Splintered Silence

by Susan Furlong

“Actually, the sheriff stopped by with some promising news.” I took another wet plate from her hands. “They don’t think it was Sheila.”

  She looked up from the sudsy water, her eyes wide with question. “Not Sheila? But I thought Kevin was sure.”

  “No, not completely sure. It was hard to tell much of anything. . . the body was . . .” I busied myself drying the plate. I’d spared Gran the gruesome details earlier. Not telling her about how deteriorated the body was, how animals and insects had gnawed it beyond recognition. “They couldn’t tell much about her except the color of her hair.” I pushed away the image of the woman’s hair, red and tinged redder by the blood it’d soaked up from her fatal wound.

  “The color of her hair? Sheila was a redhead.”

  “Yeah, and so was the woman we found. But that’s irrelevant now. The coroner found a couple of other identification marks.”

  “Marks?” She picked up another plate to wash.

  “A tattoo of a gypsy wagon on the small of her back. And something else. An old scar on the body. Apparently, the victim had delivered a baby by C-section. Doogan swears his sister never—”

  Gran turned to me and dropped the plate. It hit the floor and shattered into pieces.

  “Gran, what is it?” I tossed aside the towel. “What’s wrong?”

  She brought trembling fingers to her face. Her features crumbled. “I didn’t . . . I really didn’t think she’d come.”

  I grabbed her hands and held them in mine. They were ice-cold. “Who? Who are you talking about, Gran?”

  She looked toward me, but her gaze settled somewhere beyond me, the crystal blue of her eyes glistening as she spoke. “When I wrote to her that he was failing, I thought . . . well, I knew better than to even hope she’d come.” A shudder quivered down from her shoulders to her fingertips. Then she moaned as she repeated, “What have I done? What have I done?”

  I gave her a little shake. “You’re scaring me, Gran. Tell me what you’re talking about.”

  She focused on me. “That dead woman . . .”

  “What about her?”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, God forgive me . . . my baby . . .”

  “Gran? What are you saying?”

  “The dead woman . . . I think she’s your mother.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I called Sheriff Pusser right away. He drove back out to the trailer with the medical examiner’s report and pictures of the tattoo and scar.

  The instant she saw the tattoo, Gran collapsed to her knees and wept; my grandfather also cried out, but with his weakened lungs, his grief instead escaped in an eerie, high-pitched wheeze. He turned a hateful face toward Pusser. “Get the hell out of my home.” He pushed up from his chair and pointed to the door. “You’re not welcome here, you damn copper.”

  “Gramps!”

  Gramps collapsed back into the chair and erupted into a coughing spasm, his chest heaving and the color draining from his face. I ran to him, but he brushed me aside, still glaring at the sheriff.

  Gran rose quickly, crossed the room, and held the door open for Pusser. He glanced my way. I motioned for him to leave, and with a begrudging nod, he excused himself.

  “Gramps, let me help you.” I knelt down to pull the lever and raise the legs on his recliner.

  “Don’t touch me!” He batted at me, his fingertips connecting with my nose. Waves of pain shot upward to my eyes. I took a step back, squeezed the bridge of my nose, and blinked.

  Gran rushed over, inserting herself between us as she adjusted his oxygen. She kept her back toward me, ignoring me and the unspoken questions that hung between us: How can this be? My mother? You’d told me she was dead?

  The sound of the door opening drew my attention away. I expected to see Pusser returning, but instead my cousin, Meg, rushed inside, still wearing her work apron. “I was on my way home and saw the sheriff’s car. What’s happened?” She stepped forward and helped untangle a section of tubing. “Everything okay with Gramps?”

  Gran looked her way, her face relieved at seeing Meg. “The sheriff brought bad news.”

  “Bad news?”

  I stepped aside while Meg snatched the afghan off the back of the sofa and unfolded it over Gramps’ legs. He gazed up at her. Lovingly.

  My shoulders tensed. “Gran and Gramps think that the body they found in the woods was my mother.”

  Meg’s eyes grew wide. She looked from me to Gran. “Your mother? I thought . . .”

  Gran shot me a warning look, before turning back to Meg. “I’m glad you’re here to help. Fergus needs his meds. They’re on the nightstand in the bedroom.”

  “Of course. I’ll get them.”

  Meg headed off to get the meds, and I looked to Gran, hoping for some sort of explanation, but she’d busied herself again, adjusting this and that and doing nearly nothing. Both she and Gramps acted as if I wasn’t in the room. I was left in the dust, useless to help, dazed. Their ambivalence toward me stung.

  I turned away, snatched up my bag, the keys, and Wilco’s lead. On the way to the door, I tapped him between the ears. “Come on, buddy. We’re out of here.” Enough of this crap. I could find something better to do for the evening. Besides, more tests needed to be done before an official ID could be made. And I was unwilling to think about the situation until we knew for sure if . . . what? That my long-dead mother had not been long-dead at all? But was now?

  “Wait up!” It was Meg. She’d caught me in the driveway.

  “Tell Gran I’m borrowing the Buick again.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Back to Mack’s?”

  “Maybe. Yeah. So? You got a problem with me going there?”

  She quirked a brow and tucked a piece of unruly coppery hair behind her ear. I’d always been a bit envious of my cousin’s hair. It flowed in crimson waves down her back, while mine hung in stringy black curls against my pale skin. “I’m sorry, Brynn. Could it really be your mother? I thought she had died a long time ago.”

  “That’s what we all thought.” Bitterness edged my tone. My eyes slid to the trailer. “Well, not all of us, apparently.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.” I opened the car door and motioned Wilco inside. I needed to get out of here.

  Meg stepped closer. “You should stay. Your grandparents need you.”

  I turned, my jaw tight as I bit out my words. “They don’t need me. You’re here.”

  “Stop it, Brynn. You know they want you here. It’s all Gran’s talked about for the past few weeks. She’s upset. Gramps is upset.”

  “He keeps pushing me out. Always has. He doesn’t want me here.”

  “He’s sick. And he’s not used to you being here, that’s all. You’ve been gone a long time. Things have changed.”

  I adjusted my scarf and peered inside the car at my maimed dog. “Don’t we know it.”

  Meg touched my arm. “I’m worried about you, Brynn.”

  “Don’t be. I’m fine. Really.”

  “Yeah, right. You mean like last night when you were too piss-faced to find your car, let alone drive home.”

  Why am I taking my anger out on her? Meg was the one who’d been on my side since I’d come home. Besides, she didn’t understand half of what was going on—hell, neither did I. “Thanks for last night, cuz. But it’ll be okay. I’m just going to have a couple of drinks. Blow off some steam. That’s all. I’ve got an early morning. I’m looking for a job. I need to help out around here.”

  “Where are you looking?”

  “Thought I’d try that motel off the highway.”

  “The Sleep Sleazy?” The real name was Sleep Easy, but no one except out of towners called it that. “Why there? There are other places. Better jobs.”

  “It’s just temporary, until something better comes along.” Another half-truth. Temporary as in an easy job to quit if I ended up leaving town. Because I’d tried better jobs since returning statesi
de. Couldn’t handle them. Blame it on the horrendous flashbacks, or the plaguing nightmares, or whatever. For a gal maimed by an IED, the monotony of changing bed linens and scrubbing toilets sounded blissful.

  I shuffled my feet, looked around a little. “So, can you put in a good word for me with your boss?” Meg’s boss, Johnny Drake, owned the diner where she worked as well as the motel and a few other businesses in town.

  “Sure. A job’s a job, I guess.” She smiled tightly, then shot me a way too sympathetic look. I hated that look.

  “What? What’s that look for?”

  She didn’t answer. But I knew what she was thinking. Poor Brynn, can’t even get a decent job. She had no idea. No one did. Official reports lumped me into the eloquently phrased “wounded in action” and listed me as a “combat medical casualty.” Terms that civilians understand. What they couldn’t handle was the horror, the heat, the brain-splitting sound, the smell of burning flesh . . . I tugged at the scarf that covered my scar, my constant reminder, and rolled the tension out of my shoulders, only to feel the pull of skin melted into marbled scar tissue along the left side of my neck, over my shoulder, down my side . . .

  Truth was, the realities of war were too much for most people. Meg included. I glanced back at my dog, and our eyes met in a knowing stare. That’s why Wilco was so important to me and why I’d fought through mountains of paperwork and months of government bureaucracy to bring him home. He was the only one who truly understood me.

  As I drove off, shadows settled over me, just as they did over the wheeled trailers and slightly less mobile of homes of our clan. Travellers lived in the shadows of society, always had. By morning’s light we could abandon whatever security Bone Gap had offered us for over two generations and disappear like the proverbial gypsies in the night. It was in our nature, maybe in our need, to retain the wandering essence of ourselves; maybe it was our only grasp on security. For me, the idea of leaving now, just driving off, appealed more than ever—getting away from the lies and hurt and confusion of family and clan. There was only one problem: I had nowhere to go.

  * * *

  So I went back to Mack’s Pub.

  “This one’s on me.” A thin man with a Fu Manchu the color of an old penny slid onto the stool next to me and placed a couple of bills on the bar. “You don’t mind if I buy you a drink, do ya, darlin’?”

  Why not? Better his dime than mine. I tipped back my whiskey, letting the heat slide down my throat, then turned and thanked him, trying to speculate on what he thought he’d be getting for payback. No way, buddy.

  He leaned over and gazed at the floor. “And who do we have down here?”

  “That’s my dog. Wilco.”

  “Wilco?” His lips stretched into a smile that revealed a couple of chipped teeth and a discolored crown. “What type of name’s that?”

  “It means ‘will comply.’ ” I turned back to my drink, hoping that would be the end of our conversation.

  But the guy persisted. “Poor fellow. He’s missing a back leg. Hit by a car?”

  “Nope. His leg was blown off by an IED.”

  The slack-jawed look on his face gave me an instant of gratification. Good. Maybe that would shut him up.

  It didn’t. “Sorry to hear it.” His eyes roamed over my petite frame and settled on the thighs of my jeans, etched white with time and neglect. “Your legs are lookin’ fine, though. Real fine.”

  The bartender spoke up. “I think you’ve had one too many, Al.” He was running a yellowed rag over the countertop in front of us. “You’re drunk. And making a fool of yourself.”

  “Drunk? I ain’t drunk.” He leaned in closer. I recoiled at the reek of his stale beer breath. “Do I look drunk to you, darlin’?”

  I turned back to my own drink. Maybe he didn’t want to be drunk, but I did. Despite what I’d told Meg. For the past year or so, the addictions had seized me like a jealous lover, unwilling to relent even a small fraction of my old sanity. I shoved my hands deep into my sweatshirt pocket, felt the pills there, and pulled out one. I popped it and threw back the rest of my whiskey. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Al nod. The bartender poured me another. Two sips in, Al shifted closer and slid his hand onto my thigh.

  An instant later the scrawny bastard lay sprawled on the floor.

  I looked down. Oops. Guys like Al learned quickly that the touchy-feely stuff didn’t go over well with me. My ugly past with men coupled with a Marine’s training usually triggered an explosive reaction.

  I threw back the last of the drink this joker had paid for and slid off my stool. Time to go home.

  But Al had a different idea. He jumped up, his nostrils flaring. “What the hell—”

  Wilco also jumped up and stood at full alert, waiting my command, his growl echoing through the now-silent pub.

  Al took one look at Wilco’s curled lips and white canines and backed against the bar. He raised his hands. “Hey. Call your frickin’ mutt off, lady.”

  I motioned for Wilco to stand down. He obeyed, but his eyes glistened with a willingness, no, an eagerness, to attack on command. My fingers twitched in response. Yeah, part of me wanted to take this drunken jerk head-on too. Wilco and I fed off each other’s emotions, and we both harbored inner monsters. Mine had reared its angry head several times over the past year, causing me to alienate almost everyone in my life and to get canned from my last three jobs. I’d vowed that I wouldn’t bring that monster back home with me. I couldn’t bear for Gran to see that side of me.

  But damn, it’d feel good to put this guy out of my misery.

  “On the house.” The bartender pushed a glass to me and motioned toward a table away from the bar. I unclenched my fist, ready to grab the glass, then thought better of it. I thanked him and headed for the door. I’d had enough.

  * * *

  Out in the lot, my step faltered. The pill had kicked in. Or maybe the booze. But I hadn’t had that much, had I? I sucked in the brisk night air, hoping it’d settle my spinning head. It didn’t. I focused my blurred vision on my car. Or Gran’s car. My car was still parked down a ways, left over from last night’s bender. I jingled the keys in my hand and made my way to the Buick.

  One foot in front of the other, Brynn. Nice and easy. I should have stopped at the booze. I could handle my booze. It was the Vicodin that’d be the death of me.

  Death? Now there was something I knew about. Death. It followed me everywhere. From the desert sands to the—

  “You don’t look like you’re in any shape to drive, Callahan.”

  I did a double take. Pusser was walking my way.

  “You following me?”

  “No. I was driving by and spotted your vehicle in the lot. I’ve still got questions. Thought you might answer a few.”

  I looked down at Gran’s Buick. “You recognized this car?”

  Pusser squinted over at a dented, rusty station wagon, circa 1990-something, with Semper Fi and Caution, K9 on Board decals that practically glowed neon under the street lamp’s glare. “Isn’t that your car?”

  My cheeks burned hot. “Yeah. That’s my car.”

  He looked back at the Buick I was getting ready to key into. “You’re drunk, Callahan. Try driving out of here and I’ll ticket you for a DUI.”

  I stood, suspended in confusion. What to do? I couldn’t call Meg. And there was no one else to call. “I’m fine.” I explained about the car situation.

  “Like hell you’re fine. That’s all your family needs, one more tragedy. Come on, I’m taking you in. You can dry up in a holding cell.”

  “What about my dog?”

  Pusser looked down at Wilco. “Bring the dog. At least there’ll be one sober ex-Marine in holding.”

  * * *

  I woke up Thursday morning on a built-in concrete bunk, Deputy Parks peering down at me. Thank God, she had a cup of hot coffee in her hand. “Bet you feel like crap,” she said.

  Crap was an understatement. I sat up, took the coffee, and thanked
her. It was tepid and overly bitter, but I took a couple quick gulps, hoping to wash away the dull ache lingering at the base of my skull. My back was killing me. I reached into my pocket for another pain pill, then realized I wasn’t wearing my sweatshirt. A quick pat on the side of my cargo pants told me my knife was gone too. Funny, I don’t remember being searched.

  Parks must’ve read my mind. “You were pretty wasted when Pusser brought you in. We locked up your personals. It’s just procedure.”

  I glanced at Wilco, who sat nearby, his nose twitching at the grease-stained bag in Parks’s hand. “Is it customary procedure to have a dog in the cell?”

  Parks chuckled, her brown eyes twinkling. “Pusser broke protocol on that. Usually we call the doggie warden, but Pusser insisted that the dog stay with you. He cited some ADA service-dog rule, but I think he’s just got a soft spot for the mutt.”

  I went back to my coffee. This wasn’t the first time Wilco and I had spent the night in a holding cell—me sobering up, Wilco charming the local PD.

  Parks remained standing, hovered over me, clenching the bag and shifting from foot to foot.

  She seemed on edge. “Everything okay, Deputy?”

  “We’ve got a positive ID.” She sat down on the far end of my cot. Her voice had softened to that comforting tone, the one she’d used for Gran yesterday.

  I lowered the coffee and sat up straighter. She continued. “Seems your mother was in a bicycle accident when she was fourteen. She suffered a severe concussion. Broke a couple teeth. Sheriff was able to obtain X-rays earlier this morning from the hospital. We compared root curvatures and tooth positions. He’s still at the morgue, but he asked me to let you know the results.” She briefly looked away. “They were a perfect match.”

  It was official: Mary Anne Callahan, age forty-six, was killed by a single gunshot to the head.

  I should have felt impacted by the news. My mother was dead, and I felt nothing. Then again, I hadn’t known she was alive in the first place. I felt the same insulating cloak surround me that I’d used in the Marines.

  I was told to remove my emotions from the job. We were there for a single task: honor the dead and bring the family closure. Closure. I quickly came to realize there was no such thing.