Karen Rose - Silent Scream

Wednesday, September 22, 5:15 p.m.

“How can I help you?” Mrs. Annie Walsh greeted them with a warm smile, instantly making David think of his mother. Please. His heart swelled to fill his throat, choking him. Please don’t let her be hurt. Please. I’ll do anything.

“Gentlemen?” Mrs. Walsh stared at the two of them. “Is something wrong?”

David cleared his throat harshly. “We’re looking for information on a woman who lived in one of your rental properties. Her name is Mary O’Reilly. It would have been at least three years ago, maybe more.” He gave her the address.

“No, I never rented to any O’Reillys at that or any of my properties.” She started to close the door and David held up his hand, watching fear flicker over her face.

“Please, we’re not criminals. My mother is missing. Her name is Phoebe Hunter.”

“My grandmother,” Tom added. “It’s been on the news today.”

Mrs. Walsh’s eyes widened. “Oh my. I did hear about that. You poor boys. But I can’t help you. I don’t know any O’Reilly family.”

David pursed his lips, thinking. “Her name was Mary Francesca. Maybe-”

“Mary Fran? Oh, of course, I remember her. Poor lamb. She’d lost her mother. That was before they came to live in my property, though.”

“How?” David asked and she hesitated, pity in her face. “Please, ma’am.”

“It was a nightmare. Her father had left the house, to work. There was an intruder, and Mary Fran’s mother was killed. Bludgeoned, I’m afraid. Mary’s brother was badly injured. He lived, though. I think he was trying to protect their mother. Mary was found hiding in a closet, the phone in her hand. She’d heard the whole thing.”

“She called 911?” Tom asked.

“No, she didn’t. That’s the story I heard anyway. I never asked them if it was true.”

Panic was slowly chipping away at David’s composure. “When did this happen?”

“Lord, must’ve been ten years now. Maybe eleven. Mary Fran was only twelve or thirteen, and Jonathan was sixteen or so.”

“Could we get the name of her father, of Mr. O’Reilly?”

“I told you, there was no O’Reilly. Mary Fran’s last name was Crawford.”

David’s mouth fell open. He blinked, not believing he’d heard right. Not a coincidence. “Crawford?”

“Who’s Crawford?” Tom demanded. “David.”

“He’s FBI. He chased Moss for years.”

Mrs. Walsh nodded. “Yes, that was his work. He left to investigate a case, and one of the criminals he’d put in jail was released and came back to harm his family.”

“Mrs. Walsh, do you have an address or phone number for the brother, Jonathan?”

“I haven’t heard from them since they moved. I wish I could help you. I’m sorry.”

“No, ma’am, you’ve helped us more than you know. Thank you.”

“Mr. Hunter,” she called as they turned to go. “I’ll be praying for your mother.”

“Thank you,” David managed. As they were running to the car, David dialed Olivia, grimacing when he got her voice mail again. “Olivia, it’s David. Call me. Agent Crawford is Mary O’Reilly’s father. She has a brother. Call me.”

They got in and Tom pulled into traffic. “Where now?”

“We find Crawford. Go to the jail. I’m betting he’s there, waiting to talk to Lincoln.”

“Why hasn’t Crawford said anything?” Tom asked furiously. “He has to have heard about Mary on the news. About Grandma. Why hasn’t he said anything?”

“I don’t know. But I’m sure as hell planning to ask. Drive faster, kid.”

Wednesday, September 22, 5:30 p.m.

He woke with a start, squinted at his alarm clock and groaned. He’d slept much longer than he’d planned. Rubbing his hands over his face, he grabbed his phone to check his texts. No word from Austin. Damn kid. Where the hell was he?

He aimed the remote at the television and the news filled the screen. Same old, same old. Fire, arson, dead cop, injured firefighter… He waited, then relaxed.

“Sixteen-year-old Austin Dent is still missing. Police ask anyone with any information…” Excellent. “We continue to follow the story of the abduction of a woman by Mary O’Reilly.”

What the hell?

“Mrs. Phoebe Hunter, of Chicago, was forced at gunpoint to become O’Reilly’s getaway driver. O’Reilly was fleeing authorities who wish to question her in the deaths of two university students.”

He stood slowly, pushing his laptop to the bed. “What the hell?” he whispered.

“O’Reilly is believed to be driving a black Lexus. She is armed and considered very dangerous. If you have information, please call MPD at the number on your screen.”

He tossed his phone to the bed and went to stand in front of the television, fists on his hips. “What the fucking hell have you done now, you stupid bitch?”

He went still at the knock on his door. Quickly he logged out of his bank account, shut down his laptop, and pushed the bag of phones under his bed. Maybe it was Girl Scouts. Maybe they’d go away.

But they knocked again, harder. “Open the door. I know you’re in there.”

He gritted his teeth, recognizing the voice. Thank you, Mary. So fucking much. He pulled on a pair of pants and walked shirtless to the door. Through the peephole he could see the man he hadn’t wanted to see in years.

The man still wore a tie and had his hair in that same 1960s flattop. He still wore a black suit, shiny shoes, and a gun at his hip. And he still carried a badge that he took way too seriously. One of these days it would be the death of him. I hope.

The knocking grew louder as did the man’s voice. “Open. This. Door. Now.”

So he did, standing with his head tilted to one side, his most flamboyant smile on his face. “Hello, Dad. Long time no see.”

Wednesday, September 22, 5:45 p.m.

Crawford looked at him in disgust. “Thank God I’m not your father. Are you alone?”

“Very. Come on in.” He aimed Crawford a seductive look, just for old times’ sake.

It was all an act, of course. It had always been an act, conceived at first to piss Crawford off. Then later he’d realized that the macho cops in his shop didn’t make eye contact when he flirted. It made him invisible. Just the way he liked it.

“Shut up. Look, all I want to know is, have you seen your sister?”

“No, but I saw the news. Naughty, naughty Mary. This is not gonna look good for you.” He tilted his head again, smiling. “Maybe that was her plan all along.”

Crawford’s jaw was clenched so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn’t shatter. “Fine. That’s all I wanted to know. Now we don’t have to see each other, ever again.”

He shrugged lightly. “I’m surprised you knew where to find me, quite frankly.”

“I’ve always known. This is my town. You don’t sneeze without me knowing.”

He wanted to tell Crawford what he didn’t know. “Oh. Because you carry a badge.”

“You,” Crawford ground out, “will never amount to anything.”

His eyes narrowed, anger long denied now bubbling up. “You’re right. Good thing you have one perfect son. But wait. He doesn’t speak to you, either, and weren’t you kind of demoted? This isn’t your town anymore. Too bad you can’t find Mary. At least you’d have one decent arrest before they put you out to pasture. Fresh triple homicide’s gotta be worth more than a twelve-year-old single. See y’later. Buh-bye.”

Through his curtains he could see Crawford march to his car. But then the man stopped and looked up with a frown before getting in his car and driving away.

His gut clenched. He knew that look. Knew it was Crawford’s I-just-discovered-a-truth look. What did I say? He wasn’t sure.