A red tainted Silence (82 page)

nails that looked bitten to the quick.

What do you know that makes you so scared, Heather?

The door opened, and two men went in. She looked up, paling visibly. But the two men didn’t say anything, just stood to the side, arms folded, and looked at her. She returned to A Red-Tainted Silence

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picking at her nails, then wrapped her arms around herself, closing her eyes, opening them quickly again.

“All right, show time,” Detective Anderson said, and left us.

He entered the room where Heather sat. She looked up, and I could see that this time she knew this guy was here for a reason. Then the interrogation began. I watched, mesmerized, as Detective Anderson sat opposite Heather and began to ask her questions, gently at first, giving her time to answer. Patient, like he was just a friend asking questions.

He had a tape recorder, which he advised her would be used to tape their conversation and did she have any questions? She shook her head. He told her to answer clearly so the tape could pick it up.

“What’s your name?”

“Heather Garvey.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-six.”

“You have waived the right to have an attorney present, is that correct --”

“I thought you were just asking me questions?”

“That’s right. I’m just asking you questions. Are you ready to continue?”

“I guess. Yeah.”

I blinked. “That’s her,” I said to Jeff.

“You recognize her voice?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” Hell yes, that was her all right. Thin, reedy voice, edge of anger, edge of fear. Just like that day.

The questions flew, her answers clipped, short. Her voice shaking. Then the hard questions came. How long had she known Jack Scampenou? I flinched. Had they told me his name before? I couldn’t remember, honestly. How they’d met, when he’d told her about his new job, what he’d told her about it ...

“Did he tell you right before he took you up there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he tell you who hired him?

“No.”

“Did he tell you a name?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you how much he was getting paid?”

“No.”

“Do you know why he did it?”

“I don’t know.”

486

Carolyn Gray

“You were his girlfriend; I’d think you’d know.”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Did you know it was Nicholas Kilmain that he’d kidnapped?”

“No.”

“Then why did you have these in your apartment?” He threw a handful of pictures on the table. Pictures of me. I gasped. Jeff steadied me --

I hadn’t even realized my knees were buckling. He stood in back of me, his hands on my shoulders. He’s quite a bit bigger than me, his presence solid. Reassuring. I stared at the girl, feeling sicker and sicker, fighting against my natural reaction -- compassion.

But I would not feel compassion for this girl. Not when she’d had the power to save me, weeks before Brandon found me.

“I’ve never seen these.”

“These were under your mattress.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“These were under your mattress.”

“No, I didn’t put them there.”

“Do you know who Nicholas Kilmain is?”

“No. Yes, I mean --”

“You don’t know who he is or you do?”

“I -- I don’t --”

“You watch the news?”

“Yes.”

“Listen to the radio?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you know who Nicholas Kilmain is.”

Jeff squeezed my shoulders at that. I looked up at him before fixing my gaze on the girl.

“No,” she whispered.

“You had his most recent CD in your stereo.” I tensed at that.

“No.”

“You had a copy of it in your car.”

“Fuck,” I breathed.

“Yeah,” Jeff said.

She shook her head. “No, I don’t, I didn’t --”

“You have a son, Heather?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

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“How old is he?”

“Two.”

“When you saw Mr. Kilmain in the crate, you knew who he was.”

“Yes. I mean, no, I didn’t know --”

“You saw Mr. Kilmain in the crate, knew he was hurt, naked, freezing, that people were looking for him. You told Scampenou that he should get a blanket for Mr. Kilmain.”

“No.”

“You told Mr. Kilmain to shut up, you wouldn’t help him.”

“No, no, no,” she said, dropping her head into her hands. Detective Anderson waved at me.

“Come on,” Jeff said. “You ready?”

“Fuck no,” I whispered, but went with Jeff anyway.

He opened the door and held it for me. When I walked in, Heather looked up, saw me, and gasped. I did as Detective Anderson had told me, stood by the side, the other cops in there hovering protectively next to me. Like this girl could hurt me anymore. Yes, she could.

Detective Anderson didn’t even acknowledge me.

“You have a lot of cash in your apartment. Where’d the money come from?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have over a hundred fifty thousand dollars in your dresser, and you don’t know where it came from?”

“No,” she whispered. “I didn’t, I don’t --”

She avoided my gaze. I watched as the questions continued. Relentless. Hard. One after the other. She shook, started to cry, and then Detective Anderson asked, “Do you know this man, Heather?”

She looked at me, her eyes wide with fright. “No.”

“I think you do.”

“No, no, no ...”

“When did you see him last, Heather? Think about this, Heather. I can help you, but I can’t until you tell me. Do you know this man?”

She nodded. He pointed at the tape recorder. “Yes.”

“Who is he?”

“The man in the crate.”

“What is his name?”

“N-Nicholas Kilmain.”

“Who put him there, Heather?”

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Carolyn Gray

“I don’t know.”

“Are you frightened, Heather?”

“Yes. Oh, God, yes.”

“Have you been threatened to keep quiet, Heather? Been bribed? Is that why that money was in your apartment?”

“He’ll kill him,” she whispered.

Detective Anderson leaned closer to her. Put his hand on her arm. “Kill who?”

“My son! Dammit, he said he’d kill my son if I told! I can’t! I can’t, don’t you understand? I’m sorry!” She stood and whirled on me -- Jeff stepped between us, but it was as if she didn’t see him. “You don’t understand. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, seeing you like that, what he did to you. Jack’s dead, but the -- He said he’d kill my son. That I had to take the money and that would be it. And don’t you understand, I can’t let him hurt my baby; he’ll hurt my baby. Joshua is all I have, don’t you see?” She sat down and started to sob, covering her face with her hands. Detective Anderson motioned to one of the cops. I heard “son, get him” and “daycare.” The cop nodded and left.

I couldn’t take any more of this. Despite myself, the compassion came -- protecting her son, that’s what she was doing.

But I warred with myself. She knew who it was. She knew who had raped Brandon, and she wouldn’t tell. I wanted to leap across that table and shake her, demand she tell me, force her to give up the name of the bastard who had ruined Brandon’s life, possibly forever.

But she was protecting her son, and I knew she wouldn’t tell.

“Get me out of here,” I whispered. Detective Anderson nodded. Jeff took me out into the hallway and closed the door. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. “Oh, my God.”

“They’ll get her son here safe, and then she might talk, Nicholas.”

“He’s still out there. Whoever did this to Brandon. Whoever planned this, plotted this, spent fucking years on this! He’s out there right now. Blowing up my friends, hurting Brandon.” I couldn’t go on. I Covered my face. As Heather had done. “What am I going to do?”

“We need to get back to the others. The tape --” I dropped my hands. Sniffed. Steeled myself. “I know. The tape.” I took a deep breath and headed down the hallway, Jeff following behind me.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” I said.

I sat between Jon and Lee and watched Jon’s brother and Lee’s friend and the love of my life being raped.

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I’ve always loved movies, have always been a firm believer that you should see a movie twice at the very least (unless it was really, really crap), to fully take in all that’s on the screen. First time, the excitement and anticipation draws your attention to the most vivid parts of what is before you. Your focus is sharp and keen and fixated on those things that the director wants you to notice first.

The second time, however, you start to notice little things, maybe even start to notice the mistakes that creep in, despite the director’s care. Like all those things in The Two Towers -- Lee and I had a great time finding all the mistakes. Of course, PJ put a bunch of silly stuff in on purpose; that was part of the fun.

But this was no fun. Seeing this tape again, the second time, just like with movies I did begin to notice little things. The terror in Brandon’s eyes. The tears. How each time he came in to be raped again, he got into position more and more quickly.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck,” Jon kept saying, over and over again. “Brandon, oh, my God. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you? Why didn’t I ask you? Why?” Tears streamed down Jon’s face, and I felt his pain, knew it well as he berated himself for not being there for his little brother. Not there to protect him, like a big brother should.

Lee stayed silent -- only the pressure on my hand spoke of his reaction.

I watched, numb, able to study the film a little more easily this time. I guess I’d cried all the tears I could cry. So I watched Brandon’s face, trying to understand what he could’ve been feeling at the moment Seth Green brutally forced himself into him.

At first I’d thought it was fear. But now, this second time, I knew it was because he’d shut down -- the minute he’d entered the room, Brandon had become not himself. Closed in.

Hidden. This was why he didn’t remember -- he’d shut it all deep inside him, the only way to cope. The tears were gone, the fear. His gaze was vacant, as if he wasn’t there, enduring what he was being forced to endure for me.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck,” Jon said again.

And then we reached the part where Brandon had walked in while Katie, horrified, stood frozen before the screen, watching as her boss was terrorized by not one man, but two.

The third man watching.

“This is when Katie said Brandon came into the bedroom,” I said as the second man passed in front of the camera, took off his clothes, and he and the first man jacked around with each other, getting hard, getting ready --

And then the blue-jeaned man pulled the first away, and the second man raped Brandon while the blue-jeaned man brushed his hair back from his blindfolded face. And I remembered my thoughts of before ...

Brandon jerked, spreading his hands in surprise -- as if he knew something was different. But he held his position. His attacker dug his fingers into Brandon’s hips, finished, 490

Carolyn Gray

then pulled out, and the blue-jeaned man slapped Brandon, hard, across the back. He collapsed onto his stomach, writhing in agony --

“Rewind it!” Jon cried out, getting to his feet.

“Jon?” I asked, getting to my feet, too, my scar screaming at the sudden movement. I ignored it.

“Rewind it!”

Detective Anderson did so. “How far --”

“There!” Jon said, walking up to the TV. “Stop!” The camera was focused on the second man as he raped Brandon, his motion hideously frozen for us to examine.

“What is it, Mr. Ashwood?” Detective Anderson said.

But Jon shook his head. “No. No, oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God --”

“Jon!” I said, grabbing him by the arm. “What is it? Who is it? Tell me, please!” I was freaked now, angry, frightened. And scared. So fucking scared. He knows!

“It’s ... it’s ... the one in the blue jeans ...” He turned to me, the horror in his eyes vivid, tangible, frightening. He reached out to the TV screen and pointed to a mark on the man’s backside, just above his waistband. Then he said one word that chilled me like nothing I’d seen or experienced before in my life.

“Adam.”

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“Good morning, Mr. Ashwood,” the nurse said as she set down my breakfast tray.

Morning? Didn’t seem like it. Cold, so cold, blankets weighing me down. I couldn’t move, didn’t want to. Safe ... no, not safe. I never felt safe anymore. Why?

“So dark outside,” I said as I turned my face to the window.

“It’s snowing,” Adam said.

He sat in the chair, cleaning his nails with his pocketknife. A habit that had always annoyed our mom.

“How long?”

“About an hour or so. Expected to reach two to three feet.” He grinned at me. “I may go skiing this afternoon if it lets up. Nothing like fresh powder. You’ll have to join me once you’re well. Remember Sweden that time I went with you guys? How Nicholas got stuck in the snow and it took three of us to dig him out?” I smiled briefly at the memories, which did mostly consist of Nicholas floundering around in the snow. He just never was that coordinated, though sometimes I wondered if said floundering wasn’t designed to get my attention. To make me help him -- touch him --

because by then we’d stopped sleeping together. Stopped touching. Stopped loving.

I closed my eyes. So tired, and it hurt, remembering. So much pain, so much sorrow. So much regret.

“Yeah,” I said. “Is that why Nick’s late? Because of the snow?”

“It’s only ten-thirty now. He’s not that late.”

“Will you call and see if he’s left the house? Maybe he should just stay home today.” 492

Carolyn Gray

Though I knew he wouldn’t. And I didn’t want him to. I wanted to see him. I didn’t feel so good. So tired, my head filled with weird, chaotic thoughts. I knew they’d given me more drugs this morning. Drugs to make me sleep. To make me not think. Not let me think.

Why?

“Sure. I’ll call.”

Why was I so tired? I could barely keep my eyes open. Could barely lift my hand. I just wanted to sleep. Maybe when I woke up, he would be here ...