Hearing evil, p.2
Hearing Evil, page 2
A leftover from my dream. The chill crept out of his body. He kicked off his blankets. His room was stuffy, unseasonably warm, even for early June. Or maybe he was sweating out the dream.
Michael groaned. I really hope she doesn’t wait until August to turn on the AC. Living under another’s roof always came with a unique set of rules. With Sam, touching the thermostat could get you shot.
The things you learn about people when you move in with them. He never would have pegged Sam for a hot-pink toothbrush. Maybe a gun-colored one. Or a gun-shaped one. He shook his head. That doesn’t even make sense.
Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he jumped out of bed. He slept in nothing but his boxer shorts, which were covered in images of the cartoon dog Marmaduke. Where the underwear had come from, he couldn’t recall.
He shuffled to the window and lifted the shade. “Damn,” he muttered as he raised one hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun. “What time is it?” He lowered his arm and winced, the light causing temporary blindness. The day was beautiful, a fact he could tell despite his view of the neighbors’ tenement apartments and the partial cover their eaves provided.
Michael dropped the shade. The funk he had carried with him from dreamland persisted, and simple tasks, like picking up a shirt off the floor, seemed almost not worth the effort. The shirt was one of several he could have chosen, all long-sleeved to cover as much skin as possible. The smell of detergent still lingered on its neckline. He winced again as he pushed one arm then the other through the sleeves. His body ached as though he’d spent his dreams powerlifting.
His spine crackled as he stretched. He grabbed a pair of wrinkled jeans he’d draped over his headboard, sniffed them, and put them on.
Now for the most important part. From the top drawer of his dresser, Michael removed a pair of black nylon gloves. Like any teenager, he was self-conscious about how he looked in just about everything he wore, but the weirded-out glances were worth the severe decrease in visions he’d experienced since he had decided to wear gloves and long sleeves even in the dead heat of summer. Kids looked at him as if he were a freak, but it wasn’t much different from the way they looked at him before he started wearing them. Adults stuck their noses up at him as if he were diseased. Each time he had a seizure, Michael woke to constipated faces or, worse, expressions that cried out with false pity, as if he were an abandoned puppy just waiting for some do-gooder to champion his cause so that the do-gooder, not Michael, could feel good about himself.
People suck. I shouldn’t give a shit what they think. As often as he told himself that, it didn’t change the fact that he did care.
Still, he wasn’t going anywhere without the gloves. It’s too sunny for black. He reached back into the drawer and pulled out a light-gray pair. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, donned the gloves, their ends almost touching his elbows, then rolled his sleeves back down over the gloves.
Michael smiled. I may not be the coolest kid in town, but hey, if they’re good enough for Rogue... He frowned. But Rogue’s a chick. He scanned his brain for a male comic book hero who had to wear gloves. Wildfire? No, he had to wear a whole suit.
With a sigh and a shrug, he dug out some white tube socks and his black sneakers. He sniffed both and cringed, the socks falling way outside his cleanliness test. He put them on anyway, intending to give them a once-over with bathroom spray before heading out.
He walked through the sunlit living room with a hand over his eyes. The dining-study-hangout-reading-all-purpose-but-computer room separated the living room and Michael’s room from the other two bedrooms, bathroom, and tiny kitchen.
He stopped in the doorway and thought of Tessa, as he did every morning. The thought of her coming to live with them seemed like a pipe dream. If she ever gets out of that awful place. So far, he hadn’t seen any sign that she ever would.
Still, her circumstances had improved once she’d shown that she was no danger to others and had been transferred from Framingham to the less-intense Brentworth facility there in Fall River. Whether she was a danger to herself remained to be seen.
As he entered the kitchen, still only half awake, he nearly bumped into Sam. She was dressed in black pants and a stylish black button-down, like a waitress at a fancy restaurant or a metrosexual vampire. The rest might have been her work clothes, but Sam tended to dress more conservatively than that shirt suggested when she was heading into work. Her badge was pinned to her hip, but she wasn’t wearing her gun.
He blinked a few times. “Oh. You’re here?”
“Very observant.” Sam laughed. “I’ll make a detective out of you yet.”
“I’ve seen enough crime, thanks. I don’t need to go making a career out of it.”
“Yeah, but with that unique skill of yours, you could be the best there ever was.”
Michael stared at her solemnly. “You’re the best detective there ever was.”
“How nice of—”
“No, wait.” Michael smirked. “The Question was the best there ever was.”
Sam frowned. “What?”
“Nope, you’re right. Sherlock Holmes was the best there ever was. No, sorry. Batman was the best detective there ever was. So, Batman, Sherlock Holmes, The Question... um, Agatha Christie...”
Sam had to cover her mouth to not spit out her coffee. “Agatha Christie! She was an author. Mysteries, true, but not a detective.” She punched Michael softly in the arm. “You’re a jerk. Those other three weren’t even real people.”
Michael rubbed his bicep. “Ouch! I’m calling DCF.”
“Very funny,” Sam said flatly. “And since when do you read Agatha Christie? There’s no pictures of men in tights in her books.”
“I am very learned.” Michael kept a straight face for a good two seconds then sniggered. “Nah, I’m just kidding. I don’t read that crap.”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
Michael huffed. He slid past her and opened a cupboard. “We’re out of Frosted Figments,” he grumbled. “Guess it’s Rice Crispers.” He found a bowl and a spoon and carried them, the cereal, and a carton of milk from the fridge to the small table. There, he poured himself a heaping bowl of the crispy rice cereal. Michael checked the expiration date on the milk. Though it hadn’t expired, he opened the carton and took a whiff. Someone liked to leave the milk sitting on the counter. He sighed. It’s her milk. She can do whatever she wants with it. Smelling nothing off-putting, Michael decided to chance it. He drowned his crunchy rice flakes in the liquid and dug in.
“Don’t eat too much,” Sam said. “I figured we could get some lunch, maybe eat outside on such a gorgeous day. That was me betting you’d get up on time for once.”
“Don’t do that.” Michael shifted in his seat then stirred the cereal with his spoon.
“Do what?”
“Sound like a mother. It doesn’t suit you.”
Sam looked as though someone had run over her dog, but she quickly composed herself.
Michael stared into his bowl, ashamed. He hadn’t intended to hurt her feelings. He didn’t even know he could hurt her feelings. “I’m just teasing.” He laughed, the tone of it as hollow as his excuses.
Sam was the best friend he could ask for, surely the only one he ever really had. And she was great for advice, making sure he did the right thing, and generally just being there for him. But when she tried—sometimes too hard, he thought—to show she cared, things just got uncomfortable.
I know you care. He gave her a warm smile. You don’t have to try so hard. Choking back the sentiment welling inside him, Michael changed the subject. “Not working today?”
“I’m always on call. I’ll probably stop by the courthouse later to observe a hearing on one of my collars, a particularly nasty individual I’d like to see burn, but that’s not until two. Other than that, my schedule is pretty much free.”
“We need to find you a man... or a woman... or whichever. I’m cool either way.”
“Are you being serious right now?” Sam huffed and placed her hands on her hips. “In the time you’ve known me, I’ve had boyfriends, not that that’s any of your business. Besides, who has the time?”
“I’m just saying, you should do something besides go after bad guys twenty-four, seven. Maybe try yoga.”
“Thank you, Mr. Health Guru. When did you become a life coach?”
“Just saying.”
“Crime’s finally been down since... well, these last six months. I do have more time...” Sam crossed her arms. “Oh, why am I even discussing this with you?”
“Menopause?”
Sam laughed. “I bet you don’t even know what that is. Anyway, crime’s sure to be on the rise again real soon. Summer’s basically here, and it’s supposed to be a blistering-hot one. The heat always brings out the crazies, and this may be the warmest summer we’ve ever had.”
Michael grunted. “Humph. And you don’t believe in global warming.”
“I don’t not believe in it. I just remember how many times I had to shovel out my car last winter.”
The coffee machine sputtered. Michael guessed it was her third cup of the morning. He had tried it once, black like she liked it, and found it so bitter that he couldn’t understand how anyone could drink it. But to Sam, it seemed sweeter than sugar.
“Janet over at DCF is getting a lot of calls about you.”
“Huh?” Michel froze mid-bite, processing Sam’s interruption. He swallowed the half-chewed cereal in a gulp that scratched his throat. “Yeah, no doubt a bunch of freaks who want to adopt a freak.” He shook his head. “I’ll be eighteen in a couple of years. Can’t I just stay here until then?” A pang of sadness caused his eyes to fill with tears. He blinked and looked away. “That is, if you still want me here?”
Sam came out from behind the counter and took a seat at the table. “Of course, Michael. This is your home.” She started to reach for his hand.
He tensed but didn’t pull away. To his relief, she did, instead using the hand to tuck her long brown hair behind her ear.
She chuckled. “You know, Janet did say a carnival called for you. They didn’t even try to disguise who they were.”
Michael groaned. “Great.”
Sam’s smile faded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that.” She slapped the table. “But cheer up! From what I understand, you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“Good.” Michael shoveled a heaping spoonful of cereal into his mouth. With the food still stuffing his cheeks, he said, “’Cause frankly, I don’t know how you got by without me.”
Sam laughed with real humor. He smiled. He had heard that more often lately. It made him think that maybe she really didn’t mind having him around. He helped out where he could—doing dishes, vacuuming, and cleaning up after himself, and laundry, though he hated folding clothes—but he was kind of limited in what he could do, at fifteen and with no work experience or prospects.
Maybe I can get a paper route. He scratched his head. With the internet, do people even still get the paper delivered? He shivered. Delivering papers would probably bring him into contact with people. He doubted he could just whip rolled-up bundles at front porches like paperboys did in old movies.
Sam really needs to get Netflix, or at least HBO. He sighed. I wonder if she’d let me watch half those shows, filled with F-bombs, sex, and gore, all the good stuff. Would she even try to stop me? He sighed again. I need a job.
“You okay?” Sam asked.
“Yeah.” For a moment, Michael considered broaching the subject with her then buried himself again in his cereal. Sam would just say what she’d said the last time he’d brought it up: “You worry about school. You’ll have plenty of time to work later.”
They sat in silence, Michael eating his cereal methodically and Sam sipping her coffee. Thoughts of his nightmare returned. He was pretty sure the woman’s voice had belonged to Sam.
“What’s wrong?”
Her words snapped him from his reverie. He blinked then raised his head. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You disappeared on me for a second there.”
“Yeah, just daydreaming.”
“Out with it. What’s on your mind?”
“You knew my parents, right?” Michael was just as surprised by the question as Sam seemed to be.
She sat up straight then sighed and slouched back in her seat. “I wouldn’t say I knew them, Michael.”
“But you do know about them, don’t you? How they died, I mean?”
Sam frowned and stared into her mug. “Where is this coming from all of a sudden?”
“I don’t know. You sorry you asked what was on my mind?” Michael stirred the last bits of cereal with his spoon, watching as they spiraled in a whirlpool. “I just... I just wonder sometimes.”
Sam leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, one finger wrapping over her mouth. “About what, exactly?”
Michael sighed. “You know... if either of them was like me.”
“You mean—”
“You know what I mean.”
“That,” Sam said, sitting up and folding her hands on the table, “I honestly don’t know.”
Michael leaned forward, huddling over his bowl. “I wonder other things too. Who they were, what they were like...” He raised an eyebrow, watching Sam closely as he said, “How they died.”
“Michael—”
“I know, I know. Some kind of accident. Same old BS.” He huffed and crossed his arms. “I’m not stupid, you know. I’ve looked into it online, but I can’t find anything about any Turcottes dying and leaving behind a boy named Michael. So either I’m missing something obvious, or Michael Turcotte isn’t even my real name.”
“Your name was changed when you entered the foster system.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Duh? I figured that much. But it’s not that simple, is it? I know what you do and how you must have met me. The last time I checked, you weren’t getting called out to the scenes of accidents. Not now, not then.”
Sam stared at him. Michael could almost see the gears winding in her head. She was going to try to avoid the issue again, to protect him, or so she would claim. Not this time. I won’t let her. After all they’d been through together, he didn’t need her protection. He was old enough to have answers. He deserved the truth.
“That was twelve years ago. I wasn’t doing then what I’m doing—”
“Sam,” Michael said softly. “Please, no lies.”
Sam flinched as if she’d been struck and slumped in her seat. “These things you ask... they’re complicated. I don’t want to lie to you.”
“Then don’t.”
Sam paused, and the corners of her mouth twitched. “You looked it up online, huh? Like I said, we’ll make a detective out of you yet.”
Michael set his jaw. “Sam?”
“Okay, okay.” She took a deep breath and scraped a fingernail against her mug. “I guess I always knew you’d corner me with this sooner or later. But the truth may not be an easy pill to swallow. You have to believe me when I say I never told you before because I was looking out for your best interests. So was changing your name, your last name. Your parents did name you Michael, and I have no reason to suspect they didn’t love you.”
Michael almost choked up, but he suppressed the rising wave. “Go on.”
Sam put her hand over his. “Let me think about this and how best to tell you about it. The time is as much for me as it is for you, so I can get my words right. No secrets. No lies. No spin. Just tact, I suppose, which is not one of my strong points. And I want to give you time to reconsider whether you really want to know and are ready to know the whole, ugly truth.”
“I’m ready.”
She nodded. “I’m sure you are. Just one day is all I ask. Sleep on it.”
The idea of sleeping with the way his dreams had been lately made him sick to his stomach. He pulled his hand away. “Fine. One day.”
“Fair enough. Thank you.” Sam stood. “Now, if you’re not too full of cereal, where would you like to go for lunch?”
CHAPTER 3
On her way to the courthouse, Sam tried to think of the best way to tell Michael how his parents had died. “Your dear old dad unloaded a full clip into your mom and her boyfriend when he found them in bed together” wasn’t likely to have a positive impact on a growing boy’s psyche.
And the brutal murder of his foster parents did?
She sighed. She could do nothing about the damage already done, but adding to it seemed a cardinal sin.
Still, she had to stop treating him like a child. In some ways, Michael was more adult than most adults. But in others, he was still just a kid. The thought of him, even when he was frustrated with her, brought a smile to her face. How can I tell him about his parents after all he’s been through? He’s finally starting to heal.
Leaving him in the dark about his past seemed equally wrong. Should I even be the one to tell him? She shook her head, scolding herself for her stupidity. Who else is there?
Pulling into the parking garage adjacent to the Fall River Judicial Complex, Sam was greeted by a morose-looking fellow in a gray shirt with a patch over the left breast pocket that read Mel. She had met the man a dozen times already, and although he was always pleasant, she never failed to have to read that name tag as he approached to avoid looking like a self-absorbed bitch.
Mel stepped out of a booth barely big enough for one. “Five dollars, please,” he said, looking up from the ticket in his hand. His eyes lit up. “Oh, it’s you, Detective! I’m sorry. I should have recognized the car. Just give me a minute, and I’ll lift the bar.”
“Thanks, Mel.” Sam smiled back. “How are things?”
“Eh? Well, the back is aching, the hemorrhoids are burning, the wife is nagging, and the kids are... well, they’re away at college, so at least there’s some peace there. Unless you count the hell it’s putting my wallet through. You got kids?”
Sam had to think about that one. “Yes and no.”
