Weight of Silence (26 page)

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.

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.