Not a Sound Page 6

  I have so many regrets. If only I hadn’t taken that first drink to deaden the pain of being plunged into sudden silence. Which sounds so selfish now. It wasn’t just losing my hearing, it was the loneliness that came with it, the sense of always being separate, apart from everyone I loved. What I wouldn’t give to go back in time and make different choices.

  Once the movie credits start, Stitch moves to the door and looks at me expectantly. My cue that he needs to go outside. I go through the whole rigmarole of opening the curtains, removing the wooden stick and sliding open the glass door. Stitch dashes outside and spends an inordinately long time doing his business. The air is heavy with the scent of oncoming rain. Rainstorms in the fall have a scent that is uniquely their own. A fetid, moldy, earthen smell. As if their sole purpose is to urge the remaining flora and fauna that it’s time to rest, covering them in a soggy blanket and tamping them down close to the earth, which is ready to claim them for the winter.

  I consider staying up to watch the ten o’clock news and see if they actually air my 9-1-1 call, but I really don’t want to see my frantic words emblazoned across the screen. I turn off the television and toss a few more pieces of wood into the stove before I call Stitch back in. Despite my long nap and even though it’s only a little bit after eight, I’m exhausted. I switch off the main floor lights, and Stitch and I head upstairs. I slip under the covers and Stitch takes his usual spot at the foot of the bed.

  As conflicted as I am about how I feel about David, I miss turning over at night and finding his solid, comforting form right next to me. When David and Nora came into my life, I was the one who willingly, without question, opened my arms to them when they were at their lowest point. I was more of a mom to Nora in the last six years than her biological mother ever was and though legally David doesn’t have to, he still lets me see her. Supervised of course. I miss, no matter how late we’d get home from the hospital, how David and I always made sure to kiss the other good-night and say I love you. Our little ritual.

  I try to shake away the past. It does no good to mourn what was. All I have is the here and now, no matter how meager. But in the here and now, I hate nighttime. The absence of sound combined with the absence of light is terrifying. Now, just like I do every night before I go to sleep, I make sure my flashlight is in my bedside table drawer where it should be and I make sure my cell phone is fully charged and within hand’s reach. My little ritual. Only now, with lights blazing and Stitch nearby am I able to close my eyes and rest.

  5

  I wake to Stitch’s paw raking down my back. I roll over to my side. My bedside lamp is still burning and the clock reads twelve thirty. The sliver of black sky that I see between a gap in the blinds lets me know it’s still the middle of the night. I squint up at Stitch who, for good measure, paws at me one more time, leaps from the bed and waits for me in the doorway.

  Based on Stitch’s training, I’m pretty confident that one of four things could have caused him to rouse me from a dead sleep: the phone is ringing, someone is at the door, the house is on fire or Stitch really has to go to the bathroom. I rarely get visitors or phone calls during the day, let alone at night, and I don’t smell smoke, so I’m guessing that Stitch needs to go outside.

  I groan and blearily follow Stitch down the steps, turning on lights as I go. Stitch makes a beeline for the sliding glass door and takes a seat. This small action causes me to freeze in place.

  Communication between a person and their service dog is built on the ability to interpret the thousands of different nuances in each other’s movements. If Stitch needed to go outside he would have simply stood by the door. When he sits I know that someone is standing on the other side.

  My pulse quickens. Who would be knocking at twelve thirty in the middle of the night? Maybe it’s Jake and he has some news about Gwen’s murder or maybe someone is here to tell me that something bad has happened to Nora or my brother or dad. My stomach clenches at the thought, and then I notice the way the hair on Stitch’s scruff is standing at attention and that he is warily eyeing the slight sway of the drapes moving back and forth.

  In his excitement has Stitch bumped the curtains, causing the movement? My eyes slide to where the broomstick stands in the corner where I left it earlier. I must have forgotten to return it to the metal track when I was getting ready for bed.

  Stitch’s jaws are opening and closing wildly. Something is out there. Or someone. Cautiously, I push aside the drapes and peek out into the darkened yard. I can’t see a thing. I unlock the door and slowly slide it open. Stitch wriggles through the small gap and dashes out into the rainy night.

  “Stitch,” I call. “Ke mne!” He doesn’t comply. “Ke mne!” I yell again. I’m torn. I should go after him but the night is all encompassing and it’s so dark that the weak light from above the door only spills a few feet into the yard, but I’d feel a hell of a lot safer if Stitch was back inside the house with me.

  I step outside. The concrete steps are rough and cold beneath my feet. A soft mist dampens my skin. “Stitch,” I call into the blackness. I have no idea which direction he’s run off to and if I’m going to go find him I’m going to need to get dressed and put some shoes on.

  I go back inside and set the wooden stick into its place. How could I have forgotten to do this before I went to bed? I’m disgusted with myself. I press my face against the glass and strain my eyes for any sign of Stitch. Nothing. I should call the police, but the thought of my home being overrun by officers probing and prying makes my stomach roil. A woman was murdered, a small voice in my head chastises me—as if I could forget. What if the killer figured out that I was the one to find Gwen? What if he thinks that I know more than I do? What if he saw the news report of my call to 9-1-1 and figured out who I was? Again, how many deaf women live along Five Mines? It wouldn’t take much for someone to figure out it was me. What if he crept through my yard and was going to try to break in and Stitch scared him off?

  Keeping my eye on the door, I move slowly backward toward the telephone. I don’t want to turn around to pick up the phone and dial but I have to be able to see the display in order to communicate. Reluctantly, I turn and with shaking hands dial. It seems to take forever but finally a string of letters appears across the telephone display. “Dtrenkltve Shrader, this butter begud.”

  My transcribing service is pretty reliable, but not even the best could easily translate the mumblings of a man wakened from a dead sleep. “Jake, it’s Amelia,” I say. “I think someone tried to break into my house.”

  My words startle Jake fully awake and the display is easy to read. “Jesus, Amelia. Are you okay? Did you call 9-1-1?”

  “I’m fine. And no, I called you first. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. It’s probably nothing.”

  “You should have called, they’d probably be at your house by now,” he says, and though I can’t actually hear him I imagine he’s more than a little irritated.

  “I thought maybe you could come over? Not make a big deal out of it. It’s probably nothing.”

  “You found a woman’s body, there’s nothing crazy about being freaked out about it. I’ll be right there, but I’m going to call a car to meet me at your house. So don’t be surprised when a squad car shows up. You got your doors locked?”

  “Stitch got out and ran after something and hasn’t come back yet. But the doors are locked now,” I say, knowing that sooner or later I am going to have to tell him how I had forgotten to properly secure the door. “See you soon. And thanks, Jake.”

  “No problem, Earhart. You sure know how to keep things interesting around here. And don’t even think about going out and looking for Stitch. Stay in the house.”

  I hang up, go to the laundry room and slip on my neoprene shoes, then go back to the glass door. Still no Stitch. Jake’s order to stay in the house echoes in my head and I decide to go upstair
s to my bedroom, open a window and holler for him from the safety of the second floor. Unless the possible intruder is some evil comic book villain, I don’t think he would scale the roof to get to me.

  I hurry up the stairs, unlatch and open the window that overlooks my front yard. Cold air instantly fills the room and a wet, loamy smell fills my nose. The higher vantage point doesn’t help. If anything the horizon seems blacker, as if the earth and sky have become one.

  “Stitch,” I call, somewhat hesitantly at first as if I’m afraid to wake someone. But Evan Okada is my only neighbor for miles and frankly, I don’t give a damn if I wake him up. “Ke mne,” I shout so loudly this time that I feel the words vibrating in my throat. “Pojd sem!” Go inside. I search the yard, hoping for a glimpse of Stitch’s silvery coat. Nothing.

  But in the distance, atop the bluff, a light appears in a second-floor window of Evan’s house. I keep shouting and another light pops on, this one in a downstairs room. I’m hoping that I will cause such a ruckus that Evan will turn on his floodlights. The more light the better.

  “Stitch, here! Ke mne!” I yell over and over until at last the outdoor security lights illuminate Evan’s yard and the naked trees stripped bare of leaves from the wind and rain. There’s still no sign of Stitch, which means he’s either out of hearing range or purposely ignoring me. Though he’s been trained to stick to my side, to follow my commands, he is still a bit flighty and stubborn. During our training, I asked Vilem how long it normally takes for him to work with a client and their new service dog. He hesitated and because I couldn’t understand what he was saying through his thick Slovakian accent, he wrote it down. “Usually placement training is three to five days.” I looked over at Stitch who was stalking a cottontail placidly chewing on clover. We were on day seventeen. “Don’t worry,” Vilem wrote in his spidery scrawl, “you two were made for each other.”

  Right now I’m not so sure about that.

  My house is about a twenty-five minute drive from Mathias and it feels like an eternity for the police car to arrive. Futilely, I keep calling out and scanning the bluff for Stitch. The soft rain has turned into a drizzle, lightly splashing through the window screen and dampening my cheeks.

  From the direction of the woods I see a light slowly bobbing through the tree trunks. A flashlight. I first think that it must be Evan Okada coming down the bluff to see what all my yelling is about but I quickly discard that idea when his floodlights are extinguished. My stomach drops. Evan must have realized the sounds he heard are just from his crazy next-door neighbor and decided to go back to bed. I fight the urge to holler again in hopes that he’ll come back outside.

  The light is coming closer and closer. It has to be someone else. The murderer? Did whoever kill Gwen think I saw more than I actually did? Fear pounds a steady beat in my temple. I’m just about to yell out the window that the police are coming, that they will be here any second but stop myself. I don’t want him disappearing into the woods. I want the police to catch this guy.

  I settle on calling Jake again, but before I can go back down the stairs, cherry-colored flashing lights announce the arrival of the police cruiser. My eyes swing to the ever brightening cone of light from the flashlight now at the border of the woods. I can see the shadowy figure of the person holding the light but I can’t tell if the owner is male or female, young or old. The light goes still and then disappears.

  The police car pulls up to the house and idles. Could the person in the woods be getting ready to ambush the officers? More likely than not, the arrival of the police scared him off and that’s when I realize that whoever is there can see me too. I’m standing in my bedroom window with my lights blazing. I step away from the window and switch off the light.

  By the time I get downstairs the officers are at my door, shoulders hunched, rapping on the glass window. The officer knocking on the door is tall and slim. His department-issued jacket stretched tight against his shoulders has the name Bennett embroidered in the fabric. His partner, with a jacket that says Cole, is two heads shorter and a hundred pounds lighter. They are both wearing waterproof jackets and hats to shield them from the rain. Both have a bored, “we got called out to the middle of nowhere for nothing” look on their faces. I remove the wooden pole from the track, unlock the door and slide it open.

  “My dog started barking. Took off after someone,” I explain. “He’s still out there,” I say, pointing in the direction of where I last saw the beam from the flashlight. “He has a flashlight and when he saw you, he turned it off.” The officers turn away from me and look to the woods. “I’m the one who found the woman in the river,” I say, and Cole’s face shifts as if keen interest takes over. Bennett, if possible, looks even more skeptical. His lips slide into a dismissive smirk. I’m sure he’s telling his partner that I’m just overreacting, jumping at every little sound. Cole shakes her head and gestures excitedly toward the trees. Because they aren’t directly facing me I really have no idea what they are saying but I’m guessing she’s telling Bennett that this might be their chance to nab a murderer. I wish Jake would get here.

  “Please,” I say, “I can’t hear you. You have to look at me when you talk.”

  Cole turns back to face me. “Stay here, ma’am. Lock your door. We’re going to check things out.” I watch as they walk to their cruiser where Cole reports something over the radio and Bennett grabs a high-powered flashlight before they head off toward the woods. Soon they have melted into the trees and are completely out of sight. I slide the door shut. Instead of laying down the wooden rod, I hold on to it while I wait for Jake to arrive. I figure I can always use it as a weapon if I have to.

  I try to call Jake again but there is no answer. I pace the floor, pausing periodically to look out the window to see if Stitch has returned. It’s pouring now and I can’t help but think of Stitch outside in the wet and cold. Even at his most mischievous, he’s never been away from me this long.

  Finally, the glow of headlights appears and an SUV pulls up next to the police car. Jake has arrived and he’s brought along Rookie. If I didn’t already know Rookie pretty well I’d be scared shitless. He’s a beast with sharp eyes and even sharper teeth. I slide open the door, and Jake and Rookie step inside, drenched from the short trip from the car.

  “You okay?” he asks me again for the second time in just a few hours.

  I nod. “Hold on,” I say and go to the laundry room where I grab two towels from the dryer. When I return I hand Jake the towels and he rubs his head dry. “Where’re Cole and Bennett?” he asks, then bends down to wipe the mud from Rookie’s paws.

  “I saw someone in the woods with a flashlight. They went after him.”

  Jake shakes his head. “They shouldn’t have left you here all by yourself. They should have waited until I got here.” A muscle twitches in Jake’s jaw and I know he’s angry. The two officers are in for an earful when they return. I almost feel sorry for them. Jake looks around the room. “Did Stitch come back yet?”

  “No, he’s still out there,” I say and another wave of worry washes over me.

  “You opened the door?” Jake signs. Rookie lifts his head, suddenly alert, his amber eyes wary.

  We both glance at the broomstick I’m still holding. To his credit, Jake doesn’t say anything. The last thing I need is a lecture.

  “Did Bennett and Cole check the house?” Jake asks.

  “No one got in.” I shake my head. “Stitch just heard or saw something outside.”

  “Jesus,” he says. He begins to move through the cabin, checking each room, looking for any sign of an intruder. He flings aside drapes, looks in closets and behind the shower curtain. I follow him up the steps and into my bedroom.

  He gets down on his hands and knees and checks beneath my bed. When he’s sure no one is lying in wait, he gets up and sits on the edge of the mattress and looks at me grimly. It’s stran
ge having him in the room where I’m at my most vulnerable. The one place I seem to be able to rest. He’s never been in this room before. Not since we were kids anyway. And then we were young and innocent and the only thing Jake was interested in was getting out on the river to fish.

  “I’m calling for more backup,” he says when we reach the bottom of the steps. As he digs into his pocket for his cell phone, I grab his arm. Three figures stand outside my door. Flanked on either side by Officers Cole and Bennett is my neighbor Evan Okada. All three are soaking wet and covered with mud. Evan’s hands are cuffed behind his back, there’s a deep cut above his eyebrow and his right eye is nearly swollen shut. It didn’t appear that my neighbor surrendered willingly.

  Through the glass door, Cole says something. I look to Jake to translate for me. “She wants to know if this is the intruder.”

  “I never saw anyone,” I explain. “But this is Evan Okada, my neighbor. He’s the one who lent you his four-wheelers today. Why would he try and break into my house?”

  “I’m going to open the door,” Jake signs. “He’s cuffed, so you don’t have anything to be scared of.”

  Of all the emotions that could be scrambling through my brain right now, fear isn’t one of them. Confusion is at the top of my list.

  “Go ahead,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest, conscious of the fact I’m not wearing a bra. Jake slides the door open and an arctic blast of air rushes in. If anyone is looking scared at the moment it’s Evan Okada. His black hair is plastered to his head and his uninjured eye is wide with alarm. Water intermingled with blood is running down his face in pink rivulets. He looks at me pleadingly and begins to speak, his mouth moving so rapidly that I have no idea what he’s saying. Bennett elbows him in the ribs, and Evan’s mouth shuts into a tight grimace. Cole begins to speak and I turn to Jake, who does his best to translate for me.

  “They found him at the edge of the woods over there moving away from your house. He didn’t stop when they ordered him to so they grabbed him.”