An End to a Silence: A mystery novel (The Montana Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

The boy
is wrapped in a bedsheet now, and is placed in the fetal position on the
passenger seat of the truck. The man climbs into the driver’s seat and starts
the engine. He speaks to the boy. Words of comfort. Words of concern to a boy
who might have grazed his knee playing in the yard. It seems right and it seems
natural. The truck pulls away and the man makes a small circular movement over
where the boy’s head is, but his hand doesn’t touch the sheet. “It’s going to
be okay,” he whispers.

Ward remembered
Jesús.
The poor little guy will be crossing his legs
, he thought as he
turned left at the end of Penny’s street, a few flecks of snow grazing against
the windshield. He felt a heavy throb developing in his skull as he went over
things in his head. An old man who Newton suspects of the murder of his
grandson is a homicide victim himself. Are the two cases linked in any way
apart from the biological connection? Did the old man know something about the
person responsible for Ryan Novak’s death, if indeed O’Donnell wasn’t the
murderer himself? Did the real killer come to finish off O’Donnell? But why
now? Why wait twenty-five years to finally silence him? He’d said something
about a confession to Penny, the girl who visited him.

But
again, why now? What was his confession? Was it about the little boy, Ryan? But
why wait all these years before confessing? Who else was threatened by the
confession, if that’s what it was, enough to kill the man? And what was it
about the newspaper story that the girl had read to him that had made him
suddenly panic and start calling for a doctor called Brookline? Had William
O’Donnell simply gone senile? Who was Doctor Brookline? And those fingerprints
on the windowsill—who did they belong to? And why had someone repeatedly entered
the old man’s room through the window? Was that person the murderer?

As Ward
pulled into his parking spot
 
the questions
bounced around his mind.

His motel
room had a pink door like all the others. A row of national flags of countries from
all four corners of the world danced energetically on the wind in a line on the
roof, just visible above the motel.

Jesús,
the little black mongrel with flecks of gray, more pronounced around the eyes,
announced himself as soon as Ward stepped into the room at the Montana Sky
Motel. His claws tapped an urgent dance on the hardwood floor over to Ward, and
his eyes spoke of anguish. Time and arthritis had stiffened his limbs, which
gave the impression that he was walking on chair legs.

“I am so
sorry, Jesús.” He pronounced it “
Hayzoos
.” Jesús had
come to be in Ward’s permanent company following the death of a San Antonio
gang member called Jesús Hernandez at the hands, or, more specifically,
machetes of a rival gang. Jesús, the dog, not the guy — that would have been
some resurrection for a man who had had all four limbs hacked off — had been
found wandering Hernandez’s apartment at the crime scene, seemingly in shock,
and Ward had impulsively decided that he should go home with him rather than to
the pound. Jesús still bore the tag with his real name, which Ward couldn’t
fluently pronounce.

Ward
grabbed the mutt’s leash which was hung up on a hook
 
on
the inside of the door and attached it to his collar.

At the
Honey Pie Diner, Ward took the same seat as yesterday. The woman with the red
hair, who hadn’t been here yesterday, came over to Ward’s table. The diner was
empty save for a couple over by the far side, tucked into the corner furthest
away from prying eyes and in light dimmer than the rest of the room.

“What can
I get you?” Cherry asked. She wore a name badge.

Ward
removed his hat, placed it on the table. “I’ll have a coffee, please, ma’am.
Black, I guess.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket and straightened his narrow
black tie.

“And
something for your friend here?”

“Jesús
will have the same,” Ward said. Jesús looked up hopefully and then avoided eye
contact when Cherry tried to make it.

“I think
this little guy would love some water, don’t you?” Her voice went gooey over
the last two words.

“I’m sorry,
he doesn’t speak English. He’s Latino.”

“Ah,”
Cherry said, and she tipped Ward an exaggerated wink. She slipped her notepad
back into the pocket on the front of her apron without writing anything in it
and walked away. Ward checked her out as she ambled behind the counter, an
extra emphasis on her hip sway, Ward thought. Jesús sighed.

“You need
to pee again?” Ward asked.

“
No,
mi padre
,” he answered himself. “
Puedo
esperar
.”

“
Muy
bien
,” Ward
said, and his shoulders sagged as relaxation poured into him at last.

When
Cherry returned with the coffee she spoke quietly. “You’re a cop, right?”

“Right,”
Ward said. He looked down expecting to see his badge on his belt. It wasn’t
there. “The gun?” His holstered weapon was visible under his jacket.

“Jeez,
this is Montana. Everybody carries a gun ’round here. You’re sitting in the cop
seat.”

“I am?”

“Sure you
are. By the window, good view of the room and of the entrance door. Good view
of people coming in and out. You checked out that couple over there when you
came in, suspecting an illicit liaison.” She put an extra emphasis on the word
liaison. “And you checked me out too after I’d taken your order. I saw your
reflection in that mirror behind the counter there.”

“Are you
sure you’re not the cop?” Ward asked, warming to Cherry, whose red hair negated
the necessity of the name badge that Ward had fixed his eyes on. He gazed at it
a few moments.

“There
you go again, Texas Ranger, checking me out. My name badge this time.” She
winked again and Ward grinned.

“You got
me there.”

“Do we
need introductions? You going to stay around long enough to make that
necessary?”

“Ward.
And this here is Jesús.”
Hayzoos
.

“Yes,
we’ve met.” Jesús tried out a glance at her and then looked down at the floor
again.

“He’s got
social phobia. A little.”

“Ward, is
that a first name or a last one?”

“Well,
now. Just call me Ward. It’s the only name anybody ever uses anyhow.”

“Very
pleased to meet you both,” Cherry said, and she turned and walked away. She
glanced over her shoulder at Ward, who was still checking her out, then threw
back her head and laughed raucously, drawing the nervous attention of the
furtive couple in the corner.

“You need
freshening up? Just to let you know I’m going to be closing in fifteen minutes.”
Cherry tipped her head in the direction of the couple. “Should I leave them the
keys, you think?”

Ward
smiled.

“Hey, you
haven’t even touched your coffee.”

“I don’t
drink coffee, ma’am.”

“Then why
in heaven’s name did you go and order one? I mean, I heard of folks quit
smoking who carry around an emergency cigarette which they don’t smoke, but I
never heard of a person orders a coffee and doesn’t drink it.”

“I only
came in for some water for the dog. Sorry about the wastage.”

Cherry
eyed him suspiciously. “Well, I guess I’ll see you both tomorrow.” She hung
around. “You never said why a Texan cowboy ends up in the back of beyond. Don’t
get many southerners up here in Montana. They tend to feel the cold.”

“Cold is
a nice change.” He grabbed his Stetson and sat it on his head. “Catch you
around.”

“Sure as
shit will. It’s a small town.”

“Well,
ma’am, goodnight,” Ward said, and he let a gaze trace Cherry’s well-made figure
before he left.

He
wondered why he could hear the sea whooshing in his ears. He stood in the
kitchen and there was his wife Maggie and his daughter Jen and son-in-law Percy
Mallory. Mallory was still in uniform. The three of them seemed to be having a
conversation but Newton didn’t hear them. And then he realized it was the blood
whooshing in his ears and not the sea. Maggie was standing close to him and her
lips were moving but he didn’t hear her at first. It was only when she came
right up to him and crouched below, looking up into his downward stare, that he
heard.

“Are you
listening?”

Newton
said, “Yes,” but he hadn’t heard and Maggie knew that.

“I said
that it’s one of theirs. The chicken. The roast chicken.” She was smiling when
she said it but the smile changed to concern. “Are you sure you’re listening?
Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

She
studied him for a few moments. She touched his face gently and he tried a
smile. “She necked it this morning.”

“She
did?” Newton said, late to the conversation and trying to show an interest to
make up for it.

“That I did.
Plucked it as well,” Jen said.

“Doesn’t
Percy do the necking?” Maggie said, and Jen laughed loudly and rocked back as
she did.

Newton
thought he should get the joke but he mimed a silent laugh.

“He’s too
squeamish! He couldn’t wring a wet pair of drawers.”

Mallory
glowed red. “Hey,” he said, joining in with the teasing, but there was no humor
in his voice.

“Well,
I’m not sure I could wring a bird’s neck. I’m sure your father couldn’t
neither.” Maggie looked at Newton and he smiled robotically. “Well, let’s set
the table. Jen.”

“Yes,
Mom.”

“I’ll
help,” Mallory said.

Jen
opened a drawer, took out cutlery and walked over to the table. Mallory
followed her. He looked over his shoulder, where he could see Newton staring
through the wall and Maggie busying herself with what she called “’
companiments
.” Mallory grabbed Jen by her arm. She made
like to yelp but Mallory’s glare glued her mouth shut.

“Don’t
never make fun of me in front of your folks,” he said through his teeth, and
Jen looked around at her mom and dad, neither of whom appeared to be watching.
“That’s it. Just…” And he jabbed a finger toward her.

Jen
dropped a knife, and Mallory let go of her before Newton or Maggie saw
anything.

“That
needs washing,” Maggie said. “Get another.”

Maggie
said, “Has everybody got everything?”

“Sit
down,” Newton said. “Stop fussing and sit down.”

“I
agree,” Mallory said. “Sit down, Mom. We’ve all got everything.”

Maggie
liked the fact that Mallory called her Mom. She smiled every time he did.

“Okay,
I’m sitting.” She sat and she glimpsed her husband with hands clasped together.
“You look like you’re about to say grace.” And she shook her head. Newton
untied his fingers and the blood ran back into them.

“I’ll say
grace, Mom,” Mallory said, and Jen was about to say something but stopped
herself.

“I was
only kidding,” Maggie said, and Mallory had a quick look at Jen.

“Say,
what’s this new detective like?” Maggie said. Mallory had started to eat and he
kept his head down over his plate with one arm wrapped around it in a perimeter
guard.

Newton
said, “
It’s
work. We have a rule about no work talk
around the table.”

Then
Mallory did look up, but he still didn’t say anything.

“Just
look at this bird. It’s like Thanksgiving all over again,” Maggie said, but
everybody else was already eating and none of them spoke.

Ward was
stripped down to pajama pants, and he sat on the edge of his bed and prepared
for the ritual of trying to get to sleep. Jesús sat and stared at him.

He could
hear the wind getting up outside and he hoped that the sound would help him
relax. He’d already had some beers but that hadn’t worked.

There was
a mirror on a dressing table opposite the foot of the bed. He studied the
tattoos which decorated almost his entire torso and arms, and with his hand he
covered the one of the little girl which sat on the left side of his chest,
nestling amongst the tangled dragons. He tried to avoid his own gaze, but his
reflection kept staring back at him, so he keeled back and lay there looking at
the dreamcatcher hanging from the light fixture, fighting his thoughts. He
stayed there a while and then shuffled onto the bed and pulled the duvet over
himself. He waited for Jesús to jump up onto the bed and settle down by his
feet, then reached and turned out the bedside lamp, but a little light still
leaked into the room from outside.

He closed
his eyes as tight as they would go and then relaxed them. He tried to relax
every muscle in his body in turn, starting from his head and neck and working
down. He concentrated on breathing slowly. When he reached his feet he took in
a lungful of air and started counting back from ten like he’d been told. Each
number was a step down to a special place where the memories were happy ones
and the descent was slow and in time with his deep breaths. By the fifth step
he could feel himself drifting off and then a panic took him and shook him back
to ten.

On the
sixth or seventh try he was gone. The wind whipped up outside and he twitched
with each gust.

The field
was a golden sea and waves rolled over it toward infinity. He looked all around
and saw nobody and nothing else apart from the long barley stalks which
appeared to flow one way and then the other on a churning high tide. He hugged
his naked body against the cold but the wind was warm and yet he was wet. He
looked up at the immaculate blue sky and wondered where the wetness had come
from. He tasted the back of his forearm and he realized the wetness was sweat.
The wind gusted around him and he thought he could hear the sea in his shell
ears. He looked for a sign but there were just barley waves, and he didn’t know
what sign he was looking for or why he was there, but he knew he was meant to
be there.

And then
he looked down at his feet. They were covered in reddish mud, and he realized
he was sinking. He lifted one foot out of the mud and the other went deeper,
and then he lifted that foot and the first foot went even deeper. The next time
he tried,
neither foot would release and
by now he had
sunk almost knee-deep. He frantically looked around for something to get hold
of to pull himself out but all that was there were barley waves, and he
continued to sink, crying out for help.

He
slumped to a sitting position and tried to pull his legs out of the mud, but he
couldn’t. His backside started to sink and he tried to lever himself back up.
One hand plunged into the mud and stuck there. He waved the other hand in the
air and shouted for help but still nobody came, and there were just barley
waves and now the waves were over his head. And the wind swirled and the blue
sky gleamed and an unseen sun beat down on him as he continued to sink. So he
put his free hand on his head, closed his eyes and prepared to drown.

He heard
a rustling nearby, and when he opened his eyes the scarecrow stood over him,
its head tilted to one side in puzzlement.
Thank God, you’ve got to help me
.
But the scarecrow just stood there with its quizzical look and its arms
stretched out to its sides.
Won’t you help me? Can you get me help? Please
help me
. But the scarecrow just peered down at him and he had sunk more now
until just his head and shoulders and one arm were not submerged. With his free
hand he grabbed at the scarecrow, but he couldn’t reach, and the scarecrow
asked a question but he didn’t know the answer. He closed his eyes and behind
his eyelids there were just barley waves.

Jesús lay
at the foot of the bed, his eyes on Ward gasping in his deep sleep. Outside,
the cruel wind tugged at the flags on the roof and they flapped like tethered
ghosts. Jesús hunkered down further into the duvet and whimpered gently.