Hush (38 page)

Maybe Ethan would meet new people, people who
were a few years older, who had more life experience. But even
then, no matter what they'd gone through— loss of a parent, loss of
a sibling—they wouldn't be able to understand the darkness and fear
that came upon Ethan at odd times.

"The tire tracks at the murder scene of Alex
Martin matched the tire tread on Ruby's car. Or rather, his
mother's car."

She nodded, not surprised.

"He canned her."

"What?"

"Part of her, anyway. There were thirty jars
of spaghetti sauce in the basement. DNA in some of the sauce
matched the mother's. A meat grinder was also found to contain her
DNA."

"Oh, Christ. I could have done without
knowing that. I'll never be able to eat spaghetti again."

"Sorry. Thought you might find it
interesting.

Here's another bit of information. In his
high school yearbook, Ruby said that he hoped somebody wrote a book
about him and hoped that book was made into a movie. Unfortunately,
that will probably happen."

He got up from the chair and walked over to
the window. He looked out for a moment, then turned back to Ivy.
"I'm sorry I blamed you the other day. If you hadn't come up with
the letter idea, the Madonna Murderer would still be out
there."

A man who could say he was sorry. He had her
attention. But Ivy believed in taking responsibility for her own
actions. "You had every right to blame me. The letter drove Ruby
over the edge. It got Alex Martin killed and Ethan kidnapped."

"There was no way we could have predicted the
outcome. And we had to do something."

"I became too confident," she said
truthfully. "We should have approached with more caution."

"Ruby may have come after Ethan anyway,
eventually. The hockey stick proves he'd been following him for a
long time. He wanted you both. Our knowledge of the tattoo was the
first piece of the puzzle for him, leading him to the possibility
that Claudia Reynolds, the only person who could link the tattoo to
the Madonna Murderer, was still alive. At that same time, he was
trying to find out who Ivy Dunlap was, and what she was doing here.
We found a well-thumbed copy of your book, Symbolic Death, at his
house. One theory is that he figured out that you and Claudia
Reynolds were the same person. Then he saw you with Ethan that
night at the hockey game. Because of the similarity of your
features, he drew the same conclusion others who saw you together
did. He thought you were Ethan's mother. And he thought if your
death had been faked, then so had your baby's. Another theory is
that he wanted to harm Ethan simply because he is my son."

She nodded. "It would have been a thrill for
him to know you were called to the crime scene to find your own
son's body."

"He may have even wanted me to be the one to
track them to your old apartment."

"What did you find out about the sixteen
years of no murders?"

"Shortly after you were attacked, he checked
himself into a state mental hospital where he was evaluated as
paranoid schizophrenic with obsessive-compulsive tendencies. He was
put on heavy medication, stayed there several years until the
mental hospital did some house- cleaning and ejected over a hundred
patients. In all that time, he'd never been diagnosed as dangerous.
I'll see that you get a copy of his file. It seems his favorite
pastime was sculpting figures out of chewed-up bread. Most of the
figures were of the Madonna and Child."

"And nobody picked up on that?"

"Apparently not. As a child, he suffered
severe abuse at the hands of his mother."

"Which will most likely spark a fresh debate
on whether or not people are simply born bad or shaped by outside
influences."

"If he'd been taken out of that environment
when he was an infant, would he have gone on to murder?"

"It's media attention like this that
stigmatizes mental patients," she said with feeling. "The
schizophrenia didn't make him kill. That, combined with an abusive
childhood, created a lethal cocktail."

"As you can probably guess, he quit taking
his medication several months ago."

"Wasn't anyone monitoring him?"

"He was under psychiatric care, but he was
able to convince his doctor that he was doing remarkably well and
still taking his medication."

"I'm sure he could be quite persuasive," she
said. "What about Regina?"

"No change. The doctors said if she hasn't
regained consciousness by now, she probably won't."

"They don't know who they're dealing
with."

He agreed. "I chose her for the task force
because I liked her tough, straightforward attitude. By the way,
your cat's fine," he said, examining a scratch on the back of his
hand. "He hates me, but he's fine."

"It's not you. Jinx doesn't like anybody.
He's really half-wild, poor guy."

"I heard a rumor that you're leaving the
hospital soon."

"They're releasing me day after
tomorrow."

"Can I give you a ride to your
apartment?"

"That would be nice."

Once she got there, once she'd given Jinx all
the attention he could stand, she would open the box she hadn't
been able to open for sixteen years. Inside she'd find a tiny white
gown. It had been an extravagance, something she couldn't afford,
but she'd bought it anyway. Recalling its softness, she imagined
raising it to her cheek. It would smell like the attic of her
house, but maybe, just maybe, the brushed cotton would still hold
the faint scent of a baby. Her baby.

"I know Abraham's been to see you. I know he
asked you to join Homicide. Have you come to any kind of
decision?"

"Not yet."

She thought about her future. For sixteen
years, she'd lived for one thing and one thing only, and now her
life seemed superfluous.

What would she do?

Take care of Jinx.

And every day she would go over questions
that had haunted man since the beginning of time. What am I doing
here? Who am I? What's my purpose?

Those deeper, more reflective questions often
came with middle age, but with Ivy it was more than that. "I know
this seems weird, but now that Ruby is gone, now that he's dead, I
feel ... I don't know, empty. I used to be able to see into my
future, but now I look and there's nothing there."

"That's understandable. He occupied a big
space in your head for a long time. You'll have to find something
else to fill that with."

"I don't know if moving here is the answer.
If I move, there will be no going back. If I move, I'll have to
sell my house in St. Sebastian, a house that's been a refuge for
me." Could she and Jinx live where there were no fields piled high
with round stones shaped by glaciers?

"Maybe you'll find a new refuge."

It was strange, but in her mind, she'd
already given up her world where the only death she saw was an
occasional dead mouse or baby bunny that Jinx had caught. "It's
safe in St. Sebastian."

But it was also a world that had never seemed
quite real. Because of the secret she carried, she'd never been
able to open up to people, never been able to move beyond a certain
level of intimacy. But how could she leave the security of St.
Sebastian to embrace a world of murder and chaos?

What about her research?

Maybe she could continue with it in Chicago.
In Chicago, she could visit her baby's grave, because she was ready
to do that now.

"What about you?" she asked. "I heard you
decided to stay in Homicide."

"We can't go back," he said quietly. "None of
us can go back."

He'd been faced with the same decision she
was facing, and had chosen the harsh reality of Homicide. And while
such a world hadn't broken him, it had left him scarred. Left his
son scarred.

He was silent. She knew he was thinking about
what was ahead for her. "I won't beg you to stay," he said. "You're
the only one who can make that decision, but Abraham was right when
he said that you can't close the door on this kind of thing and
expect it to remain closed. I really wish you could go back to
Canada and forget all of this happened. But you know it won't be
like that. And personally, I hate to think of you so far away."

"It's not that far. Two hours by plane."

"It wouldn't be the same."

"What are you trying to say?"

She could tell by his expression that he was
struggling over how much of himself to reveal. "I'm saying I'll
miss you," he admitted. "But I want what's best for you, not for
me."

He was her friend, she realized, and she'd
needed such a friend for a long time. "I know," she said softly.
There were only two people in the world who knew her and understood
her: Max and Abraham.

He moved away from the window. "I've got to
be going soon. Don't want to leave Ethan alone too long."

"Tell him I said thanks for the roses.
They're beautiful."

"He'd like to see you, like to talk to you,
but not right now. It's all too fresh. He cries a lot, and he has
no control over it. I think he's embarrassed about that."

"It's good that he's showing emotion."

"That's what I told him. Cry like hell if you
want to."

"If he ever needs to talk, I'm available—day
or night. Please tell him that."

"I will."

He picked up her uninjured hand, cupping it
between both of his as if it were a fragile bird. "You saved my
son's life. Take comfort in that."

She knew they were both thinking of a son she
hadn't been able to save. And even though her loss had been so long
ago, the horrific experience in her old apartment had finally
brought her memories to the forefront. "The mind is such an amazing
universe," she said, feeling something lift from her heart—a
heaviness. Saving Ethan had absolved her of the guilt she'd carried
with her for so long.

A nurse appeared from around the corner.
"There you are. We've been looking for you. Time for your meds."
She extended a paper cup containing a codeine tablet that Ivy
swallowed with gratitude. Her hand was beginning to throb. The
doctors had been able to reconnect nerves and tendons, but she
would probably never regain total mobility. And in a few years,
they'd warned, arthritis would likely set in.

The nurse wheeled Ivy back to her room and
helped her get settled in bed.

"Is the pain bad?" Max asked when the nurse
had left.

Ivy opened her eyes. "Sometimes it hurts like
hell," she admitted. "But I'll be okay. It'll just take some
time."

"You're an incredibly strong person, Ivy
Dunlap."

She smiled, grateful not only for the
compliment, but because he'd called her by her real name. Because
she was Ivy now. She'd been Ivy for a long time.

She was beginning to drift to sleep when he
leaned over and pressed his lips to her forehead. "I left something
on the table next to your bed," he whispered. "Something that might
help you come to a decision."

Shit.

Oh, Shit.

Regina felt like shit.

Like a thick cement blanket was crushing her,
keeping her from taking a deep breath.

Sleep. Just sleep.

But she couldn't sleep. She felt too shitty
to sleep. Her head hurt. Her eyes hurt. Her joints hurt.

And the pain just kept increasing. It
wouldn't go away. Just kept knocking, knocking on her brain until
she had to force her eyes open.

Bright, blinding light.

A weight against her thigh.

Someone with dark hair, a forehead pressed
against her leg.

Get off.

She tried to move, tried to shift the person
away, but all she managed was a little twitch and a moan that was
not much more than an exhalation. With her hand, she tried to bop
whoever it was on the head, but there was all this crap on her arm,
which was attached to a board.

The movement was enough to get his attention,
though. He stirred and looked up at her. Ronny Ramirez.

Ramirez?

She felt a sweetness blossom somewhere deep
inside her, and managed to croak out a single word, spoken with
tender affection. "Asshole."

He turned his head to look at her, and the
joy in his face was remarkable to behold.

Ethan hadn't been able to listen to music
since the night the Madonna Murderer had coaxed him into his car
and Ethan had fallen for it so easily.

Piece of candy, little boy?

The psycho had taken away Ethan's soul by
using something he loved to trick him, trap him, draw him into his
sick, macabre world.

A knock sounded on his bedroom door. Ethan
quickly wiped the tears away and propped himself up on his elbows.
"It's unlocked."

The door opened far enough for Heather to
peek in. Today her hair was red. "Can I come in?"

He sat up, wondering if she could tell he'd
been crying. "Yeah. Sure."

So far, none of his other friends had been
over, and even though that didn't surprise him, it still hurt.

She held up a CD jewel case, her bracelets
jingling.

His stomach took a dive.

"You won't believe what I found. An outtake
of Velvet Underground's 'Ocean.' I remembered how you were looking
for it once. Did you ever find it?"

"No," he said numbly. "Look, I don't feel
like listening to music, okay?"

"Just one song," she pleaded. "You have to
hear this."

She slipped the CD in the player. Without
waiting for an invitation, she plopped down on the bed beside him
so they were sitting side by side, feet on the floor. When the
music started, she fell back, eyes closed.

At first Ethan tried not to listen, tried to
block it out, but the song was so compelling, so haunting, that it
kept coming to him and coming to him, and he couldn't push it
away.

Wow.

Oh, wow.

He fell back against a mattress that had not
so many years ago been covered with Winnie-the-Pooh sheets, next to
Heather, and closed his eyes. He was deep within the song when he
felt her strong fingers against the back of his hand, wrapping
around, latching on.