|
 Satan's
Silence
Chapter One:
Missing
Pretty
weird stuff, Cassidy McCabe thought as she drove through a
warm September storm, the rain-smeared windshield
distorting her vision like a funhouse mirror.
Heading across Oak Park, she was on her way home from a
training group for therapists which taught a new method of
therapy that separated out different parts of the
personality. Some bizarre stories today. One therapist had
presented a case that gave her the willies, made her wonder
if working with subpersonalities might be a tad risky. The
therapist described a male client, seemed to be a decent
sort, who possessed a part that was honest-to-God evil.
Shades of The Exorcist.
Sure,
there are garden-variety sociopaths. On the extreme end,
monsters like Dahmer and Bundy. But a down-to-earth family
man popping up with a part that wants to poison the kids'
pets? C'mon.
Cassidy heard voices chattering inside her head all the
time, parts that squabbled, debated, pulled in opposite
directions. Identifying these voices as subpersonalities
enabled her to better understand the internal workings of
people - herself as well as clients. So when she'd first
encountered the Subpersonality Model of therapy, it made
perfect sense to her. Having joined the training group and
attended three monthly meetings, she had so far netted good
results using this model, although today's talk of strange
parts was unsettling.
Stopping at the Chicago-Ridgeland light, she peered through
early evening gloom at a small group huddled against the
downpour on the northeast corner. It was the time of day
when the sheltered workshop let out, releasing a dozen or so
men and women, all with the same innocent, childlike
expression. Oak Park, a place for everybody, one of the
reasons she loved living here.
A junk
car, its grill crushed in like a beer can, barreled through
the red light, nearly sideswiping her. A reminder that her
social-worker belief in intrinsic human worth was
occasionally challenged by some of the types Oak Park made a
place for. Turning right, she headed toward her house on the
village's eastern edge. She lived a block from Austin
Boulevard, the line separating an impoverished, gang-banger
jungle on the east from her own zealously active, integrated
suburb on the west.
As she
drove, her mind slipped into a familiar groove, the two
voices in her head bickering in their ongoing quarrel.
He
should call more often. Every week it's the same - open-arms
Saturday night, bye-toots in the morning. This from the
voice that, like her mother, considered having Zach in her
life only slightly better than roaches in her kitchen.
The
other voice, the one that favored sex and self-indulgence,
jumped in instantly. So what if Saturday nights are all you
get? You'd rather stay home with a good book? Zach may not
be around as much as you'd like, but when he is, it's
fireworks and shooting stars time.
She
arrived at the Hazel-Briar intersection with her cranberry
colored two-story standing on the southeast corner. Parked
in front of her house was a battered van, psychedelic
depictions of naked bodies painted on all sides, the words
Gacy's Boys scrawled through the middle. She headed south on
Hazel, intending to turn around in the cul-de-sac at the end
of the block so she could park on her own side of the
street. The village had installed cul-de-sacs throughout the
east end to discourage Chicago bad guys from cruising Oak
Park. Passing the van, she scrutinized the scraggly-haired
figure slouched in the driver's seat. Better not sit there
too long - I'll have the police on your butt.
She
circled the cul-de-sac, drove north to the end of the block,
then stopped behind the unfamiliar van. Jumping out of her
Toyota, she ran through the storm toward her house, the arm
she held up to shield her face pelted by wind-driven bullets
of rain. She burst onto the enclosed porch, shook out her
cinnamon hair, and dropped her wet jacket on the wicker
couch. A flier lay just inside the screendoor: "Meet your
neighborhood beat officer." Another crime on the block?
Mingled with the howl of wind and rain, she heard the thunk
of boot leather slapping concrete and whirled to see a
chunky male land on her top step. He propped his hands on
either side of the door, bringing a scruffy face beneath a
backward baseball cap up close to the screen. She
momentarily stopped breathing. In her neighborhood stories
of midday robberies were not uncommon.
Stepping in front of the screendoor, she shoved her hands
against the frame to hold it closed. She asked, voice less
than cordial, "What can I do for you?"
"Lookin'
for Dana." He yanked his hands away from the house, jammed
them onto his hips, then ran fingers through his short,
ragged beard. "Friend of mine, he told me she was here." He
talked rapidly, words coming in short bursts like rounds of
gunfire.
Dana's
a client. Why think he'd find her here? Cassidy leaned
closer to get a better look. Jumpy, dilated eyes, constant
fidgeting. Must be on something.
"Dana,
you know, Dana Voss. You ask her, we're tight, her and me's
like this." He held up two crossed fingers. "She crashin'
with you?"
"Wrong
address. I don't know anybody by that name."
"C'mon." He softened his voice in a crude attempt at
cajolery, then half-heartedly pushed at the door.
Blocking it with her foot, she pressed harder on her side.
V.I. would probably take him out if he gave her any trouble.
But Cassidy, who wore petite sizes and did not lift weights,
was not about to try throwing him off her steps.
"Look,
this ain't no joke." His voice turned gruff. "I gotta see
her. You tell Dana - Curly's gonna look her up, ain't no way
she can get out of it. I got business with her - important
business. Won't do her no good, trying to hide out."
"Maybe
you didn't hear me. Now if you don't mind . . . "
"All
right, all right." He raised his hands, palms out, and
stumbled backward down the steps. "But you tell her, you
hear? Curly's got business with her."
Cassidy watched as he trotted back to the van and drove out
of sight. Even if he'd been normal - even if he might
actually be a friend - she would never give out information
about a client.
This
character must be from Dana's past life when she was heavy
into drugs, almost three years ago. So why would a
sleazy-rocker-head be on her tail after all this time?
Cassidy went inside and started up the L-shaped stairway.
She stopped at the landing, suddenly remembering she hadn't
seen Starshine since early that morning. The calico had
planted herself against the back door and yowled to go out.
Knowing the cat did not like rain, Cassidy had tried
reasoning, tried ignoring, but finally gave in to her
irresistible and ear-splitting demands.
Tiny
fingers of panic clutched at her stomach as she did an
about-face and sprinted down to the porch. Starshine never
stayed away all day. Often, minutes after letting her out,
Cassidy would find a pouty cat on the stoop, her attitude
seeming to say, What took you so long?
So
where was she? She should've been waiting at the door. You
forgot about her. Didn't go back right away and let her in
like you were supposed to. She gave up on you. Ran away.
Cassidy stood on the top step, arms wrapped around her
midsection, rain hurtling against her. The porch window she
left open so Starshine could come and go as she pleased blew
back and pounded into the one beside it. She called "Kitty,
kitty," but her voice got lost in the whoosh and drumbeat of
the storm. Wind chimes jangled furiously. She envisioned a
tiny, triangle face, one ear black, one ear orange. A small
sodden cat huddled under a bush, ears and whiskers drooping,
tail plastered to the ground. Shivering, Cassidy hugged
herself tighter.
Why
didn't she jump through the open window and wait on the
porch, way she usually does?
Cats
are inconsistent. Like to keep you off balance - like men.
She
plodded back upstairs, telling herself to stop worrying.
Damn cat - never wanted her in the first place. But despite
muggy, end-of-summer heat, she couldn't shake the clammy
feeling that had settled over her when she first realized
Starshine had gone out that morning and not returned. |
