Splintered Silence

by Susan Furlong

  “Dub’s full of crap. You know that. You’ve always hated him. Why would you take his word over Eamon’s? Over mine?”

  “I’m not, it’s just that—” I paused. “Don’t you think you’re rushing things? You’ve gone through a lot. How long has it been since—?”

  “A year, Brynn. I’ve been widowed for a year. And I’m lonely. Sick of working this stupid job, waiting hand and foot on a bunch of settled folk. What’s wrong with wanting to be happy?”

  “Does Eamon make you happy?”

  She looked down and twisted the ring on her finger. “Yes.” But something in her hesitation and expression belied the affirmation. She looked up and met my gaze. “I’m happy, Brynn. Really.”

  I sat back, taking a couple bites of chili while she sipped her coffee. I decided to change topics. “Sheriff Pusser considers you a suspect in Sheila’s murder.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Don’t be dumb, Meg. The whole love triangle thing. He thinks you found out Sheila was sleeping with your boyfriend and killed her in a fit of jealousy.”

  “That’s just ridiculous! How can you even say that?”

  “I’m just telling you what’s going through Pusser’s mind.”

  “Look, Eamon knew Sheila, but they were just friends, okay?”

  “Okay.” Just a few seconds ago, she’d described them as acquaintances, now they were friends. My cousin’s story was changing by the second. I squinted. What’s going on with her? Is she so lonely that she’s willing to settle for anything?

  Sensing my doubt, she leaned forward and bit out her words. “He wasn’t screwing her. He gave her one of the kittens from that stray cat’s litter. He said she was lonely, and he thought it would make her happy. That’s all there was to it.”

  Yeah. Now they were friends enough that he was giving her things to “make her happy.” “I’m worried about you, Meg.”

  “Well, don’t be. You’ve got enough of your own problems to worry about.” She began to stand up.

  I reached out and stopped her. “Hey. I’m trying to help you, that’s all.”

  She broke my clasp and slammed her palm on the table. Wilco felt the vibration and sprang up under the table. Meg leaned in, tears glistening along the edges of her eyes. “All I wanted was for you to be happy for me. But you can’t do that, can you? You’re a lonely drunk, and you’ll stay that way until you face your own problems and get some help. In the meantime, stay out of my life.”

  * * *

  Out in the diner’s parking lot, I shut Wilco in on the passenger’s side and walked around my car.

  “There you are, bitch.”

  I wheeled around. Great, first a fight with Meg and now this jerk. “What the do you want, Al?”

  Al glowered as he stepped forward, then jumped back as Wilco pawed at the window, barking his head off. Slobber spewed from my dog’s curled lips and smeared the glass. Al snorted, blocking my way back to the passenger door. “Stupid crippled mutt can’t help you this time.” He stepped closer. The stench of overripe BO and sickeningly sweet marijuana hit my nostrils. “What do I want? I’d like to see all you knackers wiped off the face of the earth, that’s what.”

  “Yeah, well, I want a giant lollipop and a free trip to Disney. Ain’t gonna happen.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You better—”

  “Better what, Al? What’s your problem anyway?” I headed around the front of my car, but he came up right behind me.

  “I saw you talking to Drake.”

  “So?” I turned to face him as I reached my door.

  “You ratted me out. I’m out money because of you, lady.” He’d moved in closer, forcing me just beyond my door, then blocking my way.

  I grasped my key but couldn’t reach the lock beyond the bully. “You’re a pimp. You should be in jail. You’re lucky I didn’t call the cops.”

  He snatched my arm. “You callin’ the cops on me?” He laughed. “A thievin’ gypsy calling the cops on me?” His eyes bored into mine. “You’re actin’ like you think you’re better than me.”

  I tried to shake him off. “Let go!”

  His grip tightened. Wilco was ramming his snout against the driver’s side window now, the glass reverberating with his barking.

  Al leaned in even closer. “You filthy gypsies don’t belong around here, livin’ like trash out there in your trailers, drinkin’ and whorin’ around. Sleepin’ with your own cousins. And you . . .” His eyes glazed over with hatred. “Threatenin’ me with the cops.”

  I’d positioned my key between my fingers, ready to shishkebab his eyeball. His fingertips dug deeper into the flesh of my left arm. One more move, Al, just one, and you’re a blind man.

  He went on. “Listen to me. Nobody threatens me. And nobody screws me over and gets by with it. ’Specially not some pikey slut like—”

  Crunching of gravel. We both turned. Another car pulled into the lot, and he dropped my arm. But he turned his rheumy eyes back on me, his spittle spraying my face as he said, “Folks don’t want your type here no more. We’re gonna get you out of here one way or the other.”

  “We’re not going anywhere.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He turned and walked to the diner entrance. I watched him, his shoulders hunched, his fists clenched, his gait solid and determined. I’d known guys like him in the Marines. Hot-headed lunatics with something to prove.

  I looked down at my white knuckles still clutching my key ring, one metal key end protruding, ready.

  Al could be dangerous.

  I tightened the grip on my keys. Then again, so could I.

  * * *

  Al’s threat hung with me on the drive back to Gran’s place. And so did Meg’s words. Pikey, slut. Crippled mutt. Lonely drunk. When did the insults ever stop? It was one thing to confront a settled jerk like Al. Another entirely to be called names by the one relative in my life who had been my steadfast friend. I reached across my seat and patted Wilco. I had only one friend now.

  Then there was the heat that lingered from my encounter with Colm. It was as if someone had flipped a switch and turned on a part of me I’d suppressed all these years. I squirmed in my seat. Wilco turned my way, let out a little whine, and pushed his nose against the car door.

  We were parked outside Gran’s mobile home watching the buzz of activity: neighbors and friends coming and going with food and flowers. Preparations for tomorrow’s service were in full swing. And more family had arrived: two more of Gran’s siblings from Texas and some relatives on Gramps’ side that I’d never heard of until this week. Some were overnighting at our place, and earlier Gran had asked if I wouldn’t mind giving up my bed, maybe sleeping on the couch or in my vehicle, which I often did anyway, so that Great Aunt Tinnie, who suffered from sciatica, could have my bed. I didn’t mind. My eyes slid toward Doogan’s trailer. But maybe I didn’t need to sleep in my car . . .

  There’d be no rejection this time.

  All I had to do is knock on the door. Knock and you shall receive. Scripture, something a man of God would say. I laughed at the irony of it all. Colm may not want me, but Doogan did. I’d sensed it a while back. The way he watched me, held my stare just a little too long, stood too close . . . I sat back in the seat and squeezed my eyes shut, imagining what it’d be like. His hands on me, his lips exploring me. Would it be gentle and slow or aggressive? The thought of it made my heart pound in my chest; blood coursed throughout my body. The heat in my belly spread lower, grew hotter . . .

  I couldn’t take it any longer.

  I slid out of the car. Wilco followed, his head and tail low. He sensed my mood and probably couldn’t decipher the emotions pouring from me. I couldn’t; how could he?

  Inside Doogan’s trailer, the air was warm and humid and laced with a clean soapy smell. He’d answered the door with wet hair and a towel draped over bare shoulders. “Brynn?”

  We were standing mere inches from each other, and I could feel my chest rise and fall, my br
easts pushing against the fabric of my sweatshirt. His gaze travelled from my face to my body and back again. He blinked, his eyes searching mine with uncertainty.

  I reached out and brushed a wet strand of hair from his forehead. With the tip of my finger, I traced a line down the side of his face, across his angled jaw to his full lips. He grabbed my hand and pressed it against his mouth, kissing my fingers, then my palm, his gaze holding mine as he captured my other hand and raised both my arms above my head, stepping in closer, forcing me back against the door and pressing his body against mine. He removed my scarf and lifted my chin, and I felt his tongue move along my jawline and under my earlobe. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the heat of his lips as they touched my neck, tender at first, then little nips that grew into stronger, more ravenous kisses. He grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, and took his fill, his lips not differentiating between my good skin and my damaged skin. Rough, calloused hands moved down my back, under my sweatshirt, and roamed freely. Nerves I thought were long ago dead, burned up and shriveled away, sprang to life. I pulled him closer, shifting and maneuvering until our bodies fit together. Maybe I wasn’t what Colm wanted, what most men wanted, but Doogan wanted me.

  He broke away, stepped back, and lifted my sweatshirt over my head. I watched as his eyes surveyed my body without a hint of repulsion. My wanting for him grew. His lips found mine again as he gently lifted me and guided me to the floor. The weight of his body on mine felt right, safe and good. I ran my hands along the long lines of his back muscles as our bodies rocked together. His breath hit my skin in hot, rapid spurts, and sensing my need or unable to control his own, his moves became more aggressive, faster and harder.

  Then something happened. Whether it was his sudden urgency, or the familiar feel of the floor against my bare back, I don’t know, but I was seventeen again, back in Dub’s trailer, pinned against the floor, screaming and pleading while he forced my legs apart, forced himself into me. And before I could talk my mind out of it, my body tensed. I trembled.

  “Brynn?” Doogan pulled back. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “No. No, please . . .” I tried to pull him back, make myself go back, back where we were just a minute ago, back to when it felt right.

  But something had shifted between us. “Are you cold? You’re trembling.” He covered my arms with his and pulled me closer. Then something dawned in his eyes. “You’re scared?” I hesitated, and he pulled back again. Concern or maybe anger flashed in his eyes. “You’re scared of me?”

  “No.” Yet the trembling held its grip on my limbs; even my voice quivered with my objection.

  He sat up and looked down at me. I felt horribly exposed. I folded my arms and covered myself.

  He whispered something in Shelta, heavily brogued, and abruptly stood. I sat up and watched as he retrieved a blanket from the back of a chair. He came back to me, knelt down, and covered me. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me everything, Brynn.”

  And I did. The words and the tears poured from me as I told him about my childhood, my abandonment, my arranged engagement to Dublin, how I refused, and then how one month before my eighteenth birthday, Dublin Costello brutally and mercilessly beat and raped me. How I never thought something like that could happen, here, where I felt safe, surrounded by friends and so close to the family I trusted. And how afterward, Gramps blamed me. Ostracized me. I went on to tell him about the town boy I’d trusted, confided in, gave myself to, and who eventually abandoned me without any explanation. How all this led to my enlistment, and even though scouring desert sands for decomposed bodies seemed undesirable to most, I didn’t mind the work, not really. It was easier to deal with the dead than the living, and it was rewarding to bring answers to families who’d lost someone they loved. How I’d never had the type of answers I needed. My regrets, my fears, my hopes, my dreams . . . they all tumbled out . . . and he listened.

  And when I was done, emptied and exhausted, I could barely move, couldn’t think another thought, the numbness in my soul was a deafening roar. I felt Doogan’s solid arms as he lifted me and led me to the back of the trailer, to his bed, where he tucked me into his sheets and held me until I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sometime later, sirens jerked me awake. I sat up, alone in Doogan’s bed, my eyes straining to adjust as the darkness strobed in bright flashes of red and blue. “Doogan!” My voice sounded flat and alone, tiny, like a child’s, even in the small confines of his trailer.

  I heard Wilco whining. I sprang from the bed, flipped on the lights, and found him facing the far corner, his back curled and tail tucked as he stared at nothing and shivered. Wilco!

  I crossed the room and reached out to touch him, jerking my hand back when he snapped at it. I backed up, shocked at his behavior. A flashback. Still he needed immediate correction. For his sake and for our relationship. I grabbed him by the scruff and tugged his head up, making eye contact and letting displeasure show in my features. He demurred, his dazed eyes blinked back to reality, and he lowered his gaze, his muscles relaxing. I let him go, and he lowered his snout and eventually lay at my feet. I followed up with a quick pat on the head, a small token of trust and a little positive reinforcement. Still, he whimpered and whined, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow as police lights danced around the room.

  I moved toward the front window when someone pounded on the door. “Police! Open up!” I’d barely snatched my sweatshirt off the ground and pulled it over my head when the door burst open. Harris rushed in, his weapon drawn. “Hands up! Hands up!”

  I complied. Harris’s weapon was pointed straight at my chest. Two more officers rushed in behind him and fanned out with their own weapons drawn. Behind me, Wilco snarled and barked at the intruders.

  “Where’s Doogan?” Harris shouted.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s clear,” an officer yelled out. The same was echoed by the other officer.

  Pusser shuffled inside, his weapon secured in his holster. He eyed Harris right away. “Take your gun off her, you idiot.” He mumbled something else and stepped toward me, keeping a leery eye on Wilco. “We’re looking for Doogan.”

  “You and me both.” I’d turned my focus to my dog, calming him the best I could.

  Pusser was giving me a once-over, taking in my disheveled hair, crumpled clothing, and bare feet. He spoke into his radio. “Parks, I’ve got a 429. She’s fine.” Then to me. “Put some shoes on and follow me.”

  After some searching, I found one boot by the door, the other under a chair. All the while, Harris’s eyes bore a hole in my back. The other officers stood off to the side, shifting anxiously as I worked into my boots and locked a still freaked-out Wilco in Doogan’s bedroom.

  My gut churned as we headed out the door. Outside, it looked like every emergency vehicle in the county was on hand, their throbbing lights piercing the darkness. Onlookers stood around in tightly cinched robes and slippered feet. I glanced toward Gran’s place. “What’s going on, Pusser? Are my grandparents okay?”

  “They’re fine. I sent Parks to tell them you’re here. Your grandmother was worried about you.”

  I looked from him to the other officers. A putrid, wet burnt smell hung in the air. “What’s burning?” I strained my neck, but my vision was blocked by cop cars and fire trucks. “Would someone tell me what’s going on?”

  “Dub Costello’s place burned down.”

  My head snapped toward Dub’s place. I headed that way, Pusser taking the lead and escorting me through the horde of onlookers and inside the cordoned area. Costello’s mobile home had been reduced to a burned-out, smoldering carcass of corrugated steel. I looked to Pusser. “Costello?”

  “No trace. So far. It’s too hot for a thorough search.”

  Doogan! Doogan did this! He’d already thought that Costello was responsible for his sister’s death; then I told him about the rape. Stupid! Stupid! This was my fault. I’d pushed him over the edge . . .

  “What is
it?” Pusser asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Where’s Doogan?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean? You were at his place. Where’d he go?”

  I coughed and swallowed hard against the slimy smoke coating the back of my throat. “I fell asleep around nine. I woke up when I heard the sirens, and he was gone.”

  “So you have no idea when he left?”

  I coughed again. Pusser’s voice grew distant, like he was talking to me from down a long tunnel. My eyes stung. “No. I don’t know when he left.” I struggled to draw in air.

  Pusser went silent and stared at me. I avoided his gaze, taking in the scene: fire trucks were on standby—useless at this point—as the cops pushed back the crowd that was quickly gathering. I saw a few familiar faces, all Pavees, no townspeople. Al’s threat from earlier popped into my mind, and I searched the crowd again. I didn’t see him. One of the officers was off to the side, questioning Old Man Nevin. “You’re assuming arson,” I said. Again, I thought of Al. He hated us enough to burn down one of our trailers, but why Dub’s? No. That seemed too coincidental. This was personal. This was Doogan.

  Pusser tipped his head toward the tree line. “We found an empty gas can a couple hundred feet into the woods.”

  This time of night, the woods behind Costello’s place were inky dark and dangerous and nearly impossible to navigate. “A lot of stuff gets dumped back there.” It was true. We lived too remotely for sanitation services, and although we burned or hauled off most of our trash, still people inevitably dumped things just inside the edge of the woods. Trash. Bodies. My mother’s body. Sheila’s body. Now maybe Doogan was out there somewhere, on the run after killing Costello. Clan justice. I shivered.

  Pusser turned to face me straight on. “It seems you know Doogan better than I thought.”

  I didn’t answer.