Dead Silence Page 16

  “This little guy has to have a nickname because he doesn’t have a name—that we know of, anyway, or that he can tell us. He’s a foundling. That’s why I had to foster him. And I want to think his mother is out there desperately looking for him, but . . .”

  “But she might be the one who left him there.”

  “If she didn’t, she’d have reported him missing, right? Unless something’s happened to her, too. I keep going over it in my head. The only thing I know for sure is that he’s lucky we’re the ones who have him.”

  “You and Billy are amazing.”

  “I meant you and me. Think about it, Mimi—we can do for him what nobody could do for us back then. I think we should—” She turns, head cocked to one side, and Amelia hears the front door open and close. “There’s Theodore.”

  He appears, filling the doorway, and Amelia’s jaw drops. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been a little boy.

  Jessie’s older children had been sweet-faced babies, cherubic toddlers, adorable schoolchildren, and had even escaped awkward adolescence. Theodore is in the throes of it, shaggy and disheveled, pudgy and pockmarked. Unlike Chip and Petty, he isn’t blessed with a naturally lean body or symmetrical features. One day, he’ll be a fine-looking man, Amelia thinks, but her heart goes out to him now.

  “Look who’s here!” Jessie tells him, like he’s a little kid and Amelia’s the ice cream truck.

  His eyes narrow behind thick glasses.

  “Hi, Theodore!” If he were Chip or Petty, she’d approach with a hug, but she knows better with him.

  “Hi.” His voice is unfamiliar—a thin, lower pitch that is, like his fuzzy almost-mustache, on the brink of manhood but not quite there. “What are you doing here?”

  Jessie answers for her. “Aunt Mimi’s here to spend time with us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she misses us, and we miss her.”

  He opens his mouth, but Amelia cuts in. “Wow, Theodore, look at you! You’re all grown-up.”

  He shakes his head, not in disgust at her corniness, but in literal-minded disagreement. “All grown-up is twenty-one. Chip is grown-up, and Petty will be grown-up in April. I’m fifteen. I have five years and ten months and . . .” Quick calculation. “Thirteen days.”

  “How’d you do on your tests today?” Jessie asks.

  “I got a hundred and three in health.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Extra credit,” he tells Amelia as if she’d asked how to navigate a staircase.

  “Grades only went up to a hundred when I was in school. Hardly anyone ever got one.”

  “I got a hundred on my social studies quiz, too.”

  “Cool. You must be really smart, Theodore.”

  “I am. And a lot of the other kids are really stupid.”

  “How about your French test?” Jessie asks, and he scowls.

  “It was hard. Madame Worst says I need to stay after for extra help all next week.”

  Mimi raises an eyebrow. “Madame Worst? She sounds German.”

  “It’s what he calls his French teacher. Her name is Mrs. Best.”

  “Madame Best. She hates me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you, Theodore. Why don’t you tell Aunt Mimi about Espinoza?”

  He brightens, turning to Amelia. “Espinoza is my rooster.”

  “Cool, you have a rooster?” Stop saying cool. You’re trying too hard. Kids hate that.

  Theodore gives a vigorous nod and goes on, recitation style, rocking back and forth on his sneakers. “He lives in his coop in the yard. My dad and I built it, and I painted it yellow, so his house would match our house. He eats chicken feed and vegetables and sometimes grass. He’s named after Victor Espinoza. He won the triple crown last year on American Pharaoh. He’s won the Kentucky Derby three times and the Preakness three times, and he was on Dancing with the Stars last fall, but he didn’t win that. He was eliminated on the second night.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t expect a rooster to be the best dancer.”

  Jessie laughs at Amelia’s joke.

  Theodore does not. “The jockey Victor Espinoza is the one who was on Dancing with the Stars. Roosters can’t dance on TV.”

  “Aunt Mimi was just being funny.”

  “Not that funny. Anyway, Espinoza sounds like a—an awesome rooster.” Not a cool one.

  Her effort is rewarded with a grin. “Yeah, he is. I can show him to you. I have to feed him his dinner after I go wash up and change my clothes.”

  “I’d love that, Theo . . . dore,” she adds, seeing the scowl flash again. No nicknames. No cool. She’s got this.

  Jessie flashes her a grateful smile and tells Theodore to hurry up because dinner will be ready soon.

  “Is Aunt Mimi staying for dinner?”

  “She is. She’s staying for the whole weekend.”

  “Is that okay with you?” Amelia asks.

  He weighs it, nods, and heads for the back stairway. “I’ll be right back so you can meet Espinoza!”

  “Well, that went well,” Jessie says. “Good job. I’m sorry he’s so touchy. He can’t help it.”

  “I know, sweetie. All teenagers are like that.”

  “Yeah, but Theodore isn’t your garden-variety teenaged pain in the butt. He’s got so many issues. He’s just not good with change or surprises or—” She throws her head back and curses under her breath.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I forgot to remind him about Little Boy Blue. He’s not—”

  A bloodcurdling scream erupts overhead.

  Chapter Nine

  The Angler had plugged the address Cecile provided into his phone’s GPS app. It guides him in maddening, meandering loops through an upscale development that should be called Nine Circles of Hell instead of Evergreen Estates.

  The winding lanes are filled with oversized new homes that are supposed to look old. Some are brick with stately pillars; some have gables and gingerbread porches. One ridiculous house is New England style, gray shingled with a lighthouse-shaped cupola and a widow’s walk at the peak, though the ocean is nearly a thousand kilometers away.

  Renee’s friend lives in a white clapboard house with black shutters and a basketball hoop over the three-car garage. He pulls into the driveway behind two BMW SUVs. The yard is already decorated for Halloween—wheat sheaves wired to the glowing lampposts, and spotlit pumpkins and a scarecrow perched on hay bales in a pathetic attempt to duplicate a rural harvest scene.

  It makes him think of his uncle’s Quebec farm, and the country road in New York. Of Monique at the bottom of the lake, and her son left for dead in the dirt.

  His fist finds the horn and he blasts it, good and hard.

  Waiting for his daughter to come out, he opens a browser on his phone and types in several search terms. New York State, Cortland, Ithaca, dead child, body found . . .

  About to hit Enter, he’s startled by a rap at his window and turns to see a man there. Clean-cut and ruddy cheeked, he’s wearing a navy crew neck sweatshirt and holding a rake, gesturing for the Angler to roll down the window. He obliges, shoving his phone into his pocket, wondering if the man could have glimpsed what he was writing.

  “Hey there,” he says. “Can I help you?”

  The Angler gives a blank stare. “With what?”

  “Are you lost, or turning around . . . ?”

  “No, I was looking for my daughter. Guess I have the wrong address.” He starts to shift the car into Reverse. “Sorry about—”

  “Wait, are you Renee’s dad?”

  “Yeah. Is she here?”

  “Inside playing with Melissa. I’m Bob Varner.” He sticks his hand through the car window and the Angler shakes it with reluctance. “Sorry I mistook you for someone who was lost—happens a lot around here.”

  I’ll bet it does. But do they all park in your driveway and honk the horn?

  “Anyway, I figured you’d park and come in to get Renee,” Bob goes on. “Cecile alway
s does.”

  “That’s Cecile.” He pulls his false smile so taut that his face aches. “Can you tell Renee that I’m here? We have to get home for dinner.”

  “Oh, Sarah’s making a huge meal, so you have to stay.”

  Sarah—his wife?

  And they have to stay?

  Yeah, I don’t think so.

  “We can’t. I have to—”

  “Aw, Sarah’s counting on it, and she’s whipping up Renee’s favorite. Works out well for all of us, doesn’t it?” He winks and leans on the rake, settling in for a chat.

  Renee’s favorite . . . what?

  “Our girls are even making place mats for the table. They’re such cutie-pies, you know?”

  The Angler nods as if he knows, or cares. “Sorry, but we really have to get home. It’s been a long day.”

  “Oh, right, I’m sure it has. Sarah just got off the phone with Cecile.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She filled us in. Why? Haven’t you talked to her?”

  Noting the flicker of judgment, he says, “Of course I’ve talked to her. I just left the hospital.”

  All right, not just.

  He’d detoured back to his father’s house to pick up a few things he’ll need if he does decide to flee. He’d been planning to tidy the attic, too—remove the evidence of the secret room’s recent inhabitants, get rid of the handcuffs and a few other incriminating items, just in case.

  But then Cecile had started texting him, asking whether he’d picked up Renee. He hadn’t responded. She’d texted several more times as he drove over here. He’d ignored them all.

  “We’ve all been so worried about Pascal the Rascal.” At the Angler’s look, the man explains, “That’s what we call him around here. He gets a real kick out of it.”

  So. His own children have, without his knowledge or permission, become far too familiar with this stranger and his family. That this Bob has a ridiculous nickname for his son, that he knows his daughter’s favorite—whatever the hell his wife is cooking . . .

  It doesn’t sit well with him. Not at all.

  He pushes back his sleeve to pointedly check his watch and notices a small dark speck on the glass face.

  Blood?

  He yanks his sleeve back over it and looks up to see if Bob Varner could have noticed it.

  But he’s already turned away. “You’re in a hurry, I know. I’ll go get Renee.”

  She appears a full five minutes later, pausing in the doorway to hug a little blonde girl like a wartime soldier before trudging toward the car, lugging a backpack that’s as big as she is and appears to be heavier. Bob Varner catches up with her, takes the bag, and carries it the rest of the way.

  His lips are moving but the Angler had rolled up his window again and only catches the last bit of whatever he’s saying when he opens the back door for Renee. “. . . save you some for next time, okay?”

  “Yes, but . . .” She climbs in and asks in a whiny voice, “Papa, s’il vous plait—”

  “Talk to me in English, Renee!” he commands in his father’s voice.

  Parle-moi en français!

  “Papa, please, can we stay for dinner?”

  “No. We’re going home.”

  “Where is your booster seat, Renee?” Varner asks.

  “I don’t have one in Papa’s car. Only in Maman’s.”

  “You’re six years old,” the Angler says. “You don’t need one.”

  “She’s very petite for a six-year-old, so she should probably have one, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  I do mind.

  He clenches the steering wheel. “Put on your seatbelt, Renee. Hurry up. We have to go.”

  “I want to stay to eat.” In the rearview mirror, he sees her just sitting there scowling, arms folded across her chest.

  “I said, no.”

  “Here, I’ll help you strap in, Renee,” Bob says.

  “She can do it herself. Renee, close your door.”

  “But—”

  He reaches back, grabs the handle, and gives it a yank, grazing Bob’s arm before he jumps back out of the way. Shifting into Reverse, he backs out of the driveway, barely checking for cars or pedestrians.

  “Papa, you hurt Mr. Varner!”

  That’s his problem.

  “Stop! My seatbelt isn’t on!”

  And that’s yours.

  Grim, he drives toward home.

  Fifteen minutes later, after a drive-through detour and a fast-food cheeseburger he’d gobbled on the way home, the Angler pulls into the town house garage.

  His daughter remains silent and tear stained in the backseat.

  Cecile has spoiled both children. A long, challenging road lies ahead to undo the damage. With the boy recuperating from this appendix situation, there will be no end to the whining.

  He gets out of the car. “Come on. Let’s go into the house.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Suit yourself. But you’ll be locked in the car in the garage in the dark for the night.”

  She scrambles out and follows him.

  In the kitchen, he tosses a white fast-food bag onto the table. “Sit down and eat your dinner.”

  Renee peers inside.

  “This is not good for me. There are no vegetables.”

  “What do you think French fries are made of?”

  “But Maman says—”

  “Maman is French! They’re French fries! Shut up and eat,” he growls.

  “What about my milk?”

  He yanks open the refrigerator door and is assaulted by the stench of ripened cheese. He grabs the milk, pours some into a glass, and plunks it onto the table so that it splashes over the rim.

  “Here you go. Are you happy now? Drink your damned milk, eat your dinner, and then go to bed.”

  “Mais je—” She stops herself, seeing him whirl back to glare, and begins again in English. “But I can’t go to bed until I’ve done my homework.”

  “So? Do it.”

  “I need help.”

  “No, you don’t.” He takes a black garbage bag from under the sink.

  “Mais—”

  “Parle-moi en français!” he screams and sees the confusion on her face just before he slaps it.

  She bursts into tears.

  He stares, breathing hard.

  Then he strides out of the kitchen and up the stairs, leaving his daughter crying inconsolably.

  In the bedroom, he finds the bed unmade and Cecile’s nightgown on the floor, indicating that she had, indeed, left in a rush this morning. Remembering the texts he’d ignored earlier, he looks at his phone. In addition to asking whether he’d collected Renee, and asking where he was, Cecile had written that the doctors had started administering the IV antibiotics and are optimistic.

  “Pascal the Rascal,” he mutters. “Pascal the Rascal. Imbecile.”

  He strips off his clothing and throws it all into the garbage bag. Even his watch, and the waxed canvas coat he’d worn on so many fishing excursions. Now it’s tainted and torn by the murder weapon he’d so stupidly carried home with him.

  In the bathroom, he runs the water as hot as he can tolerate. Cecile’s lavender bubble bath lingers in the air, along with burped-up raw onions from the burger he’d devoured.

  Standing beneath the scalding spray, he scrubs his skin hard with a bar of strong white soap to rid himself of any trace of his father, and of blood.

  He should have done it last night, but Pascal had interrupted that plan, along with today’s. Why does his life have to be so difficult?

  Children. They complicate everything. Remove them from the picture, and his life would become his own again. Cecile would let him go without a struggle if not for her twisted fantasy about royal heirs.

  He has a twisted fantasy of his own, and it, too, involves his little heirs. One down, two to go. If Pascal doesn’t survive, that would leave just Renee.

  Accidents happen.

  He might take he
r night fishing, out to the middle of a remote mountain lake . . .

  Jessie rushes for the stairs, Theodore’s scream reverberating through the house.

  It’s Billy. His heart . . .

  He’d been fine just a few minutes ago, stomping on the shower floor because she’d been running the water downstairs. The cardiologist had said his symptoms might be warning signs, yet he hasn’t been taking proper care of himself. He’d started out concerned, committed to changing his eating habits, exercising, losing weight, reducing stress—doctor’s orders. But the way he’s been slacking off lately, she’s certain she’ll find him lying on the floor, Theodore standing over him . . .

  When she reaches the top of the stairs, though, Billy is there, bursting out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, and Theodore . . .

  Theodore is howling, pressed against the wall, eyes scrunched shut.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Jessie grabs him, wrapping him in an embrace so tight it should hurt him. It’s painful for her. Yet she knows it’s what he needs right now.

  She just grips him and shoots a helpless look at Billy.

  “Did you get hurt?” he asks. “Theodore?”

  “What happened?” Mimi is at the top of the stairs. “Is everything—Oh, no!” She scurries forward and scoops something from the floor. “He got out. I’m so sorry. I closed the door . . . oh, Clancy.”

  Jessie sees a wee kitten in her arms, and Chip’s bedroom door ajar.

  “It’s okay, Mimi,” Billy says. “The doors do that sometimes.”

  “They always did. I should have remembered that. I should have—I’m so sorry, Theodore.”

  He’s shaking in Jessie’s grip, his eyes still squeezed shut. “I hate cats!”

  “Theodore, calm down,” Billy says. “It’s just a kitten. It’s not going to—”

  “Get it out of here! Get it out of here!”

  Mimi closes the kitten in Chip’s room and stands in the hallway holding the knob as though the tiny creature might break down the door. “Theodore, I feel awful. I’ll pack him up and leave.”

  Jessie shakes her head. “No way. Billy will fix the door so that it stays closed. It’s fine.”