Splintered Silence

by Susan Furlong

  “Sure.” I gulped back my reservations. I had about three hundred dollars left to my name. A vet bill could easily be more than that. I should’ve been out looking for a job today.

  We moved to another room, where the doc tried to gently lift Wilco onto the X-ray table. Wilco stiffened, widened his stance and put his head nearly on the floor. He let out a few whimpers at first, which quickly turned to a deep growl, and then his muscles rippled with tension. His pupils enlarged, his tail stiffened and bristled. He lunged and snarled through the muzzle.

  “Whoa, boy.” Doc Styles took a few steps back.

  I tightened my grip on the leash, grabbed him for an instant by the scruff, followed by long strokes down his back. Instantly, he settled. Then his taut muscles quivered and turned to full-blown shakes. Trembling, he hung his head, his eyes unfocused as he let out a series of high-pitched whines. “He’s terrified.” I looked around, wondering what had set him off. My eyes settled on the large X-ray machine that hung over the examination table. Wilco had had dozens of X-rays after the explosion. I’d been recovering from my own injuries at the time. We were apart for the first time since we’d been matched together. I have no idea what happened to my dog during those weeks. I looked at Styles. “I think maybe he’s having a flashback.”

  Doc seemed to understand. “Do you want to continue? I can give him something to calm him. Just a light tranquilizer. It’ll wear off quickly.”

  He opened a small fridge and took out a vial and syringe. He filled it, pinched at the meaty part of Wilco’s haunch, and inserted the needle.

  The shakes softened, then ceased. Wilco lowered himself to the floor. I ran my hand along his side and stared directly into his eyes, now dulled, as the nightmares that haunted his days chased through the trails of his mind. Flashbacks. Anything could trigger them. I knew how real and horrifying they could be. I felt his pain, the injustice of it all. Wilco had only ever done what was commanded of him. He was trained to serve, to please. He didn’t deserve this. Neither of us did.

  * * *

  Later that evening, I remained in Gran’s car, staring at the trailer, my hand stroking Wilco, who lay half asleep on the passenger seat, still exhausted after his ordeal. The diagnosis was a muscle pull, just as the doctor had initially thought. The treatment was an anti-inflammatory drug and rest. But no fracture was good news. So was the invoice. It was a third of what I had expected to pay. Doc Styles must have given me a break.

  It was half past five now, and the sun was already setting, making it easy to see inside the lit front room. Gramps was in the recliner, with the television going. I didn’t see Gran but imagined she was in the kitchen getting supper ready. I dreaded going inside.

  After the visit with Dr. Styles, I’d been in no shape to do anything productive, so I went through a drive-in outside of town, got a plain burger—no bun—for Wilco and a burger with everything for myself and then drove the two of us to a ridge that overlooked the valley. We spent the afternoon relishing our burgers (well, Wilco inhaled his) and enjoying the landscape between naps. Once the sun edged toward the horizon, we reluctantly headed back. Now I sat in front of Gran’s place, not wanting to get out of the car.

  Movement from inside the trailer next door caught my eye. Doogan’s trailer. Or at least the trailer he was renting from our old neighbor, who, according to Gran, had come into a little money and upgraded to a double-wide a couple lanes over. I thought back to earlier, and how upset Doogan had been about his sister. I hadn’t offered much in the way of condolences. I imagined him inside, alone, heartbroken. I roused Wilco, and we ventured over to his front door.

  “What?” He stared at us through a crooked storm door. His stringy dark hair was tied back off his face. His sleeveless T-shirt clung to him in patches of sweat.

  “Thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.”

  He pushed open the door. “My sister’s dead. Murdered. How do ya think I’m doin’?”

  I hesitated, confused by the invitation of an open door and the unwelcoming tone of his now heavily brogued words.

  “Well, are ya comin’ in, or what?”

  I stepped inside. Wilco, still groggy from his shot, ambled to the corner and plunked down. Kevin’s front room looked like a gym: a weight bench, racks of dumbbells, and a punching bag on a stand in the corner. “You training for something?”

  “Just working off some steam.” He grabbed a towel off the bench and wiped down his face and arms.

  I swallowed hard and shifted. “I didn’t say too much out there today, the shock of it, I guess, but I am sorry about your sister. I just came over to offer my condolences. And to see if there’s anything you need.”

  His words lost a bit of accent and aggression as he answered quietly, “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Did the sheriff have anything else to say?”

  Doogan didn’t look my way. Instead, he walked over to the front window and gazed out into the darkness. “Not much. Just asked a bunch of stupid-ass questions. I went with him to break the news to Costello.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “He put on a good act, but I could tell he didn’t give a crap. Not really.”

  “You don’t think he loved your sister?”

  He continued silently staring outside. I moved closer and followed his line of vision. A row over, between two other trailers and beyond a vegetable garden gone to weed, was Dublin Costello’s place. “Do you think Dub killed her?”

  He wheeled around, his tone louder again. “Why do you ask that?”

  I took a step back. “You don’t seem to care for the guy.”

  He hesitated before answering, “My sister . . . she’d changed.”

  “Changed?”

  He frowned slightly. “We’re from the Murphy clan in South Carolina. Our parents met the Costellos, I don’t know, years ago at some gathering or other.”

  That made sense. Different clans often met up for celebrations or holidays, providing some of the camaraderie we Travellers can never feel with settled people.

  He shifted and went on. “Sheila used to call Ma at least once a week. Just to check up on things with the family. We’re close, ya know?”

  The ties that bind, as Gran always says.

  He continued. “At first everything seemed fine. She and Dublin were getting to know each other and all that.” He glanced at the floor. “It was an arranged marriage.”

  Yeah. I knew only too well how that went. “How old was she?”

  “Nineteen, almost twenty. The baby of the family.”

  My stomach turned. Dublin was a few years older than me, so he was nearly fifteen years older than Sheila. Endogamy was a way of life for most Travellers, and our clan was no exception. Couples were often matched at birth. Or at least as young children, as I was to Dublin Costello all those years ago. I rubbed down the sudden prickles on my arms. Thankfully, I’d taken a different route. Not that military tours weren’t dangerous, but the service family around you supported you, and you were not only given the means of defending yourself, you were expected to. What I did might have disgraced my grandparents, but if I had married Dublin, that might have been my body out there today. I’d experienced Dub’s temper before. I had no doubt he was capable of such a heinous crime.

  Doogan went on. “Something must have changed between them, though. About a month ago, Sheila asked if she could come home. She wouldn’t say why, but Ma said she seemed upset. We all figured she was just homesick. But then her calls stopped, and no one could reach her.”

  “That’s why you came up here?”

  “Yeah. I came as soon as travel season was done. Finished a roofing job down in Alabama and came straight here. But by the time I got here, she’d gone missing.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and lowered his gaze. “I called home this afternoon. The news about killed Ma.”

  I reached out to touch his shoulder but pulled back and folded my arms across my chest instead. What could I say? Sorry about that? Things
will work out? It’ll be okay? Hollow words or outright lies. Nothing would ever be right about this, and I knew it. He knew it. “Did she say things were bad between them?”

  “It wasn’t like Sheila to complain. She was a good girl.”

  A good girl. A Pavee’s way of saying she was obedient. Like most Traveller women, Sheila was probably groomed from a young age to accept her role in the clan, which would mean bypassing any education beyond state-dictated schooling and settling into the role of wife and mother at a young age. In our culture, the woman was the heart of the family, the man the head, and what he said was the law. I’d been brought up the same way, taught to respect the traditions of our clan. As a youngster, I hadn’t thought it was such a bad thing; guess I assumed it worked. Yeah, it worked alright—if the man your family matched you to wasn’t a violent-tempered drunk. For me, it didn’t work. Guess I’ve never been the obedient type. Wasn’t a good girl.

  I pointed to a pair of military-grade binoculars on the windowsill. “You’ve been watching his place.”

  A shadow crossed his face. “I don’t trust the guy. He’s claiming that Sheila had a boyfriend.”

  “Who?”

  “Says he doesn’t know. He just thinks she was cheating, but I know better. She wasn’t like that.”

  “Even if she was lonely?”

  He faced me with an incredulous look. “Not a chance.”

  I recognized where he was coming from and believed him. After all, she was a good girl. If she was obedient enough to marry as she was told, she sure wouldn’t be the type to sleep around. “Did she ever mention any friends?”

  “No. Not that she ever talked about. Don’t think she made many friends here.” He folded his arms and steeled his eyes on Dub’s place. “I’ll wait until the body’s released, then I’ll take her home for burial. Coming home was her last wish, and I intend to make it happen.”

  A set of headlights sliced through the darkness that now buried the neighborhood. The sheriff’s car pulled in front of the trailer. Doogan quickly pushed past me and headed outside. I motioned to Wilco and followed.

  Pusser stepped out of his SUV and crossed the yard. The light from Doogan’s open door spotlighted the sheriff’s stoic features. He was wearing a navy blue wool watchman’s cap and a poorly fitting overcoat. He worked a toothpick between his lips as his gaze swept from Kevin to me. “Ms. Callahan. Mr. Doogan.”

  “What is it, Sheriff?” Doogan wanted to know.

  “The medical examiner’s come up with something. I wanted to discuss it with you.” Pusser frowned my way, then glanced toward the open door behind us.

  Doogan didn’t invite him inside, and he didn’t tell me to leave, so I stayed put. So did Pusser.

  “Just tell me what you’ve found,” Doogan said.

  Pusser shifted his feet, then pulled out his cell phone. He scrolled for a second, then tapped on the screen. “This is a photo of a tattoo. The coroner found it during the initial examination. It looks like a round cart or a wagon of some sort. Do you recognize it?”

  Doogan’s brows furrowed. “No.”

  “May I?” I moved in closer to look at the screen. The tattoo was distorted, but there was no mistaking the symbol. “It’s a gypsy caravan. It’s a common Traveller symbol.”

  “This was on the body?” Doogan asked.

  “On the small of her back. It’s a little over an inch wide.”

  Doogan frowned. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  “There was something else.” Pusser shoved his cell back into his coat pocket. “Did your sister ever have abdominal surgery?”

  “Abdominal surgery? No. Why?”

  “Because the medical examiner found a scar from an abdominal incision. He guesses it was from some time ago.”

  “A cesarean birth?” I asked.

  “Doc thinks so,” Pusser said.

  “That’s impossible. Sheila’s never been pregnant. We would have . . .” Doogan’s words trailed off. His eyes lit up with hope. “You mean . . . ?”

  “We’re still working on identification,” Pusser said. “Much of the body was pretty far gone, and since you said she’d never had any dental work done, we’re having to run testing on the tooth enamel, which is time-consuming. It should help us pinpoint an age. But the coroner suspects the victim was older than your sister. Confirmation’s gonna take some time, though.”

  Doogan’s head bobbed up and down. “I understand, Sheriff. But I know for a fact that my sister’s never been pregnant.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Seven months ago. At the wedding in South Carolina. There’s no way. It can’t be her.” He swiped at his face, his skin flushed, sweat beading along his hairline.

  Pusser held up his hand. “Let’s just wait until we have more information. I haven’t talked to the husband since our initial findings. Maybe he’ll have more information.”

  “I’m tellin’ ya, Sheriff. My sister didn’t have no baby! There’s no way she was pregnant before she got married.”

  “Okay, okay. I believe you.”

  Doogan’s eyes zeroed in on the sheriff. “So . . . my sister’s still alive!”

  Pusser looked down and shuffled his feet. “I’ve got all my resources out there looking for her,” he said.

  “She’s alive, I know it!” Doogan turned back to the door. “I’m goin’ to call my mother. Let her know the good news.”

  Pusser watched him go inside, then turned to me. His face was grim. “Got any opinions?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a cop.”

  “Ex-cop. Marine.”

  He spat out his chewed toothpick and pulled a plastic cylinder from his coat pocket and extracted a fresh one. A whiff of cinnamon stung my nostrils. “If you say so, Ms. Callahan. But being that you’re an ex-cop, Marine, you know damn well that it doesn’t look good for his sister. If she didn’t leave Bone Gap on her own, then she’s probably already dead.”

  My chest tightened. The sheriff was right. But I wasn’t in some damned combat zone where dead, decaying bodies covered the ground like litter. I was home, where things should make sense. I refused to give up on Doogan or Sheila yet. “There might still be hope.”

  His mouth twitched at the corners. “Y’all seem pretty chummy. Thought you’d never met Mr. Doogan before today.”

  “I haven’t.” Then I realized what he was thinking. “I live right there.” I pointed to our trailer. “I’d just come home and thought I’d see how he was doing.”

  “Just being neighborly, huh?”

  “Yeah. Just like, you know, neighbors.” What’d he think? That we all lived like heathens out here, hopping from one trailer to another, boozing it up and having wild sex parties? McCreary people always thought the same thing about the Bone Gap Travellers. Why did I expect Pusser to be any different? No wonder I’d escaped this mountain years ago. I had to take crap from both sides: the settled residents’ prejudice, thinking we were all immoral, and the Pavee stigma of me being born from my mother’s sin against the clan’s creed.

  I crossed my arms, and he lowered his gaze, bent down, and ran his hand between Wilco’s ears. I half hoped my dog would take a chunk out of his arm. “If you really want to do something to help the guy,” he said, “then you’ll get this dog of yours back out there and see if he can sniff up another body.”

  My arms dropped. My heart did the same. Another body? Visions of torn flesh and eyes glazed with death strobed across my brain. He had no idea what he was asking. I forced my eyes to take in the evening’s litter of lights in the trailers around us, inhale the smells of propane and diesel oil, rotting leaves and peat. My inner monster sneered, “Sounds like you’re pretty eager to assume Sheila’s dead. Anxious to clear your docket, Sheriff? Or maybe a gypsy girl just doesn’t warrant the time.”

  Pusser jerked upright, his pockmarked face exaggerated in Doogan’s porch light. “Don’t get me wrong, Callahan. I hope to hell we’re not too lat
e. Then again, if she’s out there, buried in those woods somewhere, Doogan deserves to know. Otherwise, he’s going to spend the rest of his life looking for her. And that’s no way for a man to live.” He took a step closer, his nostrils flaring. “Believe me, I know.”

  * * *

  Gran was at the kitchen sink, finishing the supper dishes, when I came inside. “Let me do those. You’ve got to be exhausted after everything today.”

  “I am tired. But keeping busy helps keep my mind off things.” She held up a wet plate. “Want to dry?”

  I snatched up a towel and joined her at the sink just as she finished scouring a pan. Her washing. Me drying. Just like old times. It felt as if nothing had changed. Yet so much had. Still, I felt happy standing next to this woman with wrinkled laugh lines and piercing blue eyes, skin fragile as tissue paper, and a mind as tough as oak.

  Wilco had found a warm spot near the stove and curled into a ball. He slept quietly, motionless, his chest slowly rising and falling. He seldom slept so peacefully anymore, and at first I thought it was his meds, but then I realized why he slept well now: He’d fulfilled his task today. Now he was at peace with himself, maybe for the first time in a year or more. How ironic that the only way he’d been trained to feel good about himself was to successfully find a dead body.

  Gran prodded me from my thoughts. “How’d it go with Doc Styles?”

  “Oh, good. Seems it’s just a sprain. He gave Wilco some pills.”

  “I’m glad it’s not more than that. That dog’s been through quite enough already.”

  The smell of tangy beef and fresh bread hung in the air. My stomach growled.

  Gran heard it. “You missed supper.”

  “Sorry. I wanted to stop in next door and pay my respects to Doogan.”

  “Of course you did. How’s he doing? Poor man. I feel for him, I do. Losing his sister that way. I can’t think of anything more terrible.”