Deadly Silence

Matt trod silently across the pine floor, the wood stabilizing his torn emotions. He eased through the door and made sure it was opened enough that Megan could see light from the hallway cascading into her room. Awake now, he went back to his lonely bedroom, picked up his plaid flannel robe and pulled it on. Wrapping the sash around his waist, he walked down the hall to the kitchen at the other end of the one-story home.

Looking out the window, Matt saw the stars hanging like white, shimmering jewels in the blackness of the sky. There was no moon tonight. It was late April and the spring thaw was finally starting to take hold. Snow still covered the half-acre lot that surrounded his new home. He rested his hands on the counter, his fingers curving into the aluminum double sinks. God, how he missed Beverly. Closing his eyes and hanging his head, Matt felt his heart tearing apart a little more. When his firefighter friends had found Beverly, she was charred beyond recognition. They’d placed her into a body bag. The coroner, Dr. Jason Armitage of Jackson Hole, later told him Beverly had been shot once, in the head.

Opening his eyes, Matt scowled. He needed a stiff drink, but that wouldn’t solve the mystery of who had murdered his wife and deliberately set his house on fire to kill his daughter. Matt opened the cabinet door and drew out the canister of ground coffee. The coffee was soon perking, and, while he waited, he leaned against the counter, arms wrapped against his chest.

Who had murdered Bev? Matt remembered being in Cheyenne and getting the call at 4:00 a.m. from Captain Doug Stanley, his boss. He’d broken the shocking news as gently as he could. Matt had set off that early morning, fighting snowdrifts and nearly skidding off the interstate many times to get home. He’d gone straight to the hospital in Jackson Hole where his daughter was in good condition. That whole morning had been a nightmare to Matt. He’d lost the love of his life. Bev and he had grown up together, gone through school here in Jackson Hole. They’d always loved one another. He’d gone into the Marine Corps for four years after graduating from high school, taken courses and, by the time he’d finished his service, he had a degree in Fire Science. He’d come home to join the Jackson Hole fire department and marry his sweetheart.

“Where did I go wrong?” he muttered, frowning into the darkness of the kitchen. “Where?” And who had killed Bev and set his house on fire?

The coffee now ready, Matt automatically poured himself a cup and stood in the silence of the kitchen. Mentally, as he sipped the hot, black brew, he went over the cold case. As badly as the local police and the county sheriff’s department had tried, they couldn’t find the killer or the reason for such a shocking attack. Jackson Hole was the Palm Springs of the Rocky Mountain states. It was filled with corporate millionaires, oil tycoons, politicians, Hollywood stars, ranchers, overseas tycoons and national tour operators. The middle class lived on the outskirts or in Driggs, Idaho, across the Grand Tetons or fifty miles south in Star Valley, Wyoming.

Who would want to do this to him? Who had a vendetta against him? Matt had lived here all his life. He made friends, not enemies. The sheriff’s department had gone out of their way to work hand-in-hand with the Jackson Hole police department. They’d found nothing. Nothing. Matt’s mouth was a grim line as he considered the possibilities. There were none. And Matt lived in silent terror of this home and his daughter being attacked once again.

Matt didn’t taste the coffee. He never did at this time of morning. When Megan had her nightmares, his mind would churn with so many unanswered questions. His good friend, Cade Garner, a deputy sheriff, had gone above and beyond the call of duty to try and find out who had done this. Cade had come up empty-handed. The deputy felt the arsonist might have been an itinerant who had wandered through the area, but Matt’s gut told him otherwise.

At thirty, Matt had been a firefighter for four years. He knew fire. He knew its ways. And yes, as Cade had informed him, he knew they had a few amateur arsonists in the valley. But none of them had killed anyone. And the county sheriff had personally confided in him that Bev had been killed by a professional. One shot to the head. That bothered him more than anything else. The coroner, Jason Armitage, had told him his wife had not been molested or harmed in any other way, and that gave Matt some relief. He didn’t think he could stand the thought of Bev being raped and then murdered. Dr. Armitage had postulated that someone had hired a hit man to come in and do the killing.

Shaking his head in frustration, Matt moved restlessly around the large, airy kitchen. The coolness of the pine floor felt good against the soles of his feet. It grounded him, kept him here. Who would hire a hit man to kill his wife? And why hadn’t the hit man walked down the hall to kill Megan, too? It just didn’t make sense!

Growling an obscenity beneath his breath, Matt stopped, turned and stared out the large window above the kitchen sink. It was dark and quiet outside this house. His gut churned. He’d gotten heartburn a lot since Bev’s death. It always kicked up when Megan would run down the hall and wake him, sobbing and clinging to him as if a monster were chasing her.

Megan knew something. Matt sensed it. What had she seen? She couldn’t speak, and a host of child psychologists over the last two years had tried to spring open that door and get her to talk, but all Megan would do was cling to Elmo and stare up at them with huge, terrified blue eyes, her mouth open, lips trembling—but no sound other than animal-like cries would issue forth. Rubbing his wrinkled brow, Matt paced around the island in the kitchen. What could he do to get Meggie to talk again? What?

Guilt that he was gone when this had happened ate daily at Matt. If he’d been here, he’d have heard someone breaking into their house. Bev had always been a deep, hard sleeper. An earthquake could have shaken the place and she wouldn’t wake up. Matt, on the other hand, had always been a light sleeper. The least noise and he sprang awake in a millisecond. He knew he’d have heard the murderous intruder. If only he’d been here and not away at fire school in Cheyenne. He could have saved Bev’s life, stopped his daughter from being utterly traumatized and saved the house he’d built with his own two hands from being burned to the ground.

Halting, Matt sipped the last of the coffee. It was scaldingly hot, but he wasn’t aware of that. His heart and mind were centered on Megan. He would be taking her to school at 7:00 a.m. She would sit in the back of Mrs. Harrington’s class, mute, attentive and taking notes. Sherry Harrington, Megan’s second-grade teacher, was wonderful with his daughter. Matt thanked God for that. Megan was intelligent and caught on quickly. She could read and comprehend, but she never uttered a word out loud. Sherry had even tried getting the children to read from Muppet stories in hopes that Megan would want to take part, but she did not.

And so, Megan would sit mutely in class. Mrs. Harrington was sensitive and attentive, even though she had a class of thirty second-graders. She went out of her way to create unique teaching content for Megan. Matt was forever grateful to the teacher.

What now? Dawn was crawling up the horizon, and the Grand Tetons looked like sharpened dragon’s teeth slowly congealing out of the darkness. Matt placed the cup in the sink. Sherry Harrington had written him a note yesterday. She was going to try something new in hopes of reaching Megan. This morning, Katie Bergstrom, a raptor rehabilitator, was bringing several birds in to the class and would give a talk about them. With her would be a ranger from the Grand Tetons National Park, ten miles outside Jackson Hole. Sherry had written that she hoped this might catch Megan’s attention and maybe, fingers crossed, it might inspire her finally to talk.

CHAPTER TWO

CASEY CANTRELL TRIED to shore up her sagging spirits. She’d been assigned to help Katie Bergstrom, a raptor rehabilitator who had her business on the outskirts of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. They stood in front of Sherry Harrington’s rapt second-grade class. This was her first official duty for the U.S. Forest Service. She had been hired straight after graduation from Colorado State University at Fort Collins. She looked at Katie, who was relaxed and smiling, with a red-tailed hawk named Hank on her leather glove. The eyes of the thirty children were huge with anticipation. She had their full, undivided attention.

“First,” Katie told the children with a smile, “let’s hear from Ranger Cantrell. She’s going to tell us why it’s so important to have raptors in our area. Ranger Cantrell?”

Clearing her throat, Casey gave the reasons for the importance of raptors to the ecological balance of life in the area. She was serious and low-key compared to bubbly Katie Bergstrom. As she spoke, Hank would lift and flap his wings every now and again, much to the children’s delight. She kept her explanation short, understanding that second-graders had an attention span of about two seconds. Glancing over at Katie, Casey said, “It’s all yours, Katie,” and stepped to one side to position herself near Sherry.

“Thank you, Ranger Cantrell,” Katie said, grinning and carrying Hank, who wore soft kangaroo-leather jesses around his yellow legs, closer to the children. Their desks formed a huge semicircle facing the front of the room. Casey thought it looked like a crowded amphitheater. The glow of excitement on the children’s faces lifted the anxiety she felt.

Earlier, Sherry had met them outside the door for a quick chat. She was concerned about Megan Sinclaire, and gave them the story of her being mute. Casey’s heart broke when she heard about the little girl’s tragedy. Sure enough, Megan was at the back of the group. Sherry Harrington was afraid that Megan might be frightened of a hawk flying around the room, so it would be Casey’s job to stand near the little girl when Mrs. Harrington donned the other leather glove on the other side of the room and Hank flew to her from Katie’s glove.

Casey felt comfortable working with the little blond-haired girl. She moved quietly to the rear, her back to the windows. Megan was only three feet away, and she seemed absolutely enraptured over the hawk, just as all the other children were. Megan clasped her hands, smitten by Hank, and Casey tried to relax.

Casey’s boss, Charley Davidson, believed in educating the children from the ground up about nature. He said such programs would serve to keep all species safer. He often had Katie come and give talks with her hawks and owls at the visitor’s center just inside Grand Tetons National Park.

“Okay,” Katie sang out now, “how many of you would like to see Mrs. Harrington put on this glove?” She held it up so the children could see it. “And then, we’ll let Hank fly to her. Raise your hands!”

Every hand shot up, the children wriggling like excited puppies in their seats. Casey saw Megan’s hand shoot up, too. She was so excited that she stood up, jumping up and down. Casey heard excited rasps coming from her. But no words.

“Okay, okay!” Katie laughed, handing the teacher the glove. “You’ve voted for Mrs. Harrington to do this. Let’s quiet down now. Hank doesn’t like a lot of noise. It bothers his flying concentration.”

Instantly, everyone sat down. All except Megan, who remained standing, her small hands clasped to her chest, all eyes.

Casey did nothing. Megan was clear of the flight path, and though Katie saw her, she didn’t direct her to sit down. The child’s cheeks were a bright red, her blue eyes now bright with excitement. Mrs. Harrington pulled on the glove, held it high for the children to see and then walked to the other corner of the classroom.

Casey’s focus was on Megan. Clearly, she loved what was going on. She knew little of the child’s trauma other than that her mother had been murdered and the house set on fire and that she had barely escaped. Casey’s heart bled for Megan.

Everyone ooohhed as Hank flapped and took off from Katie’s glove. He flew low across the classroom to Mrs. Harrington’s outstretched glove. The delight and awe were clearly written on every child’s face.

Mrs. Harrington had a look of pleasure as Hank settled on her arm, his yellow feet and curved talons delicately grasping the leather gauntlet. He settled down, folding his wings and looking around at the thrilled class.

“Wow!” Katie called, laughing. “Wasn’t that something?”

The children whooped, shouted and clapped. Pandemonium reigned for a moment. They could hardly sit still in their seats.

“Okay,” Katie said, raising her voice and holding up her hands. “If you’ll sit quietly, I’ll put a little rabbit meat on my glove and we’ll call Hank back to my glove. Can you do that? Do you want to see him fly again?”

Casey chuckled softly. Every child except Megan sat squirming in anticipation. Katie said nothing about Megan continuing to stand and nor did Sherry. Casey remained where she was. When Hank swooped low across the diagonal breadth of the classroom once more, everyone collectively gasped. Casey saw the awe burning brightly in Megan’s eyes. She was enthralled, as if magically swept away on a carpet to Disneyland. The sounds issuing from her were soft cries of joy. But no words. Just sounds.

Heart breaking for the father of this child, Casey tried to understand his terrible tragedy. This child had not talked since the incident. Two years. How had he been able to deal with it? With his daughter’s psychological scar? Casey remembered her own tragedy in the spring of her sophomore year at university. She had blundered onto a huge marijuana-growing area up near Red Lake in northern Colorado. The growers had jumped her, beaten her nearly to death, tied her up and dumped her unconscious body far away from their drug fields. She was sure they hoped she would be eaten by hungry grizzly bears coming out of winter hibernation. But she hadn’t died; luckily, she’d been rescued by a group of hikers. Casey touched her left temple where a scar still reminded her of that savage day when she’d nearly lost her life.

Looking at Megan, who was clearly enthralled with Hank, Casey wondered if the little girl’s PTSD was the wall that stopped her from speaking again. Casey had spent ten days in a Fort Collins hospital in a coma. She couldn’t remember the incident for nearly a year. Then her brain had downloaded the whole scenario one morning when she was sitting in a wildlife biology seminar. Casey recalled that day, the power of the deed done against her. She saw the five men’s faces. Saw their rage and their desire to kill her. Shivering inwardly, Casey pulled her thoughts back to the present.

Studying Megan’s rapt features, Casey understood as few could how the brain protected someone from such a life-changing trauma. Only when the person was well enough, strong enough, would the brain give up those horrible memories. Casey sensed Megan was not ready to talk yet, because what would come out of that child’s mouth was just too terrible for her to comprehend, understand or accept. She felt deep compassion for Megan.

“Okay,” Katie called, smiling at the group, Hank on her glove, “I’m going to bring out Susie, the barn owl, now. Ranger Cantrell? Would you like to come and assist me?”

“Of course,” Casey murmured. She had trained with Katie for several days before this show so she knew what to do. The bird boxes were large and made of green cardboard. Casey moved to the front of the class and picked up Hank’s box. She placed it on Mrs. Harrington’s desk and opened it up. Inside was a perch wrapped with Astro Turf so Hank could grasp it firmly with his claws and not slip or fall off it.

The children watched with burning silent curiosity. Casey stood to one side after the box door was opened. Hank jumped off Katie’s glove and eagerly went into his box. Katie gave him one last bit of rabbit meat and gently closed and locked the door. She handed the box to Casey. Then, a second box was brought up to the desk by Katie.

“Now, kids, this is a barn owl. We have lots of them here in Wyoming. Do you know where they live?” She turned and smiled at the class.

“Barns!” a boy shouted.

“Yes!” Katie said, grinning. “Barn owls love barns. That’s why they’re called barn owls. Now, Susie here,” she opened the box to show the small, delicate barn owl sitting on her perch, her black, luminous eyes surrounded with white feathers, “was found in the bottom of a rancher’s barn a year ago. She was a baby and had tried to fly out of her parents’ nest when she was too young. The rancher found her flopping around on the floor when he went in to feed his horses one morning. He picked her up and found she had a badly broken leg. So, he called the Game and Fish Department, and then they called me.” Katie put her gloved hand into the box and Susie hopped onto the glove.

Bringing Susie out, Katie held her up on the glove so the children could see the barn owl. “The rancher wanted the barn owls in his barn. Do you know why?”

“They eat mice and rats!” a little girl cried. “They’re good!”

“That’s right,” Katie said, laughing. Susie fluttered her wings, showing the white and soft-caramel coloring beneath her wings. The children oohed and aahed. “The rancher wanted to save Susie. He’d seen the mice and rat population dwindle to nothing because these barn owls were around. They keep a natural check and balance.”

“Do they eat gophers?” another boy asked.

“You bet they do!”