision to take the boys out of daycare in order to save money while he was out of work. He told Radhauser he took a class at the university and had a day every week all to himself. On Dana’s day off, he spent the morning volunteering in the hospital, the afternoon in his class and then the library, writing. “It’s enough,” he said. “Besides, I love Scott and Skyler and most days I don’t mind taking care of them.”

  “Scott says you got pretty angry. That you hit him.” Radhauser leaned back in the chair and studied the man’s face. The air was charged and the tiny hairs on Radhauser’s arms lifted.

  Bryce retreated to that place so many suspects go when a cop struck them in the face with a truth. “It’s not what you think,” he finally said, his face slick with sweat. “I almost never get angry with the kids. I spanked Scott earlier on his butt with my open hand. But I admit, it was ha...ha... harder than I meant to. I don’t know...today...I just lost it.” Holding his head in his hands, he pressed his splayed fingers against his temples and told Radhauser what happened with Scott. The way the boy screamed, kicked, bit, and spit in Bryce’s face. And then later, when the phone rang and Bryce left the bathroom to answer, the ‘accidental’ bite Scott took out of Skyler’s penis.

  R
adhauser waited until he finished before asking another question. “Do you ever lose it with Skyler, Mr. Bryce?”

  His gaze fixed on Radhauser like two hot beams. Some wall inside Bryce seemed to break. “N...N...Never. What do you think I am, some kind of monster? He’s just a baby.”

  “I’m required by law to notify Child Protective Services when there is a suspicion of child abuse, Mr. Bryce.”

  For a moment, Bryce didn’t respond. His gaze stayed fastened on the coffee table. “C…C…Child abuse?” He had the look of a little bucktoothed fat boy facing a big bully on the school playground.

  Chapter Six

  Radhauser parked in the emergency room lot at Ashland Hospital and hurried across the asphalt. He dodged an ambulance and two police cruisers and then rushed through the double glass doors into the nearly empty waiting room. Glare from the fluorescent lights struck his face like a slap. The heels of his cowboy boots clicked against the polished linoleum. The room smelled like rubbing alcohol, some kind of pine detergent, and fear. Funny, how certain smells could resurrect memories. He took a deep breath. Swallowed the memories back.

  He stood in front of the information desk, introduced himself to the on-duty nurse, and showed her his badge. His cowboy hat dangled from his fingertips against his denim pant leg. “I’m investigating an accident and am here to check on Skyler Sterling. I know he’s in surgery. Can you tell me anything about his condition?”

  She shook her head. “You’ll get more information upstairs in the surgery waiting room.”

  “I’d like to speak to the doctor who admitted him.”

  “That will be Dr. Barrows.” She nodded toward a cluster of multi-colored plastic chairs lining the side wall. “Take a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Empty Styrofoam cups, one of them scalloped all the way around the rim with teeth marks, dotted the end tables. A gray-haired man with a long beard, wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt lay sleeping on a green vinyl couch patched with duct tape.

  Before Radhauser took a seat, a young doctor in a white lab coat called out his name. The doctor walked a little bent forward like he was in a hurry to arrive at wherever he was going. He led Radhauser into a patient/doctor meeting room. Taking a chair behind a small table, he motioned for Radhauser to sit in one of the molded yellow plastic chairs in front of the table. “How may I help you, Detective Radhauser?”

  “I’m the investigating officer in a case involving nineteen-month-old Skyler Sterling. Can you tell me anything about his condition?”

  “He was brought in by paramedics around 12:45 a.m., mostly unresponsive. He was cyanotic and his pupils were fixed and dilated. Paramedics said he had a seizure.”

  “Did your examination show any signs of neglect or abuse?”

  “Skyler is a little small for his age, but he doesn’t appear to be malnourished. He has an injury to his forehead, some bruising on his chest and a large bruise just under his ribcage. We did full body X-rays. Found no skull or rib fractures. No evidence of old injuries. There was no cranial bleeding. His abdomen was distended so we did an MRI which showed internal bleeding into his abdominal cavity. There was so much blood it was hard to determine its origin. I suspected a torn spleen or liver and called in a pediatric surgeon.”

  “Would you say his injuries could be consistent with a fall down three concrete stairs?”

  Barrows appeared to think for a few seconds. He was a handsome young man with a deep voice you could listen to for hours. “I suppose it’s possible,” he finally said. “Especially if he struck the edge of the concrete with force.”

  “Did you notice a red medical alert band around his wrist?”

  “Yes, but it was only a rubber band.”

  That’s odd. Why would a 19-month-old put a rubber band around his wrist? Would he have the coordination and finger dexterity to do it? Of course, Scott could have put it there. He made a mental note to ask Bryce.

  “What’s Skyler’s prognosis?”

  Barrows stared at Radhauser a moment. “Miracles often happen with little kids. And Daniel Corrigan is one of our finest pediatric surgeons.”

  Radhauser was heartsick and tired, his whole body was one pulsing ache. He hated cases where a child was hurt. And being in a nearly empty hospital in the middle of the night plunged him into a sense of despair greater than anything he’d felt since the night Laura and Lucas died.

  It was time for him to go home and get some sleep. Time for him to mend some fences with Gracie over the clemency hearing.

  Once inside his car, his hands started to shake. It was times like this when the darker emotions washed over him. He needed sleep, a shower, shave, and a cup of coffee, but he couldn’t steady his hands enough to get the key into the ignition, so he remained in the parking lot and clamped his eyes closed to shut out the memories. But it was too late.

  After he finally left the morgue on the night his wife and son died, he couldn’t stand the idea of going home to their empty house—facing all the reminders that were scattered throughout. He sat alone in the parking lot of Tucson Medical Center confronting his future without them.

  Sometime, after sunrise, he made his way home.

  Because the monsoons had lasted longer than usual, it was an especially beautiful spring in Tucson. The air was that electric blue that seemed only to exist in the desert. Prickly pear, pincushion, and barrel cactus plumped from winter rains were in full bloom. Ocotillos waved their red flags and paloverde trees spilled yellow blossoms across the desert floor. Oblivious to his pain, all that new life and beauty only reminded him of everything he’d lost. Perhaps it was always the beauty in life, not its ugliness, that hurt the most.

  What did it take to unravel a life? But it hadn’t been just one life. It had been a carefully woven tapestry of eight lives—including the driver who hit them, his five-year-old sons, and the wife and teenaged daughter he left behind. All undone by one drunk who might soon be let free.

  * * *

  Bryce paced the darkened kitchen, uncertain what to do with himself. The window over the sink was open and night air seemed to move through the room like black water. He stumbled over Pickles.

  The cat yowled.

  Bryce realized he hadn’t fed the cat all day. He flipped on the light, then poured food into the cat’s bowl and refilled his water dish. Pickles circled around his ankles.

  Detective Radhauser probably believed he was a child abuser. And maybe he was. He hit Scott too hard. And his negligence in not repairing the latch on the storm door resulted in a severe injury to Skyler.

  What was the matter with him, beating himself up like that? Except for those two things, those two awful things, he did nothing but try to make life better for Dana and her boys.

  He shoved his hands into his pants pockets, hating this helpless feeling. No one loved Skyler more than he did. He should be with him now, should know what the doctors were doing. Tilly was right. Dana and that imbecile Reggie couldn’t forbid him from going to the hospital. Scott would be safe with Tilly. She already made a bed for him on her sofa. Bryce headed toward the center bedroom. He found Scott huddled against the headboard of his bed, staring at Skyler’s empty crib.

  Bryce flipped on the light and reached for the boy. “It’s all right, Scotty.”

  Scott’s gaze darted around the room. “I’m scared,” he said, crawling into Bryce’s arms. “Did I kill Skyler? Is he dead?”

  Bryce picked him up, hugged him against his chest. “No, Scotty.” With the smell of Scott’s hair, the hated tears rose again and Bryce swallowed them back. “Remember I told you Skyler went to the hospital and that Tilly will take care of you while I go see about him.”

  “Will you bring him home?”

  “Yes,” Bryce answered. “As soon as he feels better.” He slipped a pair of socks on Scott’s bare feet, wrapped a blanket around him and carried him next door.

  “Don’t you be worryin’ none,” Tilly said. “I’ll watch over him for as long as you ne
ed me. He’ll be fine.” She pulled the sheet back and Bryce deposited Scott on her sofa, tucked a blanket around him and kissed him on the forehead. “Be a good boy for Miss Tilly,” he said, then turned to the old woman. “I owe you another one.”

  She walked him to the front door and then stepped out onto the porch. “You don’t owe me nothin’, Bryce. You always doing stuff for me.” She stood with her legs apart, her hands planted on her ample hips and watched as he opened the door to his Camry and slid inside.

  Bryce backed out of his driveway and headed south on an empty Main Street toward Ashland Hospital. He ignored the twenty-five miles per hour speed limit and drove at fifty. He prayed for Skyler, prayed there would be another chance to chase him around the room with a rubber shark, playing gotcha, Skyler’s favorite game. Bryce pretended to bite the toddler’s butt with the shark and each time he nipped, Skyler screamed, then exploded in gales of laughter.

  It had been years since Bryce prayed, but he could feel his words begging for all they were worth, pleading on bended knees, their bargaining syllables reaching out toward heaven.

  He parked outside the emergency entrance, then stopped at the information desk inside the waiting room. “I’m here about Skyler Sterling.” He touched his ear, then went through his spiel about being hearing impaired, asking her to look at him when she talked so he could read her lips. “Are you a relative?” She increased her volume and spoke slowly, enunciating every word.

  “No. I’m his friend.” Bryce lowered his gaze, embarrassed by his faltering speech, the realization he hadn’t shaved, or made time for a badly-needed haircut. He hadn’t even bothered to run a comb through his tangled, dark curls. “Skyler and his mother live with me and I’m the only father he knows.” Bryce raised his gaze in time to catch her canvassing the stubble on his face.

  She checked her computer monitor. “He’s still in surgery. There’s a waiting room on the third floor. That’s your best bet for current information.” She pointed toward the elevator.