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 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.
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