Iceman

Buckhead Springs

A few years ago Eichord had become embroiled in “the worst mass-murder case in history,” as the, papers called it, and a newborn baby boy had been the survivor of a horrible confrontation. The child was the result of a mating between a human monster and a young woman he'd then murdered. Jack had felt an intense desire to shelter and care for this abandoned infant, and Donna Eichord, unable to bear a child herself, had encouraged their working to adopt this little boy.

But there had been signs of problems from the very first. The harder he tried not to think in clichés, the more he'd find himself embarrassed by phrases like “spawn of evil” that would irritatingly sneak in and out of his subconscious thoughts. Eichord realized he was overreacting to a healthy child's tantrums, but the darker thoughts continued to intrude.

There was always a real truth, wasn't there? And the REAL truth, as opposed to the superficial one, was that deep inside he was constantly watching their adopted son to show any sign of genetic influence, watching him “like a cop instead of a father,” according to Donna in an argument they'd had on the subject. She had her opinion and Jack had his. He saw her as far too lenient with the child.

Jonathan had hit the “Terrible Twos” with a vengeance. He had learned his first word: NO! A word to be screamed over and over and over at the top of his little lungs. It worried Jack that his wife could let the kid throw a tantrum for half an hour and never even so much as threaten him with a paddling.

“If you don't stand on his head now...” Eichord told her, but he let it trail off unsaid. It was one of those things you didn't want to have to verbalize.

It had worried him to the extent he'd actually spoken to a cop shrink he knew, and come away with some psychobabble and conflicting mumbo-jumbo about how it was perfectly natural for a two-year-old to throw tantrums.

He'd been regaled with “Terrible Twos” stories. Told how the first sign of separation from the maternal figure evoked this sort of classic misbehavior. How the reaction to the tantrums and bad behavior depended on how secure the parent was and lots of other shrinkese that left Eichord uptight, confused, and still wanting to sit on this kid when he screamed for ten minutes.

He understood about the Terrible Twos. But this wasn't just whining, or mere misbehavior, or even screaming tantrums. There was something bad here. And cop or not, Jack was sure he could read something there in the little boy's eyes—a coldness, a thing he'd glimpse at certain moments when the child would appear to recoil and withdraw from him, and the one time he'd tried to talk about it seriously to Donna she'd looked at him like he was nuts.

This time when he walked in the front door of their home he heard not a sound. Donna, sitting in an old wooden rocker beside the sofa, greeted him and got up for a hug and kiss.

“Um,” he said. “Hi."

“Um hi yourself."

“Have a good day?"

“I had a day."

“Oh-oh. One of those."

“Not really. Not so bad.” He put his piece in the closet and divested himself of holster, shield, and ID case, attaché case, billfold, keys, pens, pocket litter. “I've had worse."

“Good.” She handed him a cold glass of something red.

“Umm. Looks good. What is it?” He sipped carefully.

“Veggie juice."

“Not bad.” He was a hair away from making a joke about putting some vodka in it but had the sense to let it drop. He downed the vegetable juice in a gulp and set the chilled glass down on a coaster, flopping down in his favorite armchair.

“Tired?” Donna had on ragged cutoffs and one of his old shirts tied at the midriff and she still looked sexy to him.

“Not that tired,” he said as suggestively as he could, drawing a slight chuckle. “After all, Mrs. Eichord, I feel sure you are pretty much what God had in mind when he designed cutoff jeans.” She turned for him fetchingly. “Oh, yes."

“That's good to hear. I needed that.” She plopped back in the wooden rocking chair.

“'Jew have one of those days, too?"

“Oh, no,” she said, a bit too quickly. “Just a little weirded out, is all."

“Umm. Weirded out."

“Jonathan has been adopted by the black dog out in back. You know that one you fed scraps to that time?"

“Jesus. I hope you didn't let him play with that dog. It could have anything.” He watched her swallow before she spoke.

“Well. Yeah."

“Huh?"

“It's worse than that. It's been, uh, sleeping with him.” She fought back a nervous giggle.

“Donna, are you having me on?"

“No. I'm not having you on. I think I'm having us both on.” She crossed a shapely leg.

“We're talking about that mangy-looking black mongrel covered in fleas and sandburrs—that IS the dog, right?"

“The very same."

“Whatdya mean SLEEPING with him?"

“It's been, you know, in bed with him. He won't let me put it outside. He throws such a fit. You know how he gets. And...” She trailed off sheepishly.

“Are you saying that damn fleabag has been in the HOUSE?"

“In a word,” she said, laughing, “yes."

“My God, woman.” He got up, listening to the quiet. “You mean he has that dog in here?"

“Yeah.” She stood up. “I didn't have the heart to make him get out. Jonathan got so PEACEFUL and so contented-looking—"

“It isn't a question of heart. It's a question of disease. That kid'll have fleas if not worse.” He was walking back toward the bedroom. Still not sure if she was joking with him.

“Well—"

“You're not kidding, are you?"

“No,” she said, smiling. Both of them at the door to the boy's room. Donna quietly turned the knob and opened the door a crack. Eichord peered into the darkness.

He saw the boy and the dog. Jonathan asleep, the dog on top of the covers, cuddled in his arms. He just shook his head and pulled the door shut. It was worth it, he thought, to have the silence. The lovely quiet.

“I just hope he doesn't have mange,” Donna whispered.

“Yeah,” Jack stage-whispered back to her, “'cause if he does, he'll give it to the dog."

Inside the darkened room the child opened his eyes as the door closed and petted the dog reassuringly. It thumped the bedspread gratefully in response, not believing its luck, the little boy willing the dog to be still, reaching out for him with his mind.