The Weight of Silence

“Finally, I had to shoo him away because he was making me so nervous. He took Ben over to the park to play catch with the football and I went in the bedroom to lie down. It wasn’t ten minutes later when I saw the flash of lightning and heard the enormous boom of thunder, and at the exact, the very same moment that it began to rain, not just rain but pour, torrential rain, my water broke and I knew you were on your way.”

Calli smiles slightly at this story I have told her so many times. Her limbs have relaxed completely in my arms, but her eyes are still alert, as if she’s ready to leap from the table if need be.

“I didn’t know what to do. Your daddy had left with Ben in the car. I had told him it would be hours before we would need to go to the hospital. The rain began pouring down in buckets; I could hear it pounding on the roof and the wind was blowing so hard that the windows rattled. And it seemed that with every clap of thunder I would have a contraction, your way of telling me, ‘Look out, I’m on my way.’ I called my doctor and he told me I should get to the hospital as quickly as possible. I threw some clothes in Ben’s school backpack, and in your yellow blanket I carefully wrapped the little outfit I was going to take you home from the hospital in, and put that in the backpack, too. I thought about calling Mrs. Norland next door, but I figured she wouldn’t want to go out in the storm, so I decided to drive Daddy’s truck to the hospital. This very hospital, actually. Problem was, I couldn’t find where Daddy left his car keys. He never put them in the same place twice. So I spent twenty minutes looking for them. Finally I found them in the front pocket of a pair of jeans he had tossed by the washing machine. I grabbed the backpack and opened the door. The wind caught the screen door and pulled it right off its hinges. I remember feeling sorry for your daddy because he had spent so much time that week oiling those hinges to get rid of the squeaks, now he wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the silence of opening and closing it anymore.

“I hoped that Daddy and Ben were on their way back home and just as I hoisted myself up into the truck—not any easy thing to do when you’re pregnant, even tougher when you’re in labor—I remembered I hadn’t left Daddy and Ben a note. So I got back out of the truck, waddled in the house like a duck, and wrote a quick note. All it said was BABY!!! in big letters. Then I went back out into the storm and got into the truck. Now, I had driven a stick shift only, like, two times, and both times Daddy was with me, helping me along. Somehow, I don’t know how, I got that thing started and off onto the road. It was raining so hard that the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up and I had to drive slowly just to make sure I was staying on the road. I prayed that another car wouldn’t suddenly come up behind and rear-end me because I was moving like a snail. But thankfully I didn’t see one other car until I got into town. Every few minutes or so I would have to pull over to the side of the road when a contraction overtook me and I would have to keep my feet pressed down on the clutch and the brake so I wouldn’t stall the truck. I was determined to get to that hospital. I said right out loud, even though you were the only one who could have possibly heard me, ‘I am not going to have my baby in this rusted out old truck!’ I just slowly kept on creeping forward until I finally made it to the hospital, and I left the truck parked right in front of the emergency room entrance. I didn’t find out until later that I had left the door open, the lights on and the keys in the ignition. I wasn’t thinking so much about those details at the time, though, was I?

“The nurse barely got me onto a bed and the doctor just stepped into the room when you came. In three pushes you were there, giving this mighty cry! And then suddenly you were in my arms, this perfect, beautiful, little baby girl with a head of dark hair. I apologized to you first thing. I said, ‘I usually don’t look like a drowned rat, I hope I didn’t frighten you too much.’ You just kept crying and crying. You sounded like a little lamb bleating.”

Calli smiles at this part of the story, just as she always has. When she was three, before she stopped talking, she would chime in with a high-pitched “baaaaa” and I would laugh because it was just what she had sounded like. She makes no noise now, though; I was hoping that Calli would come in on her part. Molly and Dr. Higby are still working on Calli’s poor feet; I hear words like antibiotics and tetanus, but I try to ignore them for now.

“The nurse took you from me for a few moments and she weighed and measured you. Six pounds, two ounces, and nineteen inches long. You were perfect. When she handed you back to me you were wiped clean and wrapped in a blanket. The nurse had pulled a little pink hat over your ears and you were still crying. Oh, you had so much to say to me!” I look at Calli carefully, worried that my last sentence may have bothered her, but she gives no indication that this is so.

“After a while you sort of just cried yourself out and fell asleep. I just looked and looked at you. Your face was so peaceful. Then Daddy and Ben burst into the room! They were both completely soaked from the rain. Their hair was matted down and water dripped off their noses. I could hear their feet squelching on the hospital floor.

“‘Did I miss it?’ Daddy asked. It was pretty funny because there I was holding what was clearly a newborn in my arms.

“‘It’s a girl,’ Ben observed, seeing the pink hat on your head.

“‘A girl,’ Daddy breathed as if it was the most amazing thing in the world. And he and Ben walked hand and hand up to us and looked and looked at the new beautiful girl in their lives. Daddy looked down at Ben and said, ‘Benny, you have a sister. A little sister. You’re the big brother now and you have to look after her when I’m not around.’ And Ben nodded. He looked so serious. Ben reached out one finger to touch your cheek. ‘Soft’ he said. And then you opened your eyes. And I swear, though no one who wasn’t there to see it believes me, I swear you smiled at him.”

Here, in the cold, white, hospital examining room, Calli smiles a true smile.

“Later, when Daddy and Ben were all dried off, they took turns holding you. Daddy paced and paced the hospital room saying, ‘My Calli-girl.’ It was still thundering and lightning out, and the power went out so the hospital had to use their backup generators. They let Ben and Daddy stay with us at the hospital room that night, though technically they weren’t supposed to. It was a perfect night, Calli, the day that you were born.”

Calli closes her eyes as if she is remembering. I wish she could remember that day. It was truly perfect. At least the way I told the story it was perfect. I remember feeling so hopeful that the birth of Calli would be the catalyst to a new beginning for our little family. But of course it wasn’t. Nothing is perfect, not even the perfect day, though I have set into Calli’s and Ben’s minds that it was so. What I have left out from the story was that while Griff was carrying around Calli, singing softly to her, his hands were shaking so badly that I feared he would drop her. I remember being ready to leap from the bed to catch her if she fell. I remember asking Griff to hand her back to me, making every excuse as to why I needed her back in my arms. She needed to try nursing, she was tired, he looked tired. He wasn’t fooled, though. I could see it in his eyes, the flash of hurt in the fact I didn’t quite trust him holding our baby.

He hadn’t taken one drink in the week that he had been home before Calli was born. Before he had left for Alaska the last time it had been bad, so very bad. He had crossed a line, one of many that I had drawn out for him through the years. That first night he had come home before Calli was born he had lain by my side in our bed, his hand on top of my huge belly and had promised to change. He had cried softly into my shoulder and I’d cried along with him. I’d believed him. Again. He could do it, he could stop drinking with my help, he had promised.

But the night that Calli was born, with his hands trembling so fiercely as he held my baby, I knew that was a promise he couldn’t keep, not yet anyway. He left the hospital in the dark corners of the morning while Ben and I were sleeping and Calli slept in the nursery. He left and came back hours later. There was a glassiness in his eyes, they couldn’t quite focus, and I could smell the liquor on his breath as he kissed my cheek. He held Calli firmly and capably that morning and his hands had stopped shaking.

“There you are, Calli,” Dr. Higby tells Calli. “All done. The worst is over. Now we’ll just finish getting you all cleaned up. You, Calli, are a very lucky little girl.”

I see Calli’s tranquil face freeze for a moment, then it changes. Her eyes begin to bulge and her skin fades to a sickly chalk color. Dr. Higby looks back at Molly and she lifts her hands and shoulders. She hadn’t been touching Calli’s feet. Calli’s mouth twists into an ugly grimace as if she is screaming; she is shaking not from cold or pain, but from complete terror. I look around helplessly as her silent shriek clangs around my head.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her. “What’s wrong, Calli?” But still she thrashes almost convulsively. Molly and I hold her so that she won’t fall off the table. “What’s wrong?” I whimper as tears collect behind my own eyes. I notice that Molly’s and Dr. Higby’s eyes aren’t focused on Calli, but are settled on a spot just over my shoulder. Keeping my grip firmly on Calli, who is kicking and writhing, I turn to see what they are looking at. There stands my Benny, beaten so badly, his clothes bloody and ripped. My knees go weak at the sight. He is looking at Calli with fear in his eyes.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks me over Calli’s head. His voice sounds so young.

I don’t answer him. I want so badly to go to him and draw him close to me. I wave him toward me with one hand, but he stands rooted to his spot.

“I’m going to give her a sedative, Mrs. Clark,” Dr. Higby says. It takes several moments for the shot to have any effect on Calli, but soon she calms and her shaking subsides and her eyes begin to close. She still clutches at my shirt, pulling me close to her. She seems to be trying to speak to me, but her lips are slack and can’t form the words.

“What, Calli? What is it? Please tell me,” I whisper into her ear. But she has fallen asleep and whatever has frightened her so badly has crawled back into its hole and sleeps, too, at least for now.

MARTIN

When we pull up to the front of my mother-in-law’s home I see that the reporters have gone, but one strange car remains in the drive. I thank the officer and he offers to stay until we are ready to travel to Iowa City. He will escort us, get us there quickly and safely. Again I thank the officer and say no. We will be fine. We will get to Petra just fine. My legs feel heavy as I make my way to the front door, already they ache from the day’s exertion. My pants are dirty and I have some of Ben’s blood on my shirt collar. I try to tame my hair by pressing my fingers against its wiry texture, but know it does little good. My glasses are set crookedly on my nose and I take them off and try to bend them back into the correct position. I see a rustle at the curtains; Fielda must have heard the car pull up in front of the house. I see her peek through the window briefly, then the front door is open and she hurries to greet me. Behind her are her mother and a woman I do not know.

“Did you find her, Martin, did you find Petra?” She seizes my arm and her voice has the same hysterical tone that I heard her use with Agent Fitzgerald. I wonder what has happened to him; I have not seen or heard from him in hours.

I gather Fielda in my arms and hold her tightly to me. I feel her body sag against me and instantly I am aware of my mistake.

“She’s alive.” I cannot bring myself to say that she is fine, no; I cannot say that to my wife.

Fielda screeches with relief and joy. “Thank you, God, thank you!” she exclaims, still clutching on to me. “Thank you, Martin, thank you for finding her. Where is she? Where is she?” Fielda looks around as if Petra is off playing a few yards from us in the front yard.

I clear my throat. Tread carefully, I tell myself. Do not alarm her. “She’s at the hospital.”

“Oh, of course.” She squints her eyes at me. “She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”

“I think she’ll be fine. You need to go to her,” I tell her.

“What do you mean, you think she’ll be fine? What happened, Martin? Let’s go, let’s get in the car and go.”

“They took her to Iowa City, to the hospital there. The medical personnel thought that the hospital in Iowa City would be the best place for her to go.”

“Iowa City? What’s going on?” Fielda steps away from me and crosses her arms in front of her. The woman I do not know makes her way toward us and rests a hand protectively on Fielda’s shoulder.

“Fielda?” the woman says. “Fielda, is everything okay?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Fielda says in a voice too loud for the quiet of the night. The cicadas have even stopped chirping. “I don’t know,” Fielda says again. “Martin?”

I take Fielda’s hand and pull her along with me, leaving the woman behind.

“You tell me what’s happening right now!” From the porch light I can see that tears are brimming in Fielda’s eyes. I need to tell her now and I need to tell her everything.

“We found Petra at the top of the bluff. She was hurt…” I swallow hard. “She was hurt in many ways, but she was breathing. She had cuts on her head and bruises. A helicopter took her off the bluff. They have flown her to Iowa City. She’s there by now. You need to go to her now, Fielda, she needs you.”

“Is she going to die?” Fielda asks. “Is my little girl going to die?” There is steel in her voice almost daring me to tell her that death was a possibility.

“No!” I say with more conviction than I feel. “Can you drive to Iowa City on your own?”

“But why?” Fielda looks confused. “Why don’t you come with me?”

“I can’t, I need to help with the investigation,” I say, hoping that she will ask no more questions.

“Investigation? Do they have the person who did this? Who did this, Martin? Do you know?”

I nod. “I do know. You need to go now. Can you drive on your own, Fielda?”

Fielda looks at me as if she wants to ask more, but something on my face causes her to pause.

“I can take her,” the unknown woman tells me as she approaches us, and for the first time I look at her carefully.

“I’m Mary Ellen McIntire.” She holds her hand out to me and I recognize her from the television news, from when she had begged for the safe return of her daughter.

I take her hand. “I’ve heard about you, your family. I am very, very sorry.”

“I’ll drive Fielda and her mother.” She looks to Fielda to see if this is acceptable to her. Fielda nods, but is examining me carefully.

“What happened to you, Martin? Is that blood?” She points to my stained shirt.

“I’m fine. Now please go. I’ll join you as soon as I can. Tell Petra that I love her and I’ll see her soon.” I kiss Fielda on the forehead and turn to Mrs. McIntire. “Thank you for looking after my wife. I am grateful.”

“I’m glad to help. Fielda and I have become fast friends.”

“I’ll go get my purse, oh, and Snuffy,” Fielda says as she hurries into the house. Snuffy is Petra’s stuffed anteater, which she sleeps with each night.

Mary Ellen leans in close to me. “You know who did this, don’t you?”

“I think I do, yes.” I do not look her in the eye.

“He did terrible things to Petra,” she states. I notice it is not a question.

“Yes, he did.”

“You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.” I now look her straight in the eye, trying to determine if she will tell Fielda, who would rail against my foolishness.

Mary Ellen McIntire and I stand in the shadows of the porch; she briefly touches my arm, but says nothing.

Fielda and her mother emerge from the house, purse and Snuffy in hand. She kisses my lips, tells me she loves me, then gets into Mrs. McIntire’s car and drives away. I stand for a long time, watching until the red glow from the car’s taillights disappears, and then I trudge up the steps, into the house, and flick off the porch light. I sit in the dark at the kitchen table, trying to gather my thoughts.

Then I stand stiffly, my muscles protesting, and I go upstairs to my mother-in-law’s extra bedroom. I open the closet door and reach high behind the photo albums and behind Mrs. Mourning’s wedding gown, the very same dress that Fielda wore for our wedding. The gown is wrapped in paper and sealed in a box, tied with a blue ribbon. I stand on the tips of my toes and fumble around for the wooden box. My hand grazes the container and I am able to nudge it toward me. I pull the box down and lay it on the bed. It is not locked. I lift the top and hear the slight creak of its brass hinges. Inside is a gun. I do not know the caliber or the brand name. I have never been interested in firearms. The gun that I have set before me belonged to Fielda’s father who had passed away many years before, long before I had met her. Fielda’s mother does not know why she keeps it; guns scare her, but she cannot bring herself to give it away, and most likely has forgotten that it is up here. I take the gun out of its velvet-lined box and am surprised at its heaviness for such a small gun. One lone bullet rolls around in the box and I pull it out and hold it tightly, warming it within my sweaty palm. I glance at my watch and know that I am short on time. I need to hurry.

ANTONIA

I look at Calli as she sleeps. Her dirty face isn’t peaceful, unlined and untroubled as a seven-year-old little girl’s face should be in sleep. Deep grooves have settled in the space just above the bridge of her nose and her lips are pinched tightly. On another examining table, next to Calli, sits Ben. Dr. Higby and Molly are now tending to him, collecting more evidence. His face is a mess. I have avoided asking Ben the question that has rested on my tongue since I first glanced at him when he entered the hospital. Who did this to you? I am afraid of the answer.

I dip the washcloth that Molly has given me in a basin of warm water and begin to wipe the dirt from Calli’s body. I start at her face, beginning at her hairline, trying to gently smooth the channels that travel along her forehead. I move down behind her ears, along her cheeks and under her chin, carefully lifting and lowering her head as if she is an infant. I see her nearly naked form on the table, except for her hospital gown and the thick white gauze that is wrapped around her feet; the number of bruises that dot her arms once again startles me, even though I had watched Molly take pictures of them earlier. These are no childhood bruises caused by a careless tumble or by an accidental bump into a sharp corner. I gently fit my fingers around the even arrangement of the marks and shudder.

I continue my washing of Calli, now focusing on her hands, trying to rinse away the dirt that has collected in the little wrinkles that form her knuckles and in the valleys that score the inside of her palms.

I trace the lines on her palm, now pink from my scrubbing, and I wonder at her future, my little damaged girl. And I wonder about Griff. Where is he?

“Well,” says Dr. Higby, “we’ve got one broken nose and what appear to be three broken ribs on Ben here. You’ll live, Ben, but you won’t be playing any contact sports for a while.”

Ben snorts a little at this and looks sadly at me.

“We’re going to get Calli settled into her room for the night. You two are welcome to stay with Calli tonight or you are free to go home,” Dr. Higby tells us.

“Stay,” Ben and I say at the same time and we smile at each other. We both know we need to be with Calli.

“I’d like to run home and get a few things. Some clean clothes, Calli’s blanket and stuffed monkey,” I tell Dr. Higby.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Dr. Higby says. “Calli is going to need all the comfort she can get in the next few days. And, Ben, no offense, but you could use a shower and a clean shirt.”

Ben laughs and I am glad. Whatever happened up there wasn’t enough to take Ben’s laugh away.

“Do you have a way to get back to your house?” Molly asks. I frown. No, I don’t. My car is back at the house, I am stranded at the hospital. I very much want Calli to wake up with her yellow blanket and monkey. I think of Rose, the nice paramedic, and her offer to help out in any way that she was able.

“I think I do,” I tell Molly.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

Tucci, Dunn and I retrace the path that Ben and I came down on the four-wheeler. We pause for a moment at the carcass of the dog that Martin Gregory and I had found earlier in the evening. I wonder if the dog had anything to do with the events of the day and make a mental note to suggest that the forensic team investigate. “Did Charles Wilson, the school counselor, ever find his dog?” I ask.

“Don’t know,” Tucci answers. “We had nothing to hold him on. His wife said she woke up at about seven this morning and that he left sometime before then to walk the dog on the trails.”

“Do we know where Wilson is right now?” I ask, wondering if we hadn’t let Wilson go prematurely. From the glow of my flashlight I see Tucci shrug his shoulders. “Call into dispatch and check on it. We need to cover all bases.” Suddenly I feel foolish tracking some unseen being in the forest in the dead of night. I don’t know what made me think that I would be able to find whomever I had seen crouched among the trees. I guiltily admit to myself that perhaps I hoped that, I, the fearless hero, Antonia’s hero, would bring Griff in. Ben had told me that it was Griff up there on top of the bluff. It was Griff who beat him, and it was Griff who left Petra and Ben up there all alone.

“Do you see anything?” Tucci asks after we had been walking for about forty minutes.

“Naw,” I say, disgusted with myself.

“He’s probably long gone now. We may as well go back. We’ll organize a search for daybreak. He could be anywhere by now,” Dunn says.

The radio at my hip crackles and the dispatcher lets me know that I have a guest waiting for me down at the bottom of the bluff. Agent Fitzgerald.

“Let’s go,” I tell Tucci and Dunn, convinced that Griff is still out here, waiting, for what I’m not sure.

When we step out of the forest I can see Fitzgerald deep in conversation with a man and woman dressed in civilian clothing. The headlights from two cruisers light them up from behind. I figure the two people that Fitzgerald is talking to are other agents from his office. When we approach the group they stop talking and look at us. I can tell by the look on Fitzgerald’s face he isn’t happy with me.

“What the hell do you think you were doing?” he spits at me. Tucci and Dunn shift uncomfortably behind me.

“Have you gotten word on Petra Gregory’s condition?” I ask, ignoring Fitzgerald’s obvious anger.

“She’s still unconscious, but stable. There’s evidence of sexual assault,” the woman next to Fitzgerald tells me and my stomach clenches as I think of Calli. “I’m Special Agent Lydia Simon. This is Special Agent John Temperly. We’re here to help with the investigation involving the two little girls. I understand you’ve had quite an evening.”

“You could say that,” I tell her, still eyeing Fitzgerald warily, waiting for his next burst of anger.

“You took two civilians—worse, two of the victims’ parents—on an unauthorized search,” Fitzgerald says in a threatening voice. Agent Simon places a hand on Fitzgerald’s arm and he instantly quiets. I get the sense that she has great influence over Fitzgerald, is perhaps his senior in their department.

“You found the two girls and the boy?” Simon asks me.

“Actually, Calli Clark found us. We were standing right about here when she came out of the woods. She was carrying Petra Gregory’s necklace and underwear. We figured out that Petra and Calli’s brother, Ben, were still at the top of the bluff.”

“You let Martin Gregory go up the bluff,” Fitzgerald says accusingly.

“There was no way I was going to stop him.” I can’t keep my own irritation out of my voice. “I called for an ambulance and backup and followed him up the bluff. He thought that Ben Clark had something to do with what happened to Petra and he was going up there, ready to kill anyone at the top that might have hurt his daughter!”

“You should have followed procedure and waited for backup,” Fitzgerald shoots back at me.

“Hold on now,” Agent Simon says. “Let’s just all get up to speed on the investigation and go from there. We can’t change what has happened and the girls are safe. Let’s focus on finding who did this.”

“Ben Clark, Calli’s brother, said that Griff Clark, their father, was the one,” I say, trying to make my voice sound professional again.

“Ben saw his father up there with the girls?” Agent Temperly asks.

“Yeah, said his dad was the one who beat the crap out of him up there. He was pretty messed up. He was standing guard over Petra when we got to the top. Ben said he tried to keep his dad there, but he got away.”

The three agents ponder this for a moment. “What does Calli Clark say about what happened?” Agent Simon questions.

“Calli hasn’t spoken in four years,” I tell her. “Until today. She said Ben when she reached us at the bottom of the bluff. And that was all. I don’t know if she’s said more. She’s at the hospital in Willow Creek. Her brother should be there by now, too.” I look at my watch. It is a little after eleven. I am exhausted, but my night is just beginning.

“Why would she say her brother’s name if it was her father who did all this?” Agent Temperly asks. “Why didn’t she say Dad? Could the brother have been lying? Could he have done this?”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “Ben Clark is a good boy. He did nothing but spend the day looking for his sister and Petra.”

“Well, you tend to have a soft spot when it comes to the Clark family, don’t you?” Fitzgerald says snidely. “Does Antonia Clark know that her husband is now the major suspect in this case?”

“I don’t know.” The reality that the man that my Toni had married has done some truly horrific things hits me hard. I don’t want to be the one to tell her.

“We need to talk to that little girl,” Agent Simon says with finality. “We need her to tell us what she saw up there on that bluff. Let’s go on over to the hospital and see if we can speak with her.”

BEN

I feel better now that I’ve taken a bath in the little bathroom in your hospital room. I had to be real careful not to get the tape that was wrapped around my ribs wet, not too easy. Dr. Higby gave me some green scrubs to put on. I’m also feeling a little light-headed from the medicine that the nurse gave me for the pain in my nose and ribs. Mom just left to go back to the house to get some stuff. I asked her if she could bring back my Green Bay Packers pillow, not that I needed it to sleep, but when a face hurts as much as mine does, a guy needs something extra soft to lay his head on. Mom borrowed the car of some lady named Rose and asked her if she would keep an eye on us while she was gone and Rose promised she would. She’s gone down to the cafeteria to get some food to smuggle in for me. I requested chips and a Mountain Dew, but Rose said I wouldn’t want anything too salty or too sweet with the cuts I had all around my lips. I had to agree with that, I guess.

I lie in the hospital bed that is next to you and click through the channels on the TV that is attached to the wall above us. I keep the volume down low so as not to wake you, but from the looks of things you won’t be waking up for a while. The way you screamed earlier when I had walked in still clanks around in my head. I wonder if how I looked scared you, I looked pretty monstrous, if I do say so myself. Mom told me that you had said my name when you found them at the bottom of Bobcat Trail, and at first I felt pretty good about that. Then I got to thinking, Calli, why did you go and say my name? Why didn’t you say Dad’s name? He’s the one who caused this big old mess in the first place. I’m hoping you don’t think I had something to do with it all; it was pretty confusing up there. I look over to where you’re sleeping. What were you thinking, Calli? I want to ask. Why did you say my name?

Calli, when you were born, I was so sad and happy at the same time. I was five and the chore of sharing you with Mom turned my stomach sour. When I first saw your tiny little toes, no bigger than jelly beans, I knew that my mom wasn’t just mine anymore. You had a cry that could wake the dead. And how you wailed! She would carry you around for hours on her shoulder, patting your back and whispering in your shell-shaped ear, “Hush now, Calli, hush now.” But you wouldn’t. She would stumble around, half-sleeping, her eyes all shadowed, her hair sticking up and wild. Even after all your fussing, covered with spit-up, foul and stinky smelling, she’d still be all patient with you. She’d say, “Ben, we have a feisty one here. She’s going to keep us on our toes. Big brother, you need to look out for our little whirlwind.”

And I have, time and again.

Dad was the only one who could quiet you down. When he’d come home from the pipeline I’d hear the squeak of the back door and the thunk of his green duffel hitting the floor, and I’d think, now Calli will shut up. He’d snatch you right out of Mom’s arms and say all sweet like, “Stop that squallin’, Calli-girl.” And you would. Just like that. Your red, squinched-up face would go all smooth, and you’d look at Dad big-eyed, like you were thinking, “Who is this man?” Then you’d rub your little peanut nose into his chest, grab his big, sausage finger with your tiny hand and fall into this deep sleep.

It was as if the house just wasn’t big enough for two centers of attention, and when Dad came home you knew it was time to sit back and watch awhile. I think that Mom felt sort of bad that you’d stop your howling for him and not her. I mean, she was the one who would change your shitty diapers, and feed you that nasty green gunk from a baby food jar. And she’s the one who about went crazy from worry when you were two months old and had a fever of one hundred and five degrees. It was Christmastime and forty below outside, and the walls shook with the force of the wind. But Mom still filled the tub with freezing cold water and stripped the two of you bare naked and climbed into that popsicle water. You both had goose bumps the size of footballs and blue lips, but she just sat there holding you, the two of you shivering so hard little waves sloshed over the side of the bathtub. She sat there rocking you in that tub until the fever was gone and you started screaming like normal, your crying pinging off the bathroom walls.

I couldn’t sleep, what with your fussing echoing through the house, so I made Mom chocolate milk and found her favorite socks, the rainbow striped ones with little slots for each toe to slide into, for her to put on. I climbed over the bars of your crib and pulled out your yellow blanket and that goofy sock monkey Mom made you. I tucked them in Mom’s big bed, because I knew she’d lie with you there that night. She sat for what seemed hours, watching you breathe, every once in a while putting her finger beneath your nose just to feel that small rush of warm air coming out. I wonder if she ever does that with me. Creep into my room, even though I’m twelve now, and check to see if I’m still breathing, watch the rise and fall of my chest. I’d like to think that she does.

So I think that Mom’s feelings were hurt that Dad was the only one to calm you. I know that you didn’t mean for her to feel that way. I know that having Dad home filled up each corner of the house, kind of like someone sitting on your chest. It’s real hard to make sounds when each breath just goes into breathing. Funny how Dad was the only one who could quiet you and in the end was the only one who finally got you to speak.

ANTONIA

I hurry down the hallway and to the elevator. Rose Callahan is so kind to let me borrow her car. I’m not sure of how I am going to thank her, but I will certainly find a way when this is all over. I jangle her keys in my hand as I wait for the elevator door to open. Ben and I still haven’t had the conversation that is needed. I haven’t asked him who had beaten him so badly. Once again my lack of proper mothering skills is shining through. Wouldn’t most mothers exclaim, “Who did this to you?” I’m not ready to ask that question yet. I’m not prepared to hear that Ben’s own father has been responsible for this and so much worse. My stomach churns at the prospect of all the devastation Griff doled out this day. But maybe not, though, no one had come right out and said Griff did all this, he could be off in some bar somewhere for all I know. I just want to go home and get my children some clean clothes and items of comfort. The elevator door opens and I step in, push the button for the main floor and lean back against the wall. I close my eyes and try not to think. The doors open again and I step out. Then I have the urge to retreat into them, given the scene unfolding before me.

There seems to be half a dozen police officers. I see Agent Fitzgerald talking with two people I’ve never seen before. A few reporters occupy a corner of the main entrance waiting area and Louis looks to be in a heated discussion with Logan Roper, Griff’s old high-school friend. Then I see the doors to the main entrance open and in stomps Christine Louis. Louis’s wife. Great, I think. She doesn’t look so happy. I look around for an exit to take unseen, but it’s too late. Christine spots me, gives me a searing look and goes over to her husband.

“Christine?” Louis says looking off behind her. “Where’s Tanner?”

“He’s out in the car, Loras,” she says shortly. She is the only person I know who ever calls Louis by his first name. “He’s sleeping.”

“You left him out in the car alone?” Louis says in disbelief. “Christine, there’s a kidnapper out there somewhere. You just can’t leave a child unattended in a car.”

“You—” she pokes a finger at him “—gave up any say in what I do with my son the minute you decided that her children were more important than Tanner.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Louis says, taking Christine by the arm and pulling her out of earshot.

I take that opportunity to exit quickly through the hospital doors, searching for the red Civic that is Rose’s car. As I unlock the car door and start to climb in, Agent Fitzgerald and the two strangers he was speaking with surround me.

“Mrs. Clark,” says Agent Fitzgerald, “I’m pleased to hear that your children have been found and are safe and sound.”

“Yes, me, too,” I say brusquely. I want to get out of there before Christine tries to pull me into her argument with Louis.

Agent Fitzgerald introduces me to the two as his colleagues, Agents Temperly and Simon. I smile at them in greeting and settle myself behind the wheel.

“We need to talk to your children, Mrs. Clark,” Agent Simon says to me.

“I know you do. Should we set up a time for sometime tomorrow?”

“You don’t understand,” says Agent Temperly. “We need to speak with Calli now.”

“No, you don’t understand. Calli’s had a horrible day, she’s sleeping right now. No one is asking her any questions tonight,” I declare firmly.

“We don’t need your permission to speak with a witness, Mrs. Clark,” Fitzgerald informs me.

I wonder whatever made me trust this man. “No, but you do need the doctor’s permission to speak with her. And if he says my children aren’t ready, then you will not speak to them!” I climb out of the car again and march right back into the hospital to let Dr. Higby know that under no circumstances is anyone to talk to my children until I get back.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

I pull Christine to a more private corner of the hospital waiting room. Here we go again. Christine threw her little public fits about twice a year, then she would calm down and say she was sorry and we would carry on as usual until the next time.

“What is going on?” I ask her through clenched teeth. “I’m working here.”

“That’s half the problem,” she cries. “You’re working all the time. We never see you!”

“It’s my job!” I say, louder than I intend. I can feel many eyes on us. I glimpse Toni hurrying out of the hospital and wonder where she is going. Did she know that Griff was somewhere out there?

“And she’s the other half of the problem,” Christine’s voice breaks as she tosses her chin toward Toni. “You hung up on me, Loras! You were with her. Whenever she needs something, you go running. Right now, even, you’re looking at her, when I’m trying to tell you that we are leaving.”

That pulls my gaze back to Christine. “What do you mean, you’re leaving? Is Tanner really out in the car?”

“Yes, he’s sleeping. I locked the doors. He’s fine,” Christine growls.

“What if he woke up and climbed out? Jesus, Christine, use your head. Let’s go out there.”

“Yes, let’s go out there, Loras. You can say goodbye to him then. I’m taking Tanner back to Minnesota.”

“What? Like, for a vacation?”

“No, not like for a vacation,” she mimics me. “For good. We’re moving in with my parents until I get settled and can find a house.”

“You can’t just take Tanner and leave!” I explode. “You can’t keep me from my son.”

“I have no intention of keeping you from your son. You do that well enough on your own. We’ll work out those things later. Come say goodbye if you want.”

“Why are you doing this now, Christine?” I ask helplessly.

“I’m finally doing this, Loras. I am sick and tired of walking in her shadow.”

“You don’t have to leave, though. We can work it out. We always do,” I say unconvincingly.

“Do you know what it has been like for me?” Christine asks me. “Living in this town? With your history with her? You won’t get away from it and I can’t get away from it. I’m done, Loras. I am done.”

She walks away from me and into the hospital parking lot toward our station wagon. I follow, knowing I need to give my son a kiss goodbye.

MARTIN

As I creep from my car, which I have parked well down the road, I can see a police officer sitting in a squad car. He’s a reservist, a man from my own church. The interior light from the car casts shadows on his face; he is sipping from a coffee cup, reading. I steal past him unnoticed and move to the back of the Clark home to wait.

I settle behind a small copse of what my father would have called junk trees, thin, craggy things with trunks no bigger than my wrist. The night is still warm, but a soft breeze tinged with a bit of northern air has cooled things considerably. In fact, I am quite comfortable. Under any other circumstances I would be apt to doze off, but the weight of the gun in my lap is a hard enough reminder of why I am here. In the daylight hours I would be easily seen, but in the dark of night I have become an extension of the Clarks’ backyard, at least that is my hope. I have a good view of Antonia’s and Griff’s vehicles, both parked in the driveway near the back door.

From my vantage point I also see into the Clarks’ kitchen. The house is black. If the reservist discovers me, I can just say that I thought I saw a prowler and I came to investigate. A weak excuse, I know. I am also waiting for my good sense to return, but as of yet, it has not. I am a logical man. I know that it makes no sense for me to be stalking my child’s kidnapper and abuser by hiding outside his home with a gun. I am waiting for my good judgment to return to me, that I will suddenly realize that this is not how college-educated, reasonable men behave. But for the moment it does not matter that I am the head of the economics department at St. Gilianus, nor does it matter that for the past fifty-seven years I have been firmly ensconced in the conviction that capital punishment is inherently wrong. Anger rests in my belly like a buzzing colony of bees, scraping at my skin from the inside out.

So I wait, and I do not have to be patient for long. From where I sit I see a figure emerge from the woods, broad but moving in a stilted, uncoordinated manner. Should I go forward, confront the skulking being? Should I slink away, back to my mother-in-law’s, place Fielda’s father’s gun back into its velvet-lined box and hide it behind dusty old treasures? I pause too long for any of those scenarios to be an option, because just as I am going to make the choice, a choice that would surely change my life forever, a car appears and pulls in right behind the other two vehicles and out steps Antonia Clark. The shadow that came from the woods suddenly stops, then quickly retreats. Antonia steps from the car and moves to the front of the house, I hear soft murmurs of a conversation and then silence. I sit for what seems an eternity, listening to my own heart pounding, watching, my eyes darting from the woods to the house, back and forth, waiting.

I startle as the light above the back door comes on. The door opens and I see Antonia step out into the backyard, a bag on her shoulder, in her hands a green pillow and a stuffed animal. I watch as she squints into the darkness and then walks to the area where hours earlier the state crime unit was so intent. I expect Toni to turn and leave, but she doesn’t. She begins to walk toward the woods. In that moment, another choice is offered to me, one that unequivocally will change several lives forever. What will I choose? To warn Antonia or to sit in silence?

ANTONIA

I drive the familiar road back to the house. Our neighborhood looks abandoned, what with the press and all but one police car gone. We have no streetlights along our road and no lights burn in the Gregory home, or mine, for that matter. Hadn’t I turned a light on before I left this afternoon with Martin and Louis? Maybe one of the police officers switched off the lights when they left. I send a silent wish of good fortune on to the Gregory family. I hope that Fielda and Martin are sitting next to Petra right now, holding her hand. I am so fortunate to have my two back safely, damaged for sure, but physically whole. I am still hopeful that a long string of sentences will soon accompany Calli’s one word. I sit for a moment behind the wheel of Rose’s car and look upon my home as if I am a stranger, an outsider. It is so dark, I can see little, so I close my eyes and visualize the home that had been mine in childhood, and now as a wife and mother, as if it is daytime. It is a narrow two-story structure, simple, but with good bones. I picture the peeling white paint that bubbles and blisters on the outside and that lay in crispy shards on the lawn. The flower beds are beautiful, those look well-tended. I love my home; no matter the dark days I have had here, it is my home. I wonder what Ben and Calli think of this house. Are all their memories sad? Surely they must have good thoughts, too. I will have to ask them when this is all over. Do they want to start fresh, somewhere new or stay put?

I slide out of the driver’s seat and begin to make my way toward the police car. The officer steps from his car and greets me.

“I’m so glad to hear that your kids are safe, Mrs. Clark,” he tells me.

“Me, too,” I say. “And thank you for all you’ve done. Is it all right if I go in the house now to get a few things for the kids?”

“Sure,” he replies. “We’ve gotten everything that we need from the house. Do you want me to go in with you?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine. I’ll be out in just a few minutes.” The officer smiles at me and climbs back into his car. I trudge up the front steps. I am so tired. I open the door and quickly go upstairs. I stop first at Calli’s room and switch on her light. It’s hard for me to imagine that just hours earlier strangers had been tromping through this room, gathering evidence, looking for traces of violence, dusting for fingerprints. I am surprised at how undisturbed her room looks, the crime scene officers were very conscientious, cleaning up after themselves, replacing toys and books to their proper spots. Only Calli’s bed looks wrong, stripped of bedding, naked. I grab some clothes, shove them in Calli’s backpack, and pick up her stuffed monkey and yellow blanket. I do the same in Ben’s room and hurry down the steps. As I put my hand on the knob of the front door, I pause. I turn and head back to the kitchen. I flick on the outside light over the back door, open the door, and step out into my backyard. Looking out across my large, beautiful yard, visions of the day swim in front of my eyes. Would I ever look at these woods in the same way? Would I ever be able to find comfort in a place that swallowed up my children and spit them back out at me damaged and broken? I walk closer to the dark, towering trees until I feel a strong hand clamp onto my arm and my heart stops in alarm. But just as quickly I recognize Martin’s smooth, cultured voice, hushed to a whisper.

“Antonia, quiet. Someone is in the woods. Come on.” And he pulls me silently to the side of the yard, next to the shed behind a snowball bush where we are well-hidden.

“Martin,” I murmur, “what are you doing?”

“Shh,” he orders and points toward the woods. I see nothing.

“What is it?” I whisper.

“Griff, I think,” Martin says. I can’t help but notice how lifeless his voice sounds.

“Good,” I respond in a normal voice. “I need to ask him a few questions about where he’s been today.” I begin to step from the bush toward the woods. Martin yanks me roughly back.

“No,” he demands. “Stay here, listen to me.” I stop and he releases my arm from his grasp.

“Have you talked to Ben about what happened up there?” Martin speaks again in a low, hoarse whisper.

“No,” I admit. “We really haven’t had the chance. I’m just so glad they’re okay. What about Ben?”

“He was up there when we found Petra. He told us what happened, who hurt Petra and Calli. It was Griff.”

“Ben said this?” I ask.

“He did. Ben said that Griff was up there when he got to the top of the bluff. That Griff was standing over Petra and was going after Calli.” Martin’s voice breaks when he says his daughter’s name.

For the first time I notice that Martin holds something tightly within one hand.

“What is that?” I ask and reach out to it, my hand brushing against the cool metal. “My God, is that a gun? Martin, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” he says in a small voice. “I don’t know. I thought…I thought…”

“You thought you would come over here and shoot the man who you think hurt your daughter? Without even speaking with him first, without the police questioning him? Martin, I know Griff has troubles, but he would not have hurt Petra.”

“How do you know that? What about the bruises your son has? Your son was up there, Antonia. Are you saying he is the liar? Who did this, then? Was it Ben? Was it your husband? Which one, Antonia? Which is it?” Martin hisses.

“Yeah, Antonia, which is it?” an oily, familiar voice asks conversationally. My heart seizes in my chest. It is Griff. He smells of sweat and his face looks haggard and tired. “Who you gonna believe? Me or Ben?”

“Griff, I don’t know what happened. I don’t know. Ben and Calli are in the hospital. Petra is, too, she’s hurt really bad. I don’t know what happened.”

“But you think I coulda done something, don’t you? You’ll believe that little bastard, but you won’t believe your own husband…” Griff, the man who sent me sweet notes every year on the anniversary of my mother’s death, steps toward me.

“Get away!” Martin yells.

“What the hell?” Griff shouts. “You’ve got a gun? You’ve got a goddamn gun. What? You two come here to shoot me? Jesus, Toni!” In one powerful movement Griff slaps the gun from Martin’s hand toward me. I scream as the gun goes off with a loud blast and I cover my face as the bullet explodes into the ground, sending up chunks of dry dirt. Both Griff and Martin scramble for the gun, but Griff is faster and reaches it first. With one hand he picks the revolver off the ground and swings it with a sickening thud against Martin’s skull. He crumples immediately to the ground clutching his head.

“Griff, don’t!” I scream. “Please don’t!” I cry as I kneel down by Martin.

“He was gonna shoot me,” Griff says in a dazed voice. “You were here to shoot me.”

“No, no. I didn’t know he was here. I didn’t know,” I sob. “I was here to get some pajamas for Calli, to get her monkey!” I point to the sock monkey on the ground; it is smiling up at us. Griff has the gun aimed shakily at me, but he glances down at the toy and then at Martin’s now motionless form.

“I don’t believe you.” His hands continue to tremble, whether from nerves or lack of drink, I don’t know.

“Please, let’s talk about it, please,” I beg. “Tell me what happened, Griff. Tell me.” Where was that police officer, I wonder, looking through the darkness for him.

“I didn’t do it.” His voice is full of emotion. “I know it looks like I did, but I didn’t, I didn’t hurt that girl!”

“But why were you up there? Why were you in the woods with Calli?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. It was stupid. I took her into the woods. We got lost. And then Calli was gone and Petra was there all bloody. And Ben, Jesus, Ben. He kept coming at me and I hit him. I hit him. God, and her underwear.”

I feel as if I have been socked in the stomach. My husband had taken Calli into the forest; he had hurt Ben and Petra, poor little Petra. I force the bile that has crept into my throat back down.

“God, my head hurts!” He presses his fingers to his eyes and in that instant I run. I duck behind the shed and run for the woods. If I could just get to the woods then I could hide. I know these woods. I keep expecting gunfire, but none comes. But despite the pain in his head and his trembling hands, Griff is still quicker than I am. Before I can step into the safety of the trees, he is here, his arms around me in a crushing bear hug. I try to kick him away from me, but he holds on tightly. We hear the sirens at the same time; we both freeze midstruggle for a brief moment. Then, before I can scream or break away, Griff drags me into the forest.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

I watch as Christine pulls away from the hospital parking lot, and I momentarily consider chasing after her, jumping in the car with her and Tanner and driving off to Minnesota. It is a brief thought, however, because I spy Toni, head down, rushing once again out of the hospital. I begin to go toward her, but notice Fitzgerald and the other agents observing me through the tall windows that line the front of the hospital. I make a beeline back toward the main doors, back to the investigation.

Fitzgerald is waiting as the automatic doors open and cold air from the air-conditioned main lobby once again strikes me in the face. My uniform is dirty from my trek through the woods, I stink of sweat and am perspiring heavily again after my heated conversation with Christine.

“She won’t let us talk to the girl, or the boy for that matter,” Fitzgerald says as I walk to a vending machine to buy a bottle of water.

“Who won’t?” I ask, slugging the whole bottle back in one gulp.

“Antonia Clark,” Fitzgerald replies. “She says Calli isn’t up to talking now and she doesn’t want Ben talking to us, either. I think she’s hiding something.”

“What would she be hiding?” I ask as I thread more change into the machine, this time choosing a soda full of caffeine and sugar. It is going to be a long night.

“I think she knows something about her husband. I don’t buy that she didn’t know he didn’t go on that fishing trip today. Maybe she’s covering for him,” the agent named Temperly says.

“That’s bullshit,” I say, looking him in the eyes. “Have you even talked to Toni Clark? Have you even had one conversation with her that makes you believe this?”

“Just the one we had a few moments ago, when she absolutely refused to cooperate with us,” Temperly says snidely. “I don’t know, I guess if my child was kidnapped and my son beaten to a pulp, I’d want to know who did it.”

“And so does Toni,” I say in an even, low tone, trying to keep any anger out of it. To be thrown off this investigation was the last thing I needed. “She just wants to keep her kids safe. She’ll let them speak with you when they’re able.”

“Yeah, she really kept them safe, didn’t she?” Temperly mutters under his breath.

Agent Simon steps forward, a good thing because Temperly is pissing me off. “Let’s talk to the doctor, see how long he thinks it will be before Calli will be able to speak with us. Then we can go from there.”

“Where was Toni off to, anyway?” I ask the three agents.

They all shrug and look at one another.

“Her crazy husband is out there and you just let her leave?” I ask in disbelief.

The agents raise their eyebrows at each other. “Let’s go find the doctor,” Simon says.

As we walk past the receptionist’s desk the clerk calls out, “Can one of you speak with a Fielda Gregory? She’s on the phone, very upset about her husband.”

“I got it,” Fitzgerald says before I can grab the phone. I step as close to him as I can, hoping to hear what is happening with Martin. Fitzgerald listens for several moments before he tells Fielda that he will get back to her shortly. “Jesus Christ,” Fitzgerald mumbles. “What next?”

We all look at him expectantly. “It appears that Martin Gregory is now the next person to go missing out of our two little families.”

“What do you mean? I had Jorgens take him home. He told me that Martin said he and Fielda were heading over to Iowa City together to see Petra.”

“Gregory never went with them. Fielda drove to Iowa City with her mother and Mary Ellen McIntire,” Fitzgerald explains.

“Jenna McIntire’s mother?” Temperly asks.

“Yes. Let me finish,” Fitzgerald says impatiently. “Petra needs surgery and Mrs. Gregory doesn’t want to consent to the operation until she speaks with her husband. But she can’t find him. She tried at home, at the police station, here at the hospital, friends, family, everywhere with no luck. Then Mary Ellen McIntire piped up that she might have an idea where Martin Gregory is.”

I wait for a moment for Fitzgerald to continue. Then it clicks. “Jesus, he went looking for Griff,” I whisper.

“Yeah, he did. Mrs. McIntire said she and Martin had a brief conversation and that he alluded to the fact that he was going after whoever had done this to his little girl,” Fitzgerald says grimly.

“As far as we know, Griff Clark is still up in those woods. Would Martin go back in there at this time of night?” Agent Simon asks, looking to me.

“If I know Griff Clark like I think I do, he’s probably taken off for good. Right after he gets a few drinks into himself.” A horrible thought skitters across my brain and I turn to the receptionist. “Can you tell me where Calli Clark’s doctor is?”

A few minutes later Dr. Higby introduces himself to us and quickly makes it clear that under no circumstances are we to try to speak with the Clark children.

“No, no,” I say. “It’s Toni Clark. Do you know where she went, when she left a little while ago?”

“She went home. Said she wanted to get some clean clothes for the kids. Why, is there a problem?” Dr. Higby asks as a look of genuine concern creases his face.

“I don’t know yet,” I answer as a transmission comes over on my walkie-talkie. We all stop to listen as a dispatcher relays a report of a disturbance at 12853 Timber Ridge Drive. The reservist stationed at the house had reported that he heard angry voices at the back of the Clark home and what could have been a gunshot.

BEN

Rose has come back with a tray full of food. Pudding, Jell-O, soup, ginger ale. All soft food, she says, so I won’t hurt my face chewing. I have to smile at that. She is a nice old lady. She leaves me alone so I can eat; she says she’ll be sitting out in the waiting area if we need her. Says she knows I probably don’t want some strange lady sitting in our room watching us. She’s right. I just want to lie in bed, eat my mushy food and watch TV.

Calli, you’re still sleeping. I keep looking over at you, wishing you’d wake up. Because even though I don’t want Rose sitting in here with me, I’m still pretty lonely, and it seems like it’s taking Mom forever to get back here. Your nurse stopped in a few times to check on you, taking your pulse, checking your IV, feeling your forehead.

I try not to think of Dad. I’m beginning to feel a little bit guilty about what happened up on the bluff, but what was I supposed to think, with Petra all hurt and you looking so scared? I don’t think that I can ever look him in the eyes again after what happened. I hope Mom understands. I couldn’t even tell her that Dad was the one to break my nose, but I think she knows, deep down.

I remember, Calli, before you stopped talking, you’d lie at the end of my bed, waiting for when I’d come home from school. Every day I knew that you’d be up there. I didn’t mind so much. You always left my stuff alone—you did like to play with my rock collection, but you couldn’t hurt a rock collection, could you? I’d open up my bedroom door and you’d be sitting there sorting out the rocks. You’d have a pile of black ones, of shiny metallic-looking ones, of pink feldspar and of yellowish calcite. You didn’t call them by their scientific names, though; you had your own names for each one.

“This is Magic Cat’s Eye,” you’d say about my black obsidian. Or you’d hold up my shiny quartz. “This is Ice Rock. If you bury it in the backyard, everything will all turn to ice.”

Sometimes I thought you’d never shut up. And now that you haven’t talked for so long, I can hardly believe that you ever will again. I miss it now. I never would tell anyone this, but I still talk to you, and in my mind you talk back. Of course I’m still the older, smart one, and you’re still my little sister, who couldn’t possibly know as much as me. In my head you’d say, “Ben, do you think that Daddy will ever stop drinking?” And I’d say back, “I just don’t know, Calli, but I suppose anything’s possible.” Or we’d just talk about stupid, everyday stuff like what we’re having for supper or what we’re going to watch on TV. I wish you’d wake up right now and say, “Ben, I want to watch channel seven, give me the remote!” But you don’t. Never once have I asked you why you don’t talk. I know it’s got something to do with the day Mom lost the baby, though. I came home from Ray’s house and there Mom was on the couch. Someone had put a blanket over her, was it you? Someone had put a blanket over her, but the blood was seeping through. I asked you what happened over and over, but you didn’t say a word. You just sat on the floor by Mom, rocking back and forth, holding on to your stuffed monkey, and I called Louis and he called an ambulance. I thought for a minute you might say something when the baby came out. For the life of me I still don’t know why they let us two kids watch that. When the baby came outta Mom and they wiped her clean, and you reached out to touch her red hair, I thought you were gonna say something. But you didn’t. You just held your monkey a little tighter, rocked a little faster, until someone noticed us and called Mrs. Norland over to take care of us. At first, I thought it was because it must have been so scary seeing Mom fall down the stairs, but I watched you. I watched you real close after it all. I watched you when you were around Mom and when you were around me. And I watched you when you were around Dad, and I could see it real clear then. Your little face would go all stiff and you’d curl your fingers up real tight when he would come into the room. It wasn’t real obvious, but I knew something was up. I think Mom did, too, but she never said anything. Sometimes I think that’s what’s wrong with Mom; she doesn’t say what she should when she should.

I think you might be waking up. You are kind of wiggling around, trying to open your eyes, but you can’t. You’re so tired. I’m half-afraid that when you do finally open them up you’re going to start hollering like you did when you first saw me. I start to go for the nurse’s buzzer, thinking maybe you’re hurting somewhere, but then you stop moving around and fall back asleep. I finish eating my chocolate pudding and keep flicking through the channels and when I look back at you, you are awake, just staring at me, like you can’t quite believe I am here. Then you smile, just a little bit, but it’s a smile anyway. I climb out of my bed and come over to your side.

“You okay?” I ask and you nod yes. “That’s good,” I say. You look at me kind of funny and I hurry up to say that I am okay, too. Then you do something that surprises me. You pull back your bedcovers and pat the space right next to you. I climb in next to you, being careful of the tube stuck in your arm, it’s a tight fit in your little hospital bed, but I squeeze in.

At home, at night, sometimes you’d climb into my bed with me if you couldn’t get to sleep and I’d tell you some story. Lots of times I’d tell you the regular fairy tales, Red Riding Hood, the Three Little Pigs. But sometimes I just made something up, like you and Petra being princesses and going on these great adventures. You liked them, though, those lame stories. And I figure you want me to tell you one now. I don’t know where to begin. It seems stupid to tell you a story about the Gingerbread Man after what happened today. Then I get an idea. Probably a really dumb idea, and if Mom had known I was going to start telling you this story, I’m sure she probably would ground me for life. But it just sorta begins to spill out of me.

“Once upon a time there were two princesses, one named Calli and one named Petra. These princesses were both beautiful and smart and they were best friends. They didn’t really care about being beautiful, though. They thought it was more important to be smart and brave. And they had many wonderful adventures together fighting dragons and witches and trolls. The thing was, Princess Calli didn’t talk. No one knew why she didn’t talk, but she didn’t. She was still smart and brave. Plus she had Princess Petra to talk for her. They were quite a team, the two of them. Petra would say the magic words and Calli would wave her magic hands and the fire-breathing dragon would fall over dead and the mean old witch would be turned into a slug.” You smile up at me at this part, that is one of your favorite stories, the one about the witch being turned into a slug.

“One day, though, Princess Calli and Princess Petra got lost in the woods.” I stop and look over at you during this part. You look up at me like you aren’t sure what I am doing, but you don’t act like I should stop, so I don’t. The door opens and the doctor comes in, the one with the crazy tie. I think maybe I should stop telling the story, but he tells me to keep on going, that he is just going to check you and me over quick.

“So Princess Calli and Princess Petra were lost in the woods and the thing was they didn’t go into the woods on their own, Princess Calli’s dad took them there.” I look at you again and you are frowning, like what I am saying is all wrong, so I try again. “Princess Petra and Princess Calli went into the woods by themselves?” Again you shake your head no. I try again. “Some stranger took Princess Calli and Princess Petra into the woods?” Again, no. My idea isn’t working so good and I look at Dr. Higby, who sits down in a chair in the corner of the room, in a spot where you can’t see him. He gives me a nod like he wants me to keep trying.

“Only Princess Calli was taken into the woods by her father, who was under the spell of some nasty potion?” Calli nods hard at this and I sigh. Now I am getting somewhere.

MARTIN

My hands go to the tender spot where Griff had hit me with the gun. I can hear the police sirens getting closer and I am relieved. Such a stupid thing I have done, coming here, thinking that I could mete out justice like some all-knowing demigod. I could never actually shoot someone, even the most vile, evil of men. I am just an angry, silly, weak man, who once again has let things get beyond his control. I scan the ground before me, looking for the gun that Griff knocked from my hand. It is gone and so is Antonia. I have failed her, too. I feel dizzy and nauseous from the lump on my head and I lean against Antonia’s shed for support.

When the sirens are upon me and I see a number of officers spill from their cars I call out to them, not wanting to be mistaken for a criminal. Actually, that is exactly what I am. An inept vigilante. Within seconds I am surrounded by police officers, one of them being, to my relief, Deputy Sheriff Louis.

“Where’s Toni?” he asks me immediately. “Where did he take her?”

“The woods,” I say, pointing in the general direction I had seen her run. “She tried to get away, but he was too quick. They went into the forest.” Without another word, Deputy Louis is gone and behind him a gaggle of officers follows him, including Agent Fitzgerald.

A woman in a blue suit much too formal for the situation, I absurdly think, steadies me by holding my arm. A man takes my other arm and they gently settle me to the ground.

“An ambulance is on the way,” the woman assures me. “Are you Martin Gregory?” she asks.

“I am,” I say weakly, still holding my throbbing head.

“Let me see.” She shines her penlight on my head and winces at what must have been an awful gash. Her companion fishes a handkerchief from his suit jacket and presses it into my hand.

“I’m Agent Simon and this is Agent Temperly. We’re assisting in the investigation of your daughter’s abduction. Can you tell us what happened?”

“I made a mistake. I made a big mistake,” I say, feeling very sleepy. This must have been how Petra felt, I thought, with the gash that I had seen on her head. I’m in pain, this is certain, I have an incredible urge to just sleep, but what Petra has to be going through is so much worse.

“What happened?” the woman asks me again.

I sit for a long time saying nothing, not sure of the way to tell them, to share my ridiculous story of selfishness. Finally, Agent Simon rescues me by saying, “What happened to Antonia Clark?” This I can answer.

“Her husband took her into the woods.” Again I point in the direction that I saw Antonia run.

“Did he have any weapons? There were reports of gunfire,” the agent named Temperly asks.

“A gun,” I say, knowing now that I could not postpone the inevitable. “I think he picked up the gun from the ground and took Antonia into the woods.” Blood has seeped through the handkerchief that Temperly handed to me. I fold it, trying to find a clean spot to hold against my head.

“What gun from the ground?” Agent Simon asks, I think already knowing the answer.

“My gun. I came here with a gun,” I admit. “Then Antonia arrived and I couldn’t let her go in the woods where he was. Not after what he did to my daughter. So I warned her. We hid and he found us.”

“Did you threaten him with the gun?” Agent Temperly asks.

“No, no, but I was holding it. That was threatening enough, I think. He knocked it from my hand and it went off, into the ground.” I show them the damaged ground where the bullet had impacted. “He hit me with the gun and Antonia tried to run away. He caught her and pulled her into the woods. They could not have gone far. It’s not loaded, though. The gun. I only had one bullet and that one was used.”

“It’s not loaded,” Simon says, her voice oddly grave.

“That’s a good thing.” I look at her in confusion.

“It’s a good thing if you’re Antonia Clark. It isn’t a good thing for Griff Clark and the officer who may shoot him because they both think the gun is loaded.” Agent Simon turns to her partner. He nods and he walks away, I am sure to try to contact the officers who have dashed into the forest.

“You know coming out here was not a smart thing to do, don’t you, Mr. Gregory?”

I nod miserably and wince at the movement. My eyelids grow heavier. Sleep is what I crave.

“Your wife has been searching desperately for you.”

Immediately my sleepiness vanishes. “Petra,” I gasp. “Is Petra okay?” I try to stand, but my quick movement sends a wave of pain and dizziness through me and I sit hard upon the ground.

“Hey, stay put, you need a doctor. I don’t know exactly what is happening with your daughter, but your wife needs to speak with you. We’ll get you to a phone as soon as possible, Mr. Gregory, I promise.” Once again the piercing sound of a siren fills my ears. An ambulance. For me, I suppose. Hopefully just for me and not Antonia. Surprising myself, I think, hopefully not for Griff Clark, either.

ANTONIA

Griff is dragging me through the woods and I am screaming at him to stop, to please stop. Finally he does.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Toni! Jesus. Do you really think I would do those things to Petra? Do you?”

He looks so pathetic and sad that I almost feel sorry for him. I have known Griff long enough for me to know how to handle him. I reach out to him with my other hand, slowly, no sudden movements, and gently remove a leaf that is stuck in his hair. “No, Griff, I don’t think you would have done anything to hurt Petra. I am just trying to understand what happened.” I let my hand rest on his shoulder. In one hand he still holds the gun. With the other, he holds tightly to my upper arm, and I think I know where Calli got her bruises. He drops his head onto my shoulder and coughs out a dry sob.

“Calli was up early this morning. We went for a walk in the woods and got lost. We got separated…”

I bite back a response to Griff’s obvious omission of important details, like why Calli was only wearing her nightgown and no shoes on this walk and why he hadn’t left a note telling us where they were.

“I swear I never even saw Petra until I found Calli on top of the bluff. Then Ben came up and saw—saw Petra. She looked so bad. But I didn’t hurt her, I was trying to help her, God, I swear, Toni. I didn’t do anything to her.” I can feel Griff’s tears on my neck. I wonder if they are real as I pat his shoulder.

“We’ll just tell everyone that, we’ll tell everyone that you didn’t do it, Griff.” I cup his face in my hands and make him look at me. “Griff, they have tests to see if someone really committed a crime, they do DNA testing. When they run those tests they’ll know you didn’t hurt her.”

“I know, Toni, Jesus, I’m not an idiot,” he snarls at me. “But I felt for her pulse, I tried to help her! I practically threw up all over her up there. They make mistakes. The police make mistakes all the time. You gotta tell them. You gotta tell them I was with you or something. That I couldn’t have done this!” He is gripping my arm even more tightly, the gun in his hand resting on my shoulder.

“I will, Griff, I’ll tell them. Don’t worry, I believe you!” I say convincingly. “I’ll tell them you were with me, that you went up there to look for the kids and Ben made a mistake. Don’t worry.”

Griff looks relieved and he lets go of my arm. “Thank you, thank you, Toni. You won’t be sorry. I’ll stop drinking, it will be good now, I promise. I know I’ve made some bad mistakes, but it will be better now.” He smiles at me gratefully. “Do you remember what it was like before? It’ll be like that again, like when Ben was little. It was good then, wasn’t it? I’ll quit the pipeline, get something here in town. Or maybe we’ll just move, start all over in a new place. Won’t that be better? We could go to the ocean. You’ve always wanted to see the ocean. We could go live by it, get a house right on the beach.”

I nod. “Yeah, that’ll be good. It’ll be good.” I’m surprised that he remembers this about me. “Come on, let’s go back now. We’ll talk to the police, they’ll understand.”

“I don’t know.” Griff hesitates. “I think that I might have hurt Martin. I hit him pretty hard. God, I shouldn’t have hit him so hard.”

“What were you going to do? He had a gun, remember? You were scared. You were protecting yourself. Come on, let’s go home. They’ll be looking for us, it’ll be better if we go to them, Griff. Please, let’s go, the kids need us.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Griff frets. “Let’s keep going. You know the woods better than anyone. Let’s keep going, then when things calm down we’ll go get the kids.”

“Keep running?” I ask. “But why? I told you I would cover for you. It’s okay, we need to get to Calli and Ben. Please, Griff,” I beg.

“You’re always takin’ their side. Jesus, Toni, just do this one thing for me, please, then we’ll get the kids. We can get to Maxwell by morning if we can get over to Highway Eighteen in the next few hours. Then we’ll make sure the coast is clear and go get the kids.”

“Griff, Calli’s feet are all bandaged up. She’s not going to be able to travel for a while, and Ben’s got some broken ribs. We can’t just start dragging them around the countryside.”

“Then we’ll come back for them in a week or so, when they’re doing better. Toni, come on, they’ll be coming in here soon after us.” He sounds desperate.

“You go on without me, then. I’ll tell the police everything. How you were with me, how you didn’t do anything but take Calli for a walk this morning. I’ll tell them that you just want them to know the truth before you come home. They’ll understand that, I’m sure they have arrangements like that all the time. You go on to Maxwell. I’ll make sure the kids are okay, then meet up with you soon.”

“You’re lying,” Griff says in a wounded voice, grabbing my arm again.

“No, I’m not, I’m not,” I assure him.

“Jesus, you’re lying to me!” His face twists in grief and he begins to drag me deeper into the forest.

“Griff, you’re hurting me, please stop, please!” I try to pull away from him, but he waves the gun in my direction.

“You’re coming with me. We’ll get to Maxwell, then we’ll get the kids.”

I begin to cry noisily and brace my feet against the dry earth. He easily tows me along behind him like a child’s pull-string toy. “Shut up!” he orders. I can’t stop my sobbing; my cries come forth in loud brokenhearted jags.

“Shut up!” he bellows. “Goddammit, Toni, they’re gonna hear you. Shut up!”

Panic has overtaken me and I can’t catch my breath. I begin hyperventilating. My fingers are tingly and I have a strange numb sensation around my mouth. I look up at Griff helplessly.

“I can’t breathe!” I try to tell him, but all that comes out is a hiss of breath as I try to gulp in more air.

“Shut up! Shut up, Toni, they’ll hear you!” He grips me by the shoulders and thrusts me up against a tree, my head striking the rough bark. “Shut up, shut up! If you don’t be quiet you will never see Calli and Ben again, do you hear me? They’ll find us! I will not go to jail for something I didn’t do! Shut! Up!”

“Please,” I whisper, catching enough breath to speak. “Please let me go.”

He leans in close to me, puts his lips close to my ear and murmurs, “If you say one more goddamn word, I will shut your mouth for good. Now shut up.”

I go still, not because of his threat, but because I had encountered this very same scene, in a different time and a different place, as an outsider looking in, but the same nevertheless. Poor Calli, I thought. Poor little four-year-old Calli, watching her mother fall down a flight of stairs. His screams of “shut up, shut up” causing Calli to cringe, not able to stop crying. I remember lying on the couch, covered in a blanket, watching Griff screaming at his little four-year-old daughter. I remember Griff bending down to whisper into Calli’s ear something, something. And for four years, she has only spoken one word. One lonely word.

“Oh, God,” I gasp in his ear. “It was you, it was you!”

BEN

“So Princess Calli was taken prisoner by the king, who didn’t know what he was doing because of the potion he had drunk. The princess tried and tried to use her magic, but it wouldn’t work on the king because he was too strong.”

I look over at Dr. Higby, who is sitting all quiet in the chair. Standing right beside him is that nice nurse, Molly. She puts a finger to her lips and looks at you, Calli. You are only looking at me, looking up at me like you want me to keep on going.

“Princess Calli and the king became lost in the big, dark woods and Calli’s feet hurt because she didn’t have any shoes on, but still they kept walking through the woods together. She was hot and thirsty, she wanted her mother, the queen, and her brother, the prince, but she didn’t know where they were. She couldn’t figure out why they weren’t coming for her, she thought maybe they forgot about her. But they didn’t, they spent all day trying to find her. Her brother looked and looked and the soldiers of the kingdom started to look for her, too. And finally, her brother found her, on top of the bluff with the king and her friend Petra. Only Princess Petra was hurt real bad. The king had done a really bad thing and hurt her so bad that now Petra was the one who wasn’t able to talk.”

I feel Calli go all stiff next to me and I look down at her. “Isn’t that how it goes, Calli? Isn’t that how it went?” I ask her. She sits stock-still, her face serious as if she is thinking real hard. Slowly she shakes her head from side to side. I see Dr. Higby lean forward in his chair. “What happened, Calli?” I ask her. “You finish the story, I can’t. I wasn’t there, not for all of it. You finish the story.”

MARTIN

They won’t let me climb into the ambulance on my own, but insist that I lie down on a stretcher and lift me into the vehicle.

“I’m fine,” I maintain, but no one appears to be listening. A paramedic begins dabbing at my forehead, his face smooth and unreadable. Very professional, I think. I know I will need stitches, but before that happens I need to get to a phone.

“Please, I need to use a phone. I need to call my wife,” I say.

“Someone from the hospital will contact your family, sir, don’t worry.”

“No, please. My daughter is the one who was airlifted to Iowa City. My wife has been trying to contact me. Please, I must talk to her. I have to find out how my daughter is doing.” I struggle to sit up, but the paramedic firmly presses on my chest to keep me in a prone position. I must have looked amply distressed because suddenly I have a cell phone in my hand and a few moments later I am speaking with Fielda, who breaks down upon hearing my voice.

“Martin, Martin, where have you been? Are you all right?” she weeps.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” I will tell her about my shabby stab at heroics later. “How is Petra? Is Petra okay? They told me that you said she needs surgery.”

“She’s in surgery right now. I’m sorry, Martin, I couldn’t wait any longer for you. I had to make a decision. They needed to relieve pressure that was on her brain. I said yes.”

“Of course you did, Fielda. That was exactly what you should have done. I’ll be there soon. I have to take care of some things here, but I will be there with you as soon as I can. I should have gone with you in the first place. I am so sorry, Fielda, I am so very sorry.” There is a pause on the phone line.

“Martin,” Fielda begins cautiously, “you didn’t go and do something that you’re going to be sorry about now, did you?”

I thought of Antonia out in the forest with that desperate, sad man and I say, “I hope not.”

She sighs and tells me she loves me, no matter what, and to hurry up and get over to Iowa City.

When we arrive at Mercy Hospital, as I am wheeled into the emergency room, a police officer keeps stride with the gurney and speaks with me. “We’re going to have to interview you after you have your head checked out.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, closing my eyes as I think of Calli and Ben Clark ensconced somewhere above me, waiting for their mother to return to them. How could I explain to them what happened, what I did, if their mother does not come back?

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

Fitzgerald and I crash through the brush, trying to move silently but failing miserably. It is black as tar. The quarter moon and the stars are swallowed up by the night and do little to light our way.

“Jesus,” Fitzgerald curses, “we’ll never find them in here.”

“We will. Griff doesn’t know his way around in here, but Toni does. She’ll make sure that they stay on a path.”

“God, I hope so,” he mutters.

I lead Fitzgerald through the brush slowly, cautiously. I do not want to stumble upon Griff and Toni and cause him to panic. Shortly we come to a thinning of the trees where the forest intersects with the path and we both look out onto the trail squinting into the darkness. Nothing. We creep as quietly as we can up the path. Occasionally Fitzgerald or I step on a twig and the snap of wood causes us to stop and tensely look around. I am ashamed to realize that Fitzgerald is in better shape than I am and I have to work hard in order to keep in front of him. After several minutes of hiking I am only aware of my own breathing and Fitzgerald stops me by yanking on my sleeve.

“Listen,” he orders. Gradually the voices become clear to me, one male, one female—one angry and one full of anguish. It is them. I nod to Fitzgerald to let him know that I hear it, too, and we proceed slowly, silently. We need to observe Toni and Griff without their knowledge, get a good handle on their position and verify that Griff has a weapon.

I move down the path in small increments, making sure that Fitzgerald is always in my sight, stopping every few steps to listen. It isn’t long before I hear Griff screeching, “Shut up, shut up!” and hear Toni’s frantic cries. I inch down the path, forcing myself forward in deliberate, slow movements, not wanting to give up my presence prematurely. The sliver of moon illuminates Griff pinning Toni to a tree, his mouth against her ear. If I hadn’t seen a gun in Griff’s hand, I would have thought it was simply two people in an embrace, that and the fact that Toni’s sorrowful weeping assaults my ears. Farther on down the trail I spy Fitzgerald edging forward, gun drawn. I, too, pull my gun from its holster and step behind a tree.

Fitzgerald yells, “Police! Put the gun down.” They don’t appear to hear him.

“Oh, God! It was you, it was you,” Toni howls.

“No, no, I didn’t do it!” Griff whines. “I didn’t hurt that girl!” He presses his hand against Toni’s throat, and I crouch and take aim. He is too close to her.

“No,” Toni wails, her words difficult to understand. “Calli, Calli. It’s because of you she doesn’t talk.”

“Drop the gun, Griff,” I shout. Griff pauses for a minute as if acknowledging our presence.

“What are you talking about? Shut up!” Griff tells her, confusion in his voice.

“I thought it was because of what she saw, when I lost the baby, I thought it was my fault. But it was you. You whispered something to her. What did you say? What did you say?” Toni’s words muddle together and the ferocity of them make Griff step back. Again I take aim.

“Shut up, Toni! You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Griff is trying to keep his voice low. I can see his body shake with rage. Or DT. He begins to weep himself. He leans forward so that his forehead rests on Toni’s and then presses the barrel of the gun to his temple.

“Drop your weapon!” Fitzgerald booms. He is slowly edging farther away from me. If Griff chose to shoot, he would only be able to hit one of us.

Again I take aim, but he is too close to Toni and I can’t risk the shot. In an instant, Griff moves slightly away from Toni, holding his gun toward her face, my chance. I reposition the grip on my weapon and I hear a shout and then the discharge, a loud pop that does not come from my gun. I am too late. I see both Griff and Toni collapse to the ground, both not moving.

Within seconds Fitzgerald is standing over Griff and Toni. I can’t go any closer, I feel ill and disgraced.

“Come help me, hurry up!” Fitzgerald calls to me as he tries to roll Griff off Toni. I see her arms push at Griff, trying to force him off her. She crawls out from beneath him, covering her face with her hands.

I stand above her, not equipped to comfort her, not there, not then. I call for backup and an ambulance, even though it is plain that Griff is dead. Fitzgerald is the one to kneel down beside her and whisper reassuring words to her. I don’t believe that she even knows I am here. She clutches onto Fitzgerald and will not let him go. Even as he leads her down the trail, she leans heavily on him while I stay behind to wait for the coroner and the forensic team.

Hours later I receive word that the gun that Griff was holding was not loaded. I console myself by telling myself that I was not the one to shoot him. Given the chance, though, I would have. Gladly.

CALLI

Her brother’s words wash over her, the story he is telling her. She tries to ignore the many eyes staring at her expectantly. She thinks back to that moment on top of the bluff, to when she saw him and then saw Petra.

She was bent down to pick up the necklace, Petra’s necklace. She sensed his presence before she saw him, could feel the weight of his gaze upon her. Fear, cold and black, sidled into her chest. Still bent over, she slowly raised her eyes and saw his mucky, thick-soled hiking boots that led into mud-splattered olive trousers; and this was where Calli’s gaze stilled. He was standing above her on a broad flat rock the color of sand. She saw, hanging limply, a hand, small and pale, lightly grazing the drab of his pants, level with his knee. Calli straightened, the necklace gripped in her fist, to see her friend bundled in his arms. Petra’s eyes were closed as if sleeping, an angry two-inch gash resting above her left eyebrow. A collage of purple-smudged bruises traveled along her cheek to her lips that were cracked and bloodied, down to her neck which lolled helplessly as he readjusted her in his arms. Her blue pajamas were filthy, caked with a deep-brown substance; her grungy, once-white tennis shoes were untied, the dirty laces hanging flaccid around her ankles.

“Help me,” he pleaded. “She’s hurt. I can’t get her down the bluff on my own.” He stared levelly into Calli’s eyes, his wounded voice not matching the resolve she saw in his hard eyes. She knew him.

He was perched on the highest point on the bluff, where the trees cast long, sullen shadows, and every few moments a breeze swept across his sunburned forehead, lifting his hair briefly. A deep valley, a basin of lush greens and honey-yellows, lay in a blanket far behind him. Calli’s eyes darted to Petra’s fingers, which twitched briefly.

“She’s too heavy. I have to put her down.” He carefully moved to set Petra down, resting his hand behind her head as he laid her on the altarlike rock. Once again he stood, shaking his arms free from the residual weight of Petra.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he remarked. “I could never do this on my own.” He looked at Calli, trying to read her expression. “If we hurry, we can get her down the bluff and to the hospital. She’s hurt badly. She fell,” he added as an afterthought.

The bluff on which he stood ended abruptly behind him and sloped into a steep, rough wall lined with slick green moss, and ended in a narrow, dry ravine.

“Please,” he begged, “I think she’s going to die if we don’t get her out of here.” His chin quivered and tears seemed to gather in the corners of his eyes.

Diffidently, she moved forward. Her gaze, though, never wandering from his face. He reached down a hand to help pull her to the top of the crumbling limestone; powdery bits breaking away as she tried to find a foothold for her toes. His hand, smooth and cool, enveloped hers and she felt herself being lifted, the disconcerting feeling of being suspended in air fluttered in her stomach. His grip tightened and a moment of dread swept through her. A mistake, she thought, I should have run. She helplessly tried to free her hand in a futile tug of war.

She heard it before he did. The unmistakable beating of wings, slow and deliberate, followed by a drawn-out caw, almost like laughter. She felt the rush of air on her neck as it swooped over her. It was huge, the biggest bird Calli had ever seen, so black that it almost looked bluish, its wings spread so wide it looked nearly the same size as she was. The man faltered as the great black bird skimmed his shoulder, casting a dark shadow over the look of fear and revulsion that danced across his face as he released Calli’s hand. She fell backward and struck the ground, finding herself dazed, looking up into a muted blue sky brushed in shades of pink found on the underbelly of clumps of Spring Beauty that bloomed in early spring. When she sat up and carefully looked around, she didn’t see him.

She scurried up the rock where Petra was and peered over the side to the rift below. Then Calli crawled over to Petra and she stirred. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at Calli.

“Mommy,” Petra moaned.

Calli placed a dirty hand on Petra’s forehead, nodded to her and patted her arm. She turned in every direction, looking for him. He was gone, but she had seen him before, she knew him, he had a funny name and a dog. He was out there, maybe watching her. She scuttled backward into the brush and hid.

Calli blinked her eyes and returned to the present.

“Lucky,” Calli said simply to her brother, speaking for her friend who had always spoken for her. “It was Lucky.”

BEN

Well, Calli, you did it. You finished the story and I know that wasn’t any easy thing for you to do. I am surprised that it wasn’t Dad, but that student of Mr. Gregory who ended up taking Petra into the woods and doing all those bad things to her. I wonder if Dad will ever forgive me for blaming him, but he looked so guilty and he did drag you out into the woods. I don’t know how I am going to face him. I mean, I walloped him pretty good for a twelve-year-old. Mom isn’t back yet with our stuff and I am just plain tired. But there is no sleeping for us tonight, what with the police coming in and asking you to tell the story over and over again. You do it, though. You retell that story over and over and they keep asking you over and over again if this Lucky guy did anything to you, but you say no, it was Petra, he hurt Petra.

Finally, Rose comes in and tells the police officers to beat it, that we both need a good night’s sleep. We aren’t sleeping, though, are we? We’ve decided to wait up for Mom, but she hasn’t come to us, not yet anyway. You are so excited to show her that you can talk again, you just ramble on and on, I think just to hear your own voice, to listen to what it sounds like after so many years. It surprises me, too, the way you sound. Older of course, but I don’t know, you sound smarter. No, that isn’t it. Wiser, I guess. You sound wise. And I guess you are. I ask you if you think that Dad will ever forgive me for me thinking what I did about him and for hitting him. You say, “No,” so softly I almost can’t hear you, but I do. “No,” you say, “but don’t be sorry. He wasn’t himself up there.” You stop talking for a second and then change your mind. “He was himself up there, but still don’t be sorry, you saved us.”

I have to smile at that, you thinking that I saved you and Petra, and maybe I did. I guess I’ll never know. It’s nice, sitting here with you; we don’t know what is coming next with Dad, but I figure it’ll all turn out okay. “What do ya want to watch, Calli?” I ask you and you answer me, just like it should go.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

I do not go home after the shooting. It is an empty place, what with Christine and Tanner gone. In one crazy day I have lost my wife and my son. I end up at my desk at the station, writing my report, trying not to forget any of the key details. I’ve seen a lot as a deputy sheriff; I have seen the aftermath of suicides, meth lab explosions, I have seen women beaten by their husbands who somehow decide to go back for more. That makes me think of Toni, staying with Griff, who was obviously a mess and didn’t take good care of her, not the way I would have, anyway. But there is something about seeing someone you know inside and out on the edge of being killed. Nothing prepared me for that, no amount of training or years of experience readied me for seeing the barrel of a gun pressed to the head of the girl I first saw careening down a hill of snow on a sled when we were seven. Maybe it is a gift, not being the one to shoot Griff. Now maybe I can go in and help pick up the pieces of Toni’s former life. Start where we had left things so many years ago. Maybe this is my second chance with her. I hadn’t been the one to kill her husband. But will Toni think of it that way? Would Calli and Ben?

Maybe I’m no better than Griff was. He gave up his family for alcohol and it looks like I gave up my own family, as well. But for me it was because of a woman I had grown up with, one I couldn’t ever let go. So who is the bigger villain in the end? Is it Griff or is it me? I think that’s a question I don’t want to look at too closely, an answer I can live without finding.

Once when Toni and I were in the third grade we went walking in Willow Creek Woods. It was just the two of us, when all was innocent and a boy could still be friends with a girl and not be teased mercilessly by his peers. It was a brisk spring day, the light from the sun bright but lacking anywarmth. Toni wore an old sweatshirt of her brother’s and snow boots. We were walking across Lone Tree Bridge, carefully making our way across the thin tree trunk that had fallen across Willow Creek, holding hands, steadying each other so we wouldn’t fall. There on that day, holding the hand of my best friend, I could not imagine a life without her, without Toni, and I still can’t.

This morning I find myself calling Charles Wilson and apologizing on behalf of the sheriff’s department for any inconvenience we have caused him.

“No problem,” he says. “I’m just glad you found the girls.” I hesitate before hanging up. “Did you ever find your dog, Mr. Wilson?” I ask.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “He came home last night, tired and hungry. And embarrassed, I think, for the trouble he caused.”

I apologize once again and wish him well. He’s a good man, Mr. Wilson.

I go to the hospital, hoping to find Toni there with Ben and Calli. I come across her sitting in the waiting room, next to the information desk, looking at her hands. It strikes me that she looks much the same way as she did on the day she found out her mother had died.

“What am I going to tell them?” she asks me, not looking up at me when I stand next to her.

“I don’t know,” I tell her truthfully. I don’t envy her that task.

She stands and wobbles for a moment uncertainly and I hold her elbow to steady her and follow her to the elevator doors. “Do you want me to come with you, Toni?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says and reaches out for my hand.

ANTONIA

Louis helps me tell the children that Griff is dead. These are the hardest words that I have ever had to say, “Your father has died.” It is strange, though, they don’t ask how, they don’t ask why. Ben and Calli just accept the fact, no tears, no anger, just acceptance. Not for the first time, I wonder what in the world have I done to these poor children. I think that perhaps they are just numb. It has been a confusing, painful two days on many counts. One more piece of horrific news probably weighs the same as all the other pieces of bad news that are being piled on them.

Do I cry over Griff’s death? A good wife would say yes. But I am not a good wife. How many times did I wish that I would get the call that Griff was injured so badly on the pipeline that there was no chance for recovery, or that he was in a terrible auto accident and had died? Too many to count. Notice that these scenarios are all accidental deaths. I am too civilized to wish that someone would shoot my husband. But do I feel relief? Yes, I felt relief when his body slumped against mine, shot. I am relieved that it was not me who was shot, and I am relieved that I will not have to endure one more drunken tantrum from my husband, and that my children will not have to suffer through one again, either. I was not a good mother; a good mother would have packed her children up the first time her husband began throwing beer bottles at her; the first time he smacked her child a little too hard for spilling the orange juice; or the first time he made her child sit at the kitchen table for three hours because she did not, could not say, “May I please be excused.” A good mother would not have tolerated any of these things. But as I said, I wasn’t a good mother.

But I get a chance to start over, brand-new. To be a good mother, the kind of mother who protects her children, who will lay down her life for her children. Louis says that I already am that kind of mother, that I always was. But I don’t think so, not really. Here’s my chance. I want what I never got with my own mother, enough time. I just want enough time.

MARTIN

It takes eleven stitches to sew up the damage that Griff Clark did to my head when he hit me with the gun. As a result, I’ve got a concussion and have to spend the night in the hospital away from Petra and Fielda. This morning my head aches terribly, but I know that my daughter is in so much more pain and I am quickly preparing to leave, to make the trip to the hospital in Iowa City to be with my girls. Just as I finish tying my shoes, Antonia Clark comes into my hospital room. She sits on the edge of a chair while I wait for the doctor to sign my discharge papers.

“I should be coming to see you,” I say apologetically. “How are Calli and Ben doing?” I ask.

“They’re going to be fine,” she tells me. “How is Petra?”

“She is out of surgery. She’s still asleep, but it appears the surgeon was able to relieve some of the pressure on her brain from the injury.”

We sit in silence for some time until I am finally able to choke out the words that need to be said. “I’m sorry, Antonia. I am so sorry I came to your home with a gun. I truly believed that Griff had something to do with what happened to Petra. That is no excuse, I know, but I am sorry. It is because of me that he is dead.”

“Martin, look at what Griff did to your head. Look what he did to Calli. Drunk, he took her from her home at four in the morning without shoes and dragged her through the woods so he could take her to who he thought was her real father. He ended up getting them lost, beat up his son and held a gun to my head. Griff wasn’t all that great of a guy, Martin.”

“No,” I say cautiously. “But I’m sorry that he died. I’m sorry your family has to go through another bad thing.”

“We’ll be okay. We’ve got each other and that’s what’s important, right?”

I nod.

“Do you have a ride to Iowa City? You’re not going to drive, are you? Your head must still be hurting.”

“Louis said he would drive me to the hospital,” I tell her.

“He told me they caught the man who did this,” Antonia says.

“Yes. I believe he is somewhere in this hospital,” I reply.

“You’re not going to go after him, are you?”

“No. I learned my lesson the first time. And besides, it sounds like Lucky managed to hurt himself all on his own by falling down the bluff.”

“I remember him. I met him at your house that one time, with his dog,” Antonia says gently.

“Yes. I thought I knew him well,” I respond. She reaches out and touches my arm.

“It’s not your fault,” she says kindly.

“That will be the question that I ask myself for a very long time. If a father cannot keep his child safe, who can?”

“You’re a wonderful father, Martin. I’ve seen the way you are with Petra. Fielda chose you well. I wish I would have made such a wise choice myself.”

“If you had chosen differently, you would not have the children you have,” I remind her.

She smiles. “I do have great kids. We both do. Now go to Petra. When she wakes up, she’ll want to see her father standing there. You two can compare stitches.”

I laugh. I have not done that in such a long time. It feels good. It feels like things one day could go back to normal. I stand, shakily, my head still aching, and go off in search of my doctor. I am leaving. I need to get to my daughter and my wife.

EPILOGUE

Calli

Six Years Later

I often look back upon that day, so long ago, and wonder how it was we all survived. For each one of us it was a dark, sad day. Especially for my mother, I think, though she always says, “It was good in some ways. You found your voice that day, Calli. That made it a good day.”

I have never thought of it as “finding” my voice because it wasn’t really lost. It was more like a bottle with a cork pushed deeply into the opening. I picture it that way often, my voice like some sweet-smelling perfume, sitting in some expensive-looking bottle with a beautifully curved handle, tall and slender, made of glass as blue as the bodies of the dragonflies I see down in Willow Creek Woods. My voice was just waiting for the right moment to be let go from that bottle. No, it was never lost; I just needed permission to use it again. It took me such a long time to figure out that I was the only one who could grant that permission, no one else. I wish my mother would understand this. She still blames herself for everything, and isn’t that a heavy weight to carry around?

This I know firsthand. I, for a long time, had thought it was my fault that my baby sister, Poppy, died when I was four. Silly, you think. How could a four-year-old be responsible for a baby’s death? Now imagine this: that same four-year-old watching her mother and father arguing at the top of the stairs and that four-year-old seeing her pregnant mother tumble down the steps backward, reaching out for her with her outstretched hands. Now picture that four-year-old crying and crying, not being able to stop. Understandable. Now see the four-year-old’s daddy trying to get her to quiet down, not with hugs or soft kisses, but other whispered words. “Shut up, Calli. If you don’t be quiet the baby will die. Do you want that to happen? Do you want the baby to die? If you don’t shut up your mother will die.” Over and over and over, whispered in that four-year-old’s ear. And the baby died, my little sister who had hair as red as poppies, whose skin was as soft as a flower’s petals. I ate my words that day. Actually bit down, chewed them, swallowed them and felt them slide down my throat like glass until they were so broken and damaged that there was no possible way that the words could rearrange and repair themselves enough to be spoken. So I know what it feels like to feel responsible for something I really had no control over. That’s how it is for my mother.

Petra never did return to school the year after this happened. She was in the hospital for a very long time. She had several surgeries and spent nearly two months in Iowa City, then another month at our local hospital. My mother would take me to the hospital to see Petra once a week, when she was well enough to have visitors. It’s funny, we didn’t talk much during those visits even though I was able to talk then. We just didn’t need to, to talk, that is. We could just be.

Petra and her family moved away about a year and a half after she was hurt. She was never quite the same after it all. She walked differently and school was a lot harder for her because of her head injury. I don’t think anyone made fun of her; they didn’t when I was around, anyway. I think that everyone, kids and adults, just felt so bad for her that no matter what, they couldn’t let her be the same girl she was before. Kids our age didn’t know what to say to her, and adults would get this sad, concerned look on their faces. All Petra really wanted was to be like everyone else.

I think, though, that it was the trial and all that went with it that really made the Gregory family want to leave. Her father felt the worst. He was the one who had welcomed Lucky into his home, hired him to do odd jobs around the house and who had got him a job at the Mourning Glory. The morning that Petra disappeared it was Lucky and his dog Sergeant who she saw through her bedroom window. She went after them to say hello and he grabbed her when they were well into the woods. I found out later that Lucky worked really hard trying to get Petra to trust and like him. He would give her little presents when he came over to their home or when Petra went to the Mourning Glory. He even told her that he went walking through the woods in her backyard all the time with Sergeant and that he would love if she came with them sometime. Lucky killed his dog, too. It seems Sergeant actually tried to protect Petra when Lucky was hurting her. Sergeant bit Lucky and he ended up strangling the poor dog with his own leash.

The entire Gregory family had to testify and so did my whole family. It was a long, tiring, confusing ordeal, what with lawyers asking questions, reporters asking questions, and friends and neighbors asking questions. I think the prosecuting attorney was terrified that I would stop talking again; he would call our house every night during the trial to talk with me, just to make sure. Lucky was found guilty on all counts—kidnapping, attempted murder and sexual abuse. The only halfway funny thing about the whole ordeal was that old black crow who brushed by Lucky right when he was going to grab me, too, knocked him right over the bluff. He fell about fifty feet. Broke his leg and his collarbone. They didn’t find him until late that next afternoon. As far as I know he is still in prison and will be forever. It was never proven that Lucky had anything to do with Jenna McIntire’s death.

Petra and I still write letters back and forth to each other. She lives in another state; her father has retired from teaching. They live on a farm now, renting their land for the actual farming part, but they have a few animals, lambs, chickens, a pig, some dogs. Petra has invited me to visit a time or two but it’s never quite worked out. She never wants to come back to Willow Creek, which I can understand.

My brother turned eighteen this year and has been working, saving up for college. He’s leaving in the fall and my mother and I are already crying about it. He is big and tall and looks just like my dad, but softer, if you get what I mean. He wants to be a police officer and he will be very good at it, I think. I don’t know what I will do without him when he goes away. I know many of my friends cannot wait for their brothers or sisters to leave, but it’s different with Ben and me. It makes me just so sad to think of him leaving that I can’t.

Louis is still a deputy sheriff, but my mom and Ben think he should run for sheriff next year, when the old sheriff finally retires. Louis comes over for dinner a lot and went to all of Ben’s football games throughout high school. Ben and Louis are very close and I am sure this is why Ben is going to become a police officer. I wonder at times if my mother and Louis will end up together. I know he got divorced a while back and I think it’s about time my mom had some fun for herself. I asked her the other day why she and Louis didn’t just get married, it is so obvious that they love one another. Her face went all sad and she said it was complicated, so I let it go. At least for now. She still has these horrible nightmares, my mother does. I can hear her yelling from her bedroom and more than once I’ve seen her peeking into our rooms, checking on me, checking on Ben.

Louis’s ten-year-old son, Tanner, comes to Willow Creek most weekends and on some holidays. His ex-wife ended up moving to Cedar Rapids, about an hour from here. Tanner is a funny little guy, quiet with serious eyes. Louis is crazy about the kid and gets all sad and depressed when he has to take him back to Cedar Rapids.

I still don’t talk much, and that scares my mother. I can go for days and not say anything. I won’t ignore anyone or refuse to answer, but I just go quiet. Sometimes my mom will get this very worried look on her face that lets me know she’s afraid I’ve gone mute again. When I see that, I make a point to talk to her. It makes her feel better anyway. My mom got herself a job at the hospital as an aide, working on the skilled care floor. She works with old people, changing their sheets, helping them eat, giving them baths, helping the nurses. Not the most glamorous of jobs, she says. But she’s always coming home telling us stories about who did what and who said what. She complains about the grouchy, persnickety ones, but actually, I think those are her favorites.

I have a picture of my dad that I keep in my treasure box. It’s faded and curled around the edges, but it is my favorite picture of him ever. It was taken before I was born, before Ben was even born. My dad is sitting in his favorite chair and he has the biggest smile on his face. His face looks young and it’s as pale as milk, except for the freckles that are on his nose. He looks healthy and his eyes are a bright green. They don’t have that yellowish color to them that he had later. He is wearing a faded pair of jeans and a Willow Creek Wolverines football jersey. But best of all, the very best of all, is what he is holding in his hand. It isn’t a beer bottle, but a can of pop and he’s holding it out toward the camera like he is toasting whoever is snapping the picture. Cheers, he seems to be saying, cheers.

I don’t hate my dad. I think I did for a while, but not anymore. I don’t hate him, but I certainly don’t miss him, either. After the funeral my mother took us into town and we bought as many gallons of yellow paint that we could put in our car. We painted the house, the three of us. Now it’s a happy soft-yellow color. Warm and cozy. And anyway, that whole entire week was just incredibly hard for all of us. We needed something to look forward to, some hope, and having a yellow house was a start anyway. That’s what Mom said. I told her that if my father hadn’t been drinking that morning and dragged me out into the woods, I never would have come across Petra and she would have died. So in a way, he actually saved the day. She just looked at me for a long time, not sure of what to say. Finally she said, “Don’t go making your father into a hero. He wasn’t a hero. He was a lonely man with a bad disease.”

We do go to my father’s grave once a year, on his birthday. Ben grumbles about it, but Mom insists. She says we don’t have to like the things he did but he was still a part of our family and wouldn’t he be sad knowing that not one of his children came to visit him once in a while? Last year Ben laughed when Mom said this and answered her all sassy, “The only way Dad would be glad to see us was if we brought a six-pack with us.” He did, too. Ben brought a six-pack of beer with him to the cemetery last year. Set it right next to his gravestone. Mom made him take it away, but Ben and I laughed over it later. It was kind of funny, in a sick sort of way.

As for me, I’m pretty much a regular kid. I go to school and do okay. I have friends and even run track and cross-country for my school. I like to run, I always have. I feel like I could run forever some days. And I like that I don’t have to talk when I’m out for a run. No one expects you to chat while you’re running five miles.

I don’t go into the woods anymore very often, and definitely not alone. That makes me about as sad as anything. I loved the woods once. It was my special spot. But when I’m in there, surrounded by trees, I am always looking behind me to see if anything is creeping up on me. Silly, I guess. Mom asked Ben and me if we wanted to move, to go into town, away from the woods. We both said no. Our home was our home, and there are a lot more good memories there than bad. Mom smiled at this, and I was glad that we could make her feel better. The woods are still Mom’s favorite place and she and Louis go walking there quite a bit. I asked her if she ever got scared while walking, afraid. She said no, that the forest was in her blood, that she couldn’t be scared of something that had actually been so good to her. “It sent you back to me, didn’t it?” she asked. I nodded. Maybe one day I would feel the same way about the woods, but not now, not for a long time.

I still see Dr. Kelsing, the psychiatrist that I met that night I went to the hospital; it’s nice to have someone to talk to who wasn’t in the middle of the whole mess. She lets me know that I’m not crazy. She says I was very brave and very strong to do what I did on that day. I don’t know if that’s true, but I’d like to think so.

I even kept on seeing my guidance counselor, Mr. Wilson, all the way through elementary school. I learned about a year ago that Mr. Wilson was actually brought in for questioning while Petra and I were missing. I bet that was totally embarrassing for him, but not once did he mention it to me. I would meet with him once a week and I’d still write in the beautiful journals that he gave me. On our last meeting together, during my last week of being a sixth grader at Willow Creek Elementary School, we sat at the round table and he asked what I would like to talk about on that day. I shrugged my shoulders and he stood. He was still incredibly tall even though I had grown several inches since first grade. He dug into his old gray file cabinet and pulled out five journals, all with black covers and all decorated with my artwork. I told him, then, about the dream I had when I fell asleep out in the woods the day my dad had taken me. The one where I was flying through the air and everyone was grabbing at me, trying to get me to come down. I told him that he was in my dream holding my journal in his hands, pointing at something. I told him I wondered what he was pointing at. He pulled the very first journal I had written in from the bottom of the pile and handed it to me.

“Let’s look for it and see if we can find out what it was,” he said. For the next half hour I looked through that journal, the one that said Calli’s Talking Journal on the front and was decorated with a dragonfly. I flipped through pages, laughing about my terrible spelling and my stick figure pictures. But then I found it, the entry I was sure Mr. Wilson was pointing to in my dream. There were no words on the page, just a picture that I had drawn of my family. My mom was drawn really big right in the center of the page. She had on a dress and high heels, which was kind of funny because my mom never wore dresses or high heels. Her hair was drawn in a huge bouffant style and she had a smile on her face. My brother was standing right next to my mom, drawn just as big. His hair was colored fire engine–red and his freckles were red dots across his circle-shaped nose. He held a football in his hands. At first glance one might think that the picture of Ben was actually my father, but it wasn’t. My father was in the picture drawn a little smaller and set back from the rest of us. He was smiling, just like everyone else in my picture, but in his hand was a can of what was clearly beer. The brand name of the beer was written in fancy blue letters, just like it is on the real can. But the drawings of those three weren’t what caught my eye that day in Mr. Wilson’s office. It wasn’t even the drawing of me, dressed in pink, my hair pulled back in a ponytail. No, it was what I drew sitting on a table next to me in the picture. A beautiful blue perfume bottle with its lid set on the ground right next to it. And rising out of the bottle were these tiny musical notes, whole notes, quarter notes and half notes flying right up into the air around my stick figure head.

“This is the picture,” I told Mr. Wilson, jabbing my finger at the page. “This is what you were showing me in my dream. My voice.”

“Of course it was, Calli,” he said. “Of course it was. You had it with you the entire time.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am deeply grateful to my family: Milton and Patricia Schmida, Greg Schmida and Kimbra Valenti, Jane and Kip Augspurger, Milt and Jackie Schmida, Molly and Steve Lugar and Patrick Schmida. Their unwavering confidence in me and their constant encouragement have meant the world to me. Thanks also to Lloyd, Lois, Cheryl, Mark, Carie, Steve, Tami, Dan and Robin.

A heartfelt thanks to Marianne Merola, my world-class agent, who saw a glimmer of possibility in The Weight of Silence. The gifts of her expertise, guidance, diligence and time are valued beyond words.

Thank you to my talented and patient editor, Miranda Indrigo, whose insights and suggestions are greatly appreciated. And to Mike Rehder, thank you for the beautiful cover art. Thanks also to Mary-Margaret Scrimger, Margaret O’Neill Marbury, Valerie Gray and countless others who generously supported this book and warmly welcomed me to the MIRA family.

Much gratitude goes to Ann Schober and Mary Fink, two very dear friends who cheered me on every step of the way.

A special acknowledgment goes to Don Harstad, a wonderful writer who has been an inspiration to me.

Finally, to Scott, Alex, Anna and Grace, thank you for believing in me. I couldn’t have done it without you.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-3749-4

THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE

Copyright © 2009 by Heather Gudenkauf.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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