Hush (25 page)

"What about finding my real parents? You said
you'd help me with that."

The kid was breaking his heart and didn't
even know it. "I will."

"When?"

"Soon." Max told him good-bye and hung up,
slipping the phone back in his pocket. "You were right about
Ethan's problems being more than simple teenage angst," he told
Ivy.

"You talked to him?"

"Yeah." Max let out a sigh. "He's suddenly
decided that I don't love him, and wants to find his real parents."
He elaborated on what he'd already told her about Cecilia, about
Ethan being adopted not once, but twice.

"Do you know anything about his real
parents?"

"Only that the mother was a friend of
Cecilia's who had an unwanted pregnancy. I don't know anything
about the father."

"You must have contacts the average person
wouldn't have."

"What if his birth mother doesn't want
anything to do with Ethan? I don't want him getting hurt. On the
other hand—and I know I'm being selfish about this— what if she
wants to see him?"

"Some children have an overwhelming need to
know where they come from. I can understand your concern, but his
birth mother could never replace you. You're his father. You're the
one who has been there for him all these years. You are his past.
You are his memories."

"What if his mother was a victim of rape?
That happens more than you know. I wouldn't want Ethan to find out
something like that."

She crossed her arms at her waist. "My
grandmother would have said you're oversteering your
headlights."

He looked up at her, and she could suddenly
tell that he'd remembered her son, her murdered son.

"Christ, Ivy. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be
talking to you about this."

"It's okay."

"I don't know what I was thinking."

"Do you know how nice it is that you know
about my son? I've spent the last sixteen years lying to people
about my past. Do you know how wonderful it is to hear about Ethan,
to be able to say, I had a son too? And if he had lived, he would
have been tall and strong, weak and wise. He would have needed me,
and he would have pushed me away. Ever since he died, I've had to
deny his existence. When people would ask me if I had children, I
couldn't say I used to have a son. I had to say no. That hurt so
much, to say no. And it created a wall between me and every single
person I met. If I liked someone—male or female—I knew we could
never be more than casual acquaintances, because my secret was too
big. It was too much a part of everything I am, and I knew they
would never be able to begin to know me without the knowledge of my
past. I love to hear about Ethan. Because when you talk about him,
when you tell me about the hardships of being a parent, I feel
closer to the son I lost. So don't ever stop talking about him."
Her voice caught, and she paused to collect herself. "Don't ever
stop talking about him," she whispered.

He put his coffee cup aside and got to his
feet. She thought he was leaving when he pulled her into his arms
and held her close. Just held her, held her, held her.

Darby Nichols tied her running shoes and
headed out the door. She liked jogging early on Sunday mornings
because everybody was still in bed. There wasn't much traffic, and
there weren't many people cluttering the sidewalks, getting in the
way, slowing her down. Come fall, Darby was going to be a high
school senior, and she hoped to do well enough in track to get at
least a partial sports scholarship. Her strength was distance
running, and today it was her plan to go twelve miles.

The course she'd mapped out took her through
several Chicago neighborhoods, shopping areas, a forest preserve,
and two parks. A half-mile from her home, she hit Crocus Hill Park,
one of her favorite areas. Pigeons fluttered out of her way, then
settled again on the wide sidewalk with clucks of mild complaint.
The air was thick with morning dew, and the sun was just beginning
to warm her skin. She was young. She was healthy. She had her whole
life ahead of her.

The sidewalk forked. She took the left path
leading to a stone bridge that spanned a small pond where people
gathered to feed the ducks. As she approached the bridge, her feet
slapped a steady rhythm that seemed to coincide with her breathing
and her heartbeat, a sound that put her in that slightly meditative
state it took for her to make it the whole twelve miles.

Without conscious thought, her gaze locked on
something in the distance. A splash of color against the more muted
shades of nature.

Slap, slap, slap.

Her brain registered printed fabric. A
discarded shirt? Dress? People could be such pigs.

As she drew nearer, she asked: A person?
Sleeping in the park? A homeless person?

In Chicago, you saw a lot of homeless people.
She'd learned not to look at them, not to make eye contact. Because
even though she pitied them, and wished something could be done so
they didn't have to live on the street, they also scared her. With
their bold stares and the weird things they said that made her feel
she should respond out of simple politeness. It was better not to
look.

Finally she was upon the brightly colored
fabric. Her legs slowed . . . and slowed . . . and slowed, until
she was walking. Until she stopped dead.

She put a hand to her mouth. "Oh my God."

She turned and ran, her feet pounding against
the sidewalk, her legs and arms and heart pumping madly. The park
was a blur. Streets flashed by, the colors streaked like images
caught in time lapse.

It seemed as though it took hours, but
finally she was home. She pulled open the door to her house, her
sanctuary, shouting for her mother, her voice wobbly and
choked.

In an instant, her mother appeared at the top
of the stairs wearing her sleep shirt with the pictures of stuffed
bears, her processed hair sticking out all over, her mouth hanging
open in fear. She and Darby had fought last night, arguing about
something stupid. That was forgotten.

"Mom," Darby managed to gasp, her chest
rising and falling. Her legs, legs that were used to running twelve
miles, could hardly support her. "You have to call the police."

Her mother floated toward her, one hand on
the railing, her mouth still open, her face a panic-filled question
of wanting to know and not wanting to know. "W-what's wrong? Are
you hurt? Did something happen?"

"Oh my God!" Darby burst into tears. "I think
I found a dead person!"

She had purple butterfly barrettes in her
hair.

That was what Ivy focused on. The butterfly
barrettes, catching and reflecting the morning sunlight. All of the
murders were horrendous acts of grotesque brutality, but why did it
seem so much worse when they were staged in such an idyllic
setting? The previous, more recent murders hadn't taken place in
such a public place. More unusual was the fact that this baby was
close to a year old.

The mother was beginning to draw flies.

Not houseflies. These were the heavy-bodied
flies that laid eggs in dead things. Bloat flies. Maggots. One of
the flies crawled across the victim's cheek, to the corner of one
bulging eye, and stayed there awhile. . For the fly, the body was
simply a meal, simply a place to lay eggs that would turn into
larvae, that would also feed until there was nothing left but
fabric and bone, perhaps some hair. Perhaps some teeth. Everything
had a purpose.

Another fly settled in the dried blood near
the woman's nostril, then it took off and began to circle her
mouth, which was taped into a smile, her swollen tongue
protruding.

One arm was bent, a hand on her hip in that
"come hither" pose the Madonna Murderer liked so much. Making a
mockery of his victims. Her print dress had been cut almost
completely off, her blood-soaked bra pulled down around her waist.
Her panties were wrapped around one ankle, her spread knees bent,
her vagina exposed to anyone who dared to look in her direction.
Jammed deep inside her was the handle of a broken hockey stick.
Across her abdomen were the usual multitude of knife wounds.

The police had cordoned off the area. Five
squad cars were strategically placed, their lights flashing,
dispatch radios squawking. An ambulance was parked at an angle, on
a rolling incline, its back doors open while two attendants stood
holding a gurney, waiting for the coroner and crime technicians to
finish so they could bag the body and take it to the morgue.

Everybody had a purpose.

Outside the yellow crime-scene tape the press
was accumulating, shutters whirring and video cameras rolling. The
cover of tomorrow's Herald would most likely feature the body bag
being wheeled into the ambulance. The headline would be something
like,

MADONNA MURDERER CLAIMS TWO MORE VICTIMS. And
people would buy more weapons. They would put additional locks on
their doors, and check them several times throughout the night. If
they could afford it, they would have a security system
installed.

And they would quit going for walks. And they
would quit smiling and nodding at strangers. Because they would
know that behind one of those responding smiles, a killer
lurked.

People would talk about moving away, getting
out of Chicago. But then they would read about a random murder in
some small town of 350 people, and they would know that no place
was safe. And so they would have their continuously more withdrawn,
insulated lives, but they would not feel secure, not even in their
own homes. And if they went somewhere—to a movie, out to eat—they
would always be looking, always wondering. . . .

Max's mind must have been heading up the same
path, because he said, "Even if we catch this guy, there will be
another one out there. And another."

"You can't think about that," Ivy said.

He'd just finished taking Darby Nichols's
statement, and during the entire procedure, he'd been cold and
distant. When it was over, he'd handed her a card, saying, "There's
a number of a psychologist you can call if you need to talk to
anybody. It's free." He kind of smirked, mocking the fact that
Chicago had hired a full-time psychologist whose only job was to
deal with innocent people who'd come upon murder scenes.

Ivy had felt compelled to say something to
the poor girl and her mother, offer them some measure of comfort.
But what was there to say? In the end, she thanked them for their
statements and finished with, "I'm so sorry this had to
happen."

They stared at her with shocked faces,
nodding mutely, and Ivy felt so incredibly sorry for them, because
she knew they didn't yet know how this one incident would impact
the rest of their lives: At the moment, it was still something that
had happened that they needed to distance themselves from,
something they thought they could forget, or at least put behind
them. They didn't yet know that would never happen. They would
never be able to distance themselves, to forget or put it behind
them.

The baby had been found a few yards away,
under the shelter of the stone bridge, his body wrapped in a baby
blanket as blue as his face. On the blanket were pictures of
frolicking lambs. Little lamb. Little innocent lamb. Not a mark on
him. Next to him, on the ground, was the signature snow globe.

The technicians finished collecting site
evidence. The gurney was brought in, the bodies tucked into black
body bags. Soon there would be no sign of what had happened there.
Soon children would be running, laughing, screaming, down the hill
to the pond to feed the ducks.

Max was staring at the ambulance attendants,
watching as one of them carried the baby to the ambulance, no need
for a gurney.

"Let's go," Ivy said.

At first, he didn't seem to hear her. He just
kept staring in the direction they'd taken the baby.

"Max?"

He seemed to come out of it, shaking off a
trance. "Yeah, let's get the hell out of here."

It wasn't that simple. As soon as they
reached the security tape, the press attacked. Cameras clicked.
Microphones were jammed in his face. Fifteen questions were thrown
at him at once, over and over.

"Who are the victims?"

"Was it the Madonna Murderer?"

"What are you doing to protect the citizens
of Chicago?"

"What leads do you have?"

"Is the FBI involved?"

"If not, why not? Shouldn't they be?"

Without saying a word, Max pushed past them,
parting the sea of people, Ivy following as the wave closed in
behind her.

"A press release will be issued later today,"
Ivy said.

Five microphones were immediately shoved in
her face. "Who are you, and what is your official involvement in
this case?"

Chaos. Everybody was speaking at once. Ivy
repeated her statement, then jumped in Max's car. He was already
behind the wheel.

"You shouldn't have said anything," Max said,
honking his horn as he slowly pulled away. Cameras were still
clicking.

"Somebody had to say something. Of course, it
should have been you rather than me. . . . That will make nice
front-page fodder. You and I fleeing the scene."

"They know they're supposed to wait for a
press conference or press release. Is nothing sacred? Jesus.
They're like a bunch of tabloid paparazzi."

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know." He wrenched the steering
wheel to the right. "What does a nervous breakdown feel like?"

"Maybe you should see somebody, talk to
somebody."

"I'll be fine just as soon as we catch this
son of a bitch."

The weight of the case was on his shoulders.
He had the task force, he had the FBI, but he was in charge; he
made the decisions.

"We're moving too slowly," he said.

"We have to move slowly, otherwise we might
miss something."