Tami Hoag - Deeper Than the Dead

Wendy’s vision filled with black lace. She couldn’t get a breath. Dennis was on top of her. She was going to die.

Tommy spent the day walking on eggshells. It was something he was very good at because he had a lot of practice doing it. He had always known how to read his mother’s moods-or anyone’s for that matter. He never understood people who couldn’t.

His father had left the house very early to help with the search for the missing lady. Tommy had asked to go along, but his dad had explained they didn’t allow kids to be there.

That didn’t make sense to Tommy, since kids could look for things just as well as adults-and probably better. They were closer to the ground and they paid more attention to what was around them. And besides that, he had already seen a dead body before, so it wasn’t like he would be afraid if he saw one again.

But it didn’t matter, because his dad left him once again to deal with his mother, who got out of bed mad, slamming doors and drawers, muttering to herself. That was the worst thing: when she talked to herself under her breath, so angry, her eyes hard and cold.

She went through the house “cleaning,” as she called it. Throwing things left and right, out of drawers, onto the floor-magazines, newspapers, mail. She went through the kitchen throwing out food, throwing things out of the refrigerator into the sink.

Later, when she had calmed down, she would go through the house again, following the trail of destruction, making sure there would be no signs left of what she had done. By the time his father got home, the house would be perfectly neat and clean, like nothing had ever happened.

Tommy stayed in his room for most of her tirade, but knew that eventually she would come in there as well, and if he hadn’t done a perfect job of keeping his room neat, he would have a BIG problem. His mother would tear the sheets from his bed, throw his toys in the garbage, tear up papers he had brought home from school to save because he had gotten stars on them from Miss Navarre, or she had written a note on them saying how well he had done.

He knew how his mother would particularly be after those because she was still angry at Miss Navarre. More than ever after Detective Mendez and the FBI man had been there.

Tommy made a special effort to hide the things he valued most, pressing papers between the mattress and box spring of his bed.

He wished he dared to just leave, but he didn’t. Instead he slipped from his room and followed two rooms behind his mother, going through the mess to make certain she hadn’t thrown out anything of value. He sometimes found things like watches and jewelry, money, checks, all kinds of things that his mother would never throw away if she hadn’t been in one of her moods.

Today was no exception. Tommy sorted out the good things and put them back where they belonged. Books, magazines, and drink coasters in the family room. Figurines and photographs in the living room. In his parents’ room-where he had to be extra careful not to be caught-he saved his father’s ring from college and a tangle of jewelry his mother had thrown in the wastebasket.

When she finished her tirade, she was in the study, sitting on her knees sobbing amid a pile of papers, letters, newspaper clippings. And like always when she started crying, Tommy went in and sat with her, and held her hand. He told her that he felt bad for her, and he was sorry for her, and he hoped she would feel better soon.

It wasn’t a job a kid should have, but that was just his life.

He wished he could have just gone to the park on a Saturday like everyone else.

“Steve wouldn’t kill Lisa,” Crane said. “He cared for her.”

“So much that he would only see her in the dead of night?” Mendez asked. “Wouldn’t admit it to anyone, wouldn’t let her tell anyone?”

“He’s a married man.”

“He should have thought of that before he unzipped his pants,” Mendez said.

Crane got up and started pacing, his hands on his hips. “I’m really not comfortable talking about this.”

“You said Steve is a complicated guy. In what way?” Mendez asked.

“He’s your friend, man. Tell me about him.”

“I just meant that Steve is very driven. He’s passionate about the work he does for the center. Steve comes from a tough background-single mom, not much money, desperate times. He had to fight his way to get where he is-including being married to Sara. She’s from a good family, educated, beautiful.”

“She’s a trophy for him?”

“No! I don’t know.” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “I should have kept my mouth shut. Why don’t you talk to Steve? I’m sure he’ll tell you anything you want to know. He doesn’t have anything to hide.”

“Except a mistress,” Mendez said. “What time did you leave O’Brien’s?”

“One thirty, quarter to two.”

“Where did you go from there?”

“I went home. Steve was going to check into the Holiday Inn.”

“All right,” Mendez said, getting up from his chair.

Crane looked at him, a little suspicious. “I can go?”

Mendez spread his hands. “Sure.”

Peter Crane breathed a sigh of relief and started for the door. Pausing with his hand on the knob.

“How is Karly Vickers?” he asked. “Has there been any news?”

“Much better,” Mendez lied. “She’s a tough cookie. The doctors are pretty confident she’s going to come around soon.”

“Really?”

“I guess there won’t be any questions left then.”

“I guess not.”

The door opened from the outside then, and Hicks leaned into the room, a grim look on his face. “We’ve got to go. There’s been a stabbing in Oakwoods Park. Multiple victims.”

The EMTs were already on the scene and loading a gurney into their bus when Mendez and Hicks pulled into the parking area.

“Who’s our vic?” Mendez asked, running up to the back before they could close the doors.

“A kid. He’s bleeding out! We gotta go!” The tech shouted at his driver. “Go! Go!”

A couple of deputies slammed the back doors shut, and the rig turned around, siren bleating, scattering onlookers like sheep.

“What the hell’s going on?” Mendez called out, holding up his shield.

One of the deputies said, “The call-out was a stabbing with multiple victims-both children. They’re both on their way to Mercy General.”

“Does anybody know what happened?” Hicks asked.

“Several people reported hearing a little girl scream. They ran over here,” he said, pointing to the woods in the direction of the place where Lisa Warwick’s body had been found. “And they found the subject attacking the little girl. Blood was everywhere.”

“Mother of God,” Mendez said. “And the subject?”

“You aren’t gonna believe this,” the deputy said, leading them over to his cruiser.

Sitting in the backseat with his hands cuffed together with zip ties was Dennis Farman, covered in blood and staring blankly straight ahead.

They drove directly to the hospital. Hicks got on a phone to call Dixon. Mendez watched the medical team working frantically on the boy. The same doctor who had worked on Karly Vickers barked out orders the staff jumped to carry out. There was blood everywhere. Too much blood to have come from so small a patient-and have him live, Mendez thought.

Jesus. He had already known Dennis Farman was a disturbed child, but who the hell could have predicted this? Kids beat each other up on the playground; they didn’t pull knives and go berserk.

What could drive a child to that kind of violence?

There had to be a lot more to the story of the Farman household than a mother who drank a little and a drill sergeant for a patriarch. Dennis hadn’t gone off this deep end because he got spanked for cutting school.