A Kind of Hush

By JoDee Neathery

A Kind of Hush examines how life is seldom a tidy affair exploring whether there is a gray area between right and wrong. Matt and Summer Mackie with children Willa and Gabe are enjoying an outing at nearby Zoar Valley Gorge, an area showcasing waterfalls, forests, shale cliffs, and a whitewater creek running through the ravine, when tragedy strikes. One parent survives along with their teenage daughter and seven-year-old son found hiding in the woods. Was this a tragic accident or something more heinous, and if so, whodunnit and whydunit? Set in Buffalo, New York and the Big Bend region of Texas, the heart of the novel centers on how survivors deal with the circumstances and subsequent revelations surrounding the incident. But as each one begins to piece together the events of that day, a mantle of ambiguity - a kind of hush - hangs between them live a live grenade without its pin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JoDee Neathery
• Release date: Jul 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737392033

JoDee Neathery

JoDee Neathery, drawing from her Southern California and Texas roots, plucked a few personalities off the family tree, encasing their world inside fictional events to create her debut literary novel, Life in a Box published July 2017 asking the question how much would you sacrifice to hide a secret? Her second novel, A Kind of Hush, launched July 2021 but examines how life is seldom a tidy affair exploring whether there is a gray area between right and wrong. The Mackie family is enjoying a summer outing near their Buffalo, New York home when tragedy strikes. One parent, their teenage daughter and seven-year-old son survive but was this a horrific accident or something more heinous and if so, whodunnit and whydunnit.JoDee spent her professional life in the banking industry, prior to branching out into the executive recruiting business with TracyLocke Public Relations and Bustin & Company in Dallas, and Creamer Dickson Basford in New York. Upon relocating to East Texas, JoDee spent six years handling public relations for a non-profit, and writing freelance articles for the newspaper, trade publications, newsletters, installation ceremony scripts, and sadly a few obituaries. Her dream “job” has been chairing, writing minutes, and reviews for her ninety-three member book club, Bookers, for the past eighteen years. She also enjoys a byline, Back Porch Musings, a lighthearted view of life in general, in an area newspaper.She and her husband live in close proximity to their only daughter, son-in-law, two teenage grandsons, a bird dog, four cats, a donkey, and a few head of cattle.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

Buffalo, New York. Gabriel Mackie had just celebrated his fourth birthday the first time he visited the whisper room, a windowless enclave with lavender walls brimming with daydreams, obscured from reality. All he knew for certain was that his older brother, Griff, nicknamed Boo, was gone. His bedroom at the end of the long hallway had been transformed into a guest room with ecru lace duvets instead of the blue and white pinstriped spreads covering the twin beds. Vanished were his toy box and New York Yankee American League pennants that had plastered the walls, replaced by paintings of water lilies and wheat fields. A stray tear trickled down Gabe’s cheek when he remembered Boo’s curly blonde hair and how he snorted when he laughed. Silence is deafening and the Mackie household screamed heartbreak.

Tree branches dipped in the wind tossing shadows across the windows heralding a tempest gathering force. Matt sipped his coffee and thumbed through last night’s restaurant receipts. Summer, lost in her on own thoughts, mindlessly poured herself a refill with one hand while twirling a strand of hair with the other. Gabe tiptoed to the kitchen doorway, jumping back when he heard his mother slam her fist on the counter.

It’s Willa’s fault Griff is gone, her voice stringent and tight. Tickling him while he sucked on a gumball, for God’s sake. I trusted her to take care of him for fifteen minutes—fifteen damn minutes—while I picked up Gabe from a birthday party. He couldn’t find his shoes . . . I would have been home sooner and maybe . . . I love my daughter, but . . . She knew to call 911 in an emergency . . . Why the hell didn’t she?

Matt shook his head. Summer come on . . . you’ve got to quit blaming her, his voice rising an octave in frustration. You’re as responsible as Willa.

Summer turned her back to her husband shielding the wounds caused by his words.

I shouldn’t have said that, regret echoed in his apology. I’m so sorry . . . Please, we don’t need to be playing this blame game. . . .

I guess it’s too much to ask for you to understand what I’m going through, Matt. What part of my daughter killing our son don’t you get?

Honey, you’re overreacting. . . .

They both turned as Gabe scampered into the room dragging a stuffed elephant by its trunk. Mommy, did Willa find where Boo’s hiding? Quackers and me wanna play next . . . you count to ten and say ready-or-not, here I come . . . okay?

*****

One heedless moment changed the Mackies forever as normalcy assumed a new persona for a family in crisis. Summer yielded to her debilitating grief and broken-heart syndrome, attending extensive counseling, struggling to coexist with what surely would be a lifetime of regret and guilt for her role in her child’s death. Tina, Matt’s college friend and partner in their restaurant/sports bar, shouldered more of the day-to-day operations while he concentrated on the needs of his preteen daughter, youngest son, and his wife, relegating his own suffering to the back-burner. Further complicating matters, the first global pandemic in forty years, dubbed the swine flu, shuttered over nine-hundred schools in New York State for days including Willa’s elementary school enabling their precocious ten-year-old to huddle nonstop with her best friends developing secret codes and unifying opinions of what they loved and hated from food to fashion to music and beyond. At night she played the bed at nine o’clock is for babies . . . and give me some privacy . . . please cards. She, too, was in therapy where her counselor reported a progression in her sketches softening her mom’s devil-image and depicting herself and Gabe romping through fields of shamrocks. Young Gabe spent most days in the sanctuary of his own thoughts, languidly building marshmallow forts with toothpicks, doodling stick figures on gum wrappers, erecting statues with purple paradise and foam green Play-Doh and knowing with certainty the humming inside a seashell was for his ears only.

Neighbors and friends of the couple offered additional support—arranging play dates with the Mackie children, supplying an unlimited assortment of homemade cookies, picking up laundry, and hosting sleepovers allowing Matt and Summer some privacy. In the beginning, the family experienced progressions of despair and disillusionment like a bitter wind lacerating an empty heart. As hours turned into days and days into months, scars concealed the wounds and the most tormenting pleas—why and how could a loving God be so merciless—were placated with soothing testimonies sermonizing how He is too kind to do anything cruel, too wise to make a mistake, and too philosophical to explain Himself. Tears that uncontrollably sprung from some secret reservoir were replaced with shards of hope, sweet reflections, and moments of tenderness rather than grief.

Summer and Matt rekindled the relationship that began when she and a group of male coworkers walked into his establishment ten years ago. She appeared to have just stepped out of a refrigerated box while the others wilted in humidity and stifling heat. His future wife owned that can’t-take-your-eyes-off-of look of a femme fatale wrapped in the wholesomeness of a Jennifer Aniston . . . a dangerous combination. His heart rate rivaled a thoroughbred on his way to the finish line of the Kentucky Derby. His bachelorhood was skating on thin ice.

The Mackies resumed the habits and routines that dictated daily life—both parents returned to their jobs, Willa traversed the halls of middle school and Gabe kept his first-grade teachers on their toes until a road trip once more toppled their lives into disarray.

*****

2012 June Solstice. Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity is easier to grasp than a teenage girl. Reportedly, a typical teen might exhibit all seven personalities associated with this age group with Willa Mackie’s photograph at the top of the profile page. She changed gears faster than a race car driver, often a darling until spoken to then spewing the venom of a dragon spitting fire in response. Mornings before school introduced the drama queen of the day, as if the end of the world lurked nearby because it was Monday and she wanted it to be Tuesday. Spending time with family was seldom a priority in her teenage world.

The family’s weekend outing was planned for departure around noon. While Matt and Gabe played tag football in the backyard, Summer, for the third time, climbed the stairs to Willa’s bedroom. She jiggled the doorknob. It was locked. Praying for the ability to bury a groundswell of impatience amid the urge to take an ax to the door, Summer took a deep breath and knocked—the response from the other side, a razor-sharp, Mom, if you keep bugging me, I’ll never be ready.

Is there anything wrong. Can I help?

Just leave me alone. All my jeans are dirty.

It’s warm today. Put on some shorts and let’s go. Dad’s getting antsy.

No, my legs are all white and ugly and my hair—who did I get this bushy brown mess from? Have I told you how much I just hate it?

Yes, numerous times. Your curls are from my mother—your grandmother—Willa. It seemed to work for Emma Watson in Harry Potter—remember Hermione Granger?

"She’s a movie star. I’m Brillo Pad Willa at school."

Honey, we can’t fix that today, but I promise, we’ll check with a beautician to see what we can do to relax your curls. I’m trying to give you space but. . . .

Try harder, Mom . . . I’ll be down when I’m ready.

Around four o’clock the family buckled their seatbelts and Matt shifted the Jeep Patriot into reverse, backing out of the driveway of their Lakeview home on Prospect Avenue. Willa nestled close to the window carping about a stomachache, arms folded across her lap at the sheer injustice of being hustled out of the house so fast she forgot her MP3 player loaded with her favorite Backstreet Boys’ hits. Gabe’s knees slapped together as he mouthed the words while reading one of his Encyclopedia Brown books. The catalyst of his imagination visible—he was the boy detective solving cases in the neighborhood. The whistling through the open windows brought to mind a wind instrument playing in harmony with Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark blaring from the radio. Matt side-glanced at his wife. Summer was blessed with almond-shaped eyes as vivid as a gentian sea under a cloudless sky, and a long raven-tinted mane that drifted in the breeze like a mermaid’s weightless hair in a tide pool. The couple was finally doing something unencumbered and healthy. In an hour they would be soaking up the natural splendor of the Zoar Valley Gorge, absorbing the balmy weather, and, with a little luck, nestling back into symmetry, emulating the common place of Harper Lee’s fictional house of Finch.

Following Point Peter Road for about a mile, they turned left on Valentine Flats at the paint-peeling farmhouse where the grommets on an American flag dinged against a tall metal pole in the front yard. The parking area dead-ended into the trailhead where the Mackies piled out of the car led by Matt and Summer holding hands while Gabe hop-scotched behind them. Willa followed, yawning and lamenting at the cruelty of spending time with her lame family in the middle of nowhere, when she could be hanging out with her friends. If her parents insisted on seeing waterfalls, they could at least have gone to Niagara for the real thing.

The path from the parking area led to where the trail down to the creek began. About halfway there, Gabe, jumping from one foot to the other, pulled on his mother’s arm announcing he had to go to the bathroom.

I asked you specifically if you had to go when we got here.

But I didn’t hafta then.

Mom, like if it’ll shut him up, I’ll take him, said Willa.

Broody clouds darkened Summer’s mood. I can’t lose another child. . . . She gasped at how cruel her remark sounded, but she couldn’t pull the words back. Willa walked away with a dismissive wave of her hand, showing Summer the dagger delivered to her daughter’s heart was already leaking contempt.

Matt put his arm around Summer, his knuckle stroking her cheek. Her eyes cut over to meet his. I’m sorry for what I said. I just panicked at the thought of Gabe. . . .

"I know but smothering him won’t keep him safe. He doesn’t need anyone to hold his hand. And, after all he’s just going to the forestroom . . . instead of the bathroom . . . get it?" Matt snickered.

Yes, clever but not funny.

My customers think I’m a hoot.

Owls hoot—don’t give up your day job.

Gabe, unable to stick around until the potty issue was decided, wandered off to find the nearest tree, stopping on the way to pick up a flat rock. Examining it closely, he rubbed his fingers over the layers before putting it in his pocket.

Gabriel . . . hurry up. We’re waiting for you, son, hollered Matt.

Meanwhile, the rest of the family soaked in the spectacular views and fields of wildflowers dotted with kidney-leaf and golden swamp buttercups swaying alongside northern white violets. Time is a foggy notion to a child and for Gabe it was reminiscent of a feather in the wind charting its own path with every gust. He circled his tree twice while zipping his pants then gamboled back to where he had left his parents and sister, but before Gabe could call out to them, he was distracted by a clicking noise coming from a stranger running past. When he looked back, his family had vanished.

On that fateful day, the whisper room again shouted Gabriel Mackie’s name. On this occasion the walls were moss-covered and painted quiet, the dirt floor moist with dewdrops, and the ceiling a canopy of nodding hemlock trees, sugar maples, and yellow birch shrouding a galaxy of stars flickering around an eyelash moon. Late night storms had cleansed the sky, and as the earth revolved, first light appeared hailing the onset of a new day.

Rescue teams rappelled two-hundred feet to the bottom of the Gorge to recover the body of Summer Mackie face-down in the shallow water, dead at the scene. Husband, Matt, was found disoriented with brain trauma. Willa resembled a hunted animal trapped in quicksand, her head whirling from side to side as if looking for an escape route. Dried tears streaked her face and blood dripped from the corner of her bruised lip.

We’re here to help, young lady. My name is Axl—yeah . . . my mom was a Guns N’ Roses junkie. What’s your name?

Willa. My arm hurts so bad and it’s hard to breathe.

Okay, Willa. We’re going to get you out of here. A helicopter’s waiting to take you to the hospital.

What about my little brother. Did you find him? her voice as wobbly as an inflatable balloon advertising a grandiose event.

Gabe sat motionless against a tree close to where his family vanished; knees pulled up under his chin while helicopter blades whirled shafts of light in a circular dance overhead. Daddy always said if we were lost to stay put and someone would find us. Muffled voices pierced the stillness as he withdrew deeper inside his safe zone instead of calling out. The small hairs on the back of his neck bristling until he heard a thick voice.

Sheriff, we’ve got a little boy missing—the sister asked Axl if we found her brother. I’ve got this lone shoe—one of those fancy Converse All-Star Chuck Taylors. It’s got to belong to a kid.

I’m over here . . . can I have my shoe?

Gabe, his face mucky with dried tears and grime, squinted at the man in a brightly colored safety vest. He reached for the shoe, slipping it on his socked foot, double knotting the laces. I saw red balls in the sky last night, he said in a small voice.

Awesome. My name is Conner and I’m here to help you. What’s your name?

Gabe Mackie. My mom, dad, and sister left me . . . did you find them?

We’re going to take you to them.

Sheriff Warren McAlister and Deputy Conner Boyle escorted Gabe out of the forest and into a waiting ambulance where paramedics evaluated his condition, determining he suffered from exhaustion, hunger, dehydration, and a few bug bites, but no serious injuries. Before the ambulance door closed, Conner patted Gabe’s arm saying, I’ve never met anyone who has seen those red balls—it’s called a red sprite. Astronauts are usually the only ones who get to see them because they form on top of thunderclouds and lightning triggers the burst of red light. You looked up just at the right time. They’re gone in a split second. You rest now. These guys will take good care of you, and I’ll see you at the hospital.

*****

The Erie County Sheriff’s Department—its storied past dating back to 1871 where United States President Grover Cleveland began his political career as sheriff—is the oldest law enforcement agency and the largest in New York State, maintained jurisdiction for the Zoar Valley Gorge tragedy.

A witness reported seeing Matt, Summer, and Willa standing on a narrow shale cliff leaning forward. Another stated either a man or woman described as slim-hipped wearing baggie jeans and sandals, approached the family, while a third observed someone wearing a navy hoodie over a Buffalo Bill’s ball cap shouting at them before they disappeared. A final witness wearing coke-bottle glasses swore she saw all of them walk back down the path toward the parking lot.

Back in the Sheriff’s Office, the response team assembled to evaluate the evidence and discuss the victims’ backgrounds. Conner spoke first. Here’s what we’ve got so far. The family lost a young son three years ago in a tragic accident. Evidently, he was in the care of Willa, the mom’s biological daughter, when he died. Summer Mackie took a leave of absence for over a year from her job at Buffalo General Hospital due to her grief. She also volunteered with the crime victims’ assistance program as administrator of the Facebook group page which kept her presence at the forefront of her advocacy. She was back working full-time in the crime victims’ treatment center at the hospital as a sexual assault forensic examiner until today.

So, she’s a doctor? said Sheriff McAlister.

Conner pulled a notepad from his pocket. According to the hos--pital, she’s a PA who, and I quote, conducts medical and forensic examinations on sexual assault victims, works as an advocate for patients and families, and testifies in court as an expert witness when necessary.

See if our Mrs. Mackie made any enemies while doing her job. We might just turn up our mystery man or woman. Also, Axl, check out that Facebook group. And while you’re at it see if there’s any dialogue on that other social media thing—the one with the bird. What do we know about the husband?

Matt’s family is from Texas, but that’s not a crime. Conner moistened his lips, slumping down in his chair as his attempt to lighten the moment produced raised eyebrows and feigned laughter. Returning to his notes, he cleared his throat, Matt’s dad played football for Texas Tech. Was an undrafted punter who joined the Bills in 1970—same timeframe as O.J. Simpson—remaining as a kicking coach after hanging up his pads. Opened Seasons LXX in 1995, the restaurant/sports bar named as a tribute to when he joined the football team in 1970. Matt was born in our little piece of heaven in 1977. He graduated from University at Buffalo and Dad turned the business over to Matt and his college friend when he moved back to Texas . . . It’s still the place to be and to be seen. He’s popular with his employees and customers . . . no red flags . . . no priors.

I’m still stumped why the witnesses waited hours to report what they saw. Almost everybody these days has a cell phone, said the sheriff.

Probably no coverage. It’s pretty remote, stated Conner.

Guess that makes sense. We need to chat with Willa Mackie when she’s able. I want to know more about her relationship with her parents, especially the mom. The rest of you get to work. Conner, you and I will head to the hospital, said Sheriff McAlister.

*****

The emergency room staff received the paramedics evaluation of Matt Mackie’s overall condition including his vital signs, ability to follow simple instructions, movement of his eyes and limbs, and the coherence of his speech. The major concern was a traumatic brain injury signaling the necessity of a CT scan to rule out fractures, bleeding, blood clots, bruised brain tissue, and swelling. He was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit, hooked up to a monitor and intravenous drip loaded with diuretics and anti-seizure drugs. An additional issue was the degree of oxygen deprivation he may have incurred from landing in the creek. Since Willa Mackie’s fall was cushioned by her mother’s body, her injuries were less severe—broken ribs and left arm—but she was being treated under the concussion protocol after complaining of a severe headache, nausea, and sensitivity to light and noise. Gabe, after eating a peanut butter sandwich and two bowls of chocolate ice cream, let weariness win, curling into a ball, hugging a pillow, and falling into a fitful sleep. The doctor-ordered sedative hopefully postponing the difficult conversation of his mother’s death until the next of kin arrived.

The sheriff and Conner visited the morgue to see if the medical examiner had anything to report since none of the victims were able to provide specifics, at least for now. He handed them Summer’s Samsung Galaxy S cell phone found in her pants pocket and although the screen was cracked, they hoped the data might still be salvageable. The waters got muddier with the ME’s words, Summer Mackie was twelve weeks pregnant. The fact lingering is who knew?

When the duo returned to the office, investigators met them with disturbing case histories resulting in families torn apart after Summer testified in court. One that caught their attention was that of an eight-year-old girl, sexually assaulted, and buried inside a concrete block. Her accused killer, Victor Kurtz, left messages, candy hearts and condoms on the handlebars of girl’s bikes parked at a nearby school.

Hard to believe but it ended in a hung jury. He’s out until a new trial date is set. Mrs. Mackie had filed a noncontact protection order against him, said Conner.

We need to talk to him. See if he’ll come in for a little chat.

*****

June 12, 2012. Starla Jordan in her wildest imagination never expected she would be forced to identify the remains of a loved one, much less the body of her younger sister. Her knees buckled under the heaviness of sorrow when she turned her gaze to Summer’s ashen face stained with magenta splotches, tiny lines framing her eyes, swollen, and closed to the trauma. Her sibling, as sweet as a honeysuckle vine and with a knowing demeanor, could launch into witty commentary on both familiar and remote topics. Summer the wonder girl, the best of the best at everything she undertook, especially being her sister. Starla scolded herself for being so jealous. How ungrateful I was not to recognize this . . . and now, it’s too late. Summer had comforted Starla years ago when her husband died, the sentiment etched in her memory, Death leaves a heartache no one can heal but love leaves a memory no one can steal. She would have to somehow make her nephew comprehend all that is left of his mommy are a few empty words.

Starla left the hospital to check on the Mackie’s home, finding the front porch covered with tokens of sympathy . . . flowers, candles, stuffed animals, crosses, poems, and notes. Mrs. Brennan next door scurried to meet the next of kin, wringing her hands as she expressed her shock and sadness. She was such a caring individual—but her job—how could she deal with all those sickos daily? Opening the door with the spare key, they were greeted by a Golden-doodle puppy, Dude, enthusiastically chasing his tail, obviously delighted for company, while Hallelujah the cat—Halle for short—stoically observed from her perch on top of the refrigerator. Mrs. Brennan assured Starla the family would not go without food as she had organized a meal train to begin as soon as everyone returned home, except Summer, of course.

Starla unfastened the locks on her suitcase, hoisting it on top of the bedspread in the guest room. She was hanging up her clothes when the phone rang. It was the hospital. Gabe was awake.

*****

She peeked in through the open door to see her sister’s child mesmerized by a rerun of the adventures of Clifford the Big Red Dog on television. Gabe, sugar, can I come in? He turned toward her, his tiny face incurably somber, his eyes misty and wounded.

Aunt Starla. Did you bring Mommy? he asked with a slight hitch in his voice.

I bet you’re not too big for a bear hug from your favorite aunt. She sat down on the corner of his hospital bed, using her fingers to brush his bangs off his forehead before wrapping him in her arms. Boy have you grown. What are you—almost a teenager now?

No . . . just seven.

She gagged on the bitterness crawling into the back of her throat before delivering the grim news. Gabe, I’ve got something very sad to tell you. Remember your mom, dad, and Willa were on that ledge and then they were gone. Well, doodlebug, they fell, and Mommy’s body broke when she landed. I’m so sorry, but we won’t ever see her again. Do you understand?

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, choking down the lump in his throat before saying, It means Boo’s not alone. I wanna go where they are, Aunt Starla.

It’s okay to cry . . . it shows how much love you have to give. But your daddy and Willa need you here.

On the cliff, I saw somebody else. I heard clicking. Then they. . . .

Chapter 2: Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

The Mackie’s Jeep, towed from Zoar Valley to the Buffalo police impound lot, was examined for any evidence pertinent in the investigation of what happened at the Gorge and then released. Back at the office, Conner dialed the number for Brothers Towing Company arranging for the vehicle’s delivery to their Prospect Avenue home. While waiting for everyone to return from lunch, he opened the folder containing Summer Mackie’s work files to see if there were any others as disturbing as the Victor Kurtz case. Her bio, profile photo, and personal information stared back at him. He picked up her photograph, shaking his head in wonder at her choice of profession. He blushed reliving his sixteen-year-old boy crush on Long Island native, Carol Alt. Still tucked into his sock drawer was the 1982 Sports Illustrated magazine—she on the cover in a one-piece red swimsuit on the Kenya Coast . . . Summer could be her twin. How did she get pulled into this line of work?

He found his answer from her interview questionnaire included in the file. Summer, a ten-year-old Junior Miss contestant in an All-American Girl Pageant, was pinned against a wall by one of the organizers. She said, I kneed him where it hurts the most, resulting in her disqualification and a ticket home verifying Summer Mackie was a defender of right and wrong from an early age. He flipped to her caseload files which included victims of a serial rapist who attacked ladies jogging around a bicycle path; a fourteen-year-old who, angry with her mother for watching a girlfriend’s baby, sexually assaulted the child before drowning the two-month-old in the bathroom sink then called the Buffalo police and in a unrepentant, clinical, sterile tone confessed to her crime; a middle-aged woman raped with a foreign object and suffered blunt force trauma to the head from the same object—her killer then strangled her young daughter and posed her on top of her dead mother before leaving the scene.

His vision shifted to a photograph of his sister’s boys playing ice hockey on a frozen pond, his young nieces bundled up in hooded wool parkas watching intently, arms intertwined with each other. As a single man with no commitments, his sibling’s brood completed his world and he was Uncle Cool to them. Beads of sweat formed on Conner’s forehead followed by a surge of clamminess. I’ve seen a lot, but the late thirty-seven-year-old Mrs. Mackie witnessed the unimaginable up close and personal. The knot in his stomach triggered a dash to the men’s room.

Conner splashed cold water on his face, returning to his desk as other deputies filed in laughing at an inside joke.

Hey, you look a little pale. Are you all right? said the sheriff, a toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Yeah, guess my Texas hots didn’t set right.

Stick to wings. They don’t call wieners death tubes for nothing.

Anything new on our Victor Kurtz coming in for an interview? said Conner.

He’s due in later today . . . probably on the arm of his public defender. Not sure what we’ll be able to get out of him, but who knows . . . he might get all blabby.

*****

With the six o’clock hour nearing and still no sign of their guest felon, Sheriff McAlister told everyone to call it a day. Conner volunteered to stay as getting a first-hand look at Victor intrigued him more than sitting alone in his apartment in front of the television.

Give him another half hour. If he’s not here, we’ll issue a warrant. What’s his story?

Conner thumbed through the file, touching on the highlights. "Born 1985 in Buffalo—father, Anthony, owner of a plumbing company; mother, Sophia, worked part-time as a senior page with the Buffalo & Erie County Public Library. Quit twelve years ago due to health issues. Victor is the youngest of three boys—the whereabouts of the elder two is unknown. Graduated Kenmore West High School 2003, member of the National Honor Society and Theatre West . . . says here he played the lead—the Stage Manager—in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. That same year his father went for a walk and never returned triggering the downfall of Victor as we know him today. Father’s last known whereabouts he was employed by Beaver’s Bend State Park handling cabin rentals in Broken Bow, Oklahoma. 2004—Victor worked maintenance at a middle school, ultimately fired—records indicate his behavior, although nonviolent, was creepy to some and cute to others. Seems he gave out candy hearts and valentines to the sixth-grade girls. 2008—he was arrested for possession of child pornography, charged with a class E felony, paid a $5,000 fine, and registered as a sex offender. With no priors he got probation instead of prison. He and his mother rent a small cottage on Stanley Street. Neighbors report the only noise coming from the residence is meowing from a parade of cats coming and going. Sophia, housebound with COPD, receives Social Security disability and Vic is the night custodian at the Movie Academy, clocking in after the theatre closes to the public."

From the top of the heap to the bottom of the barrel . . . sad. What’s in the trial transcript . . . there has to be more to this like what led the jury to accept reasonable doubt?

"I bookmarked a page earlier . . . listen to this:

Dr. Cryer, a psychoanalyst called by the defense, testified Mr. Kurtz suffered from the Oedipus complex, a psychoanalytic theory introduced by Sigmund Freud that identifies both positive and negative attributes. Victor’s issue was a child’s unconscious sexual desire for the same-sex parent and hatred for the opposite-sex parent, leading Freud to surmise this might lead to neurosis, pedophilia, and homosexuality."

So what? He hated his mom and loved his dad . . . how does that support why the little girl was buried inside a concrete block?

"There’s more. He goes on:

Pedophilia is a psychiatric disorder where the subject has a sexual attraction to prepubescent children. Mr. Kurtz’s father abandoned the family when Victor was eighteen. Some pedophiles do not molest children. Victor Kurtz is one of them. Consumption of child pornography is a more reliable indicator of pedophilia than molesting a child . . . and that is the only crime he has committed."

And, since the love of Vic’s life walked out the door, he became a pedophile. So, a jury of his peers bought into the Freud mumbo jumbo but what about his DNA at the crime scene . . . maybe he has an evil identical twin, sneered Sheriff McAlister.

"Wrap your head around this . . . his lawyer might be the second coming of Johnnie Cochran. He challenged the collection of crime scene evidence, the probability markers, and the chain of custody, citing a 2001 case where a state crime lab analyst was running tests on a DNA database when she stumbled on two felons with remarkably similar genetic profiles. The men matched at nine of the thirteen locations on chromosomes. The FBI estimated the odds of unrelated people sharing those

Reviews for A Kind of Hush

[Applepole · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Texas author JoDee Neatherly has had a career in banking, the recruiting business, public relations for a non-profit, writing freelance articles for newspapers, trade publications, newsletters, and chairing, writing minutes, and reviews for her ninety-three member book club, Bookers, for the past thirteen years. She also enjoys a byline, Back Porch Musings, a light-hearted view of life in general, in an area newspaper. Her debut was LIFE IN A BOX, and now she adds to her growing stature as an author A KIND OF A HUSH.

The rhapsodic quality of her prose delivers this family story with sentient authority as the opening of the story suggests: ‘Gabriel Mackie had just celebrated his fourth birthday the first time he visited the whisper room, a windowless enclave with lavender walls brimming with daydreams, obscured form reality. All he knew for certain was that his older brother, Griff, nicknamed Boo, was gone. His bedroom at the end of the long hallway had been transformed into a guest room…’ Inviting the reader to discover the meaning of this poetic stream, the author condenses the plot well, as follows: ‘Matt and Summer Mackie with children Willa and Gabe are enjoying a June outing at nearby Zoar Valley Gorge, an area showcasing waterfalls, forests, shale cliffs, and a whitewater creek running through the ravine, when tragedy strikes. One parent survives along with their teenage daughter and seven-year-old son found hiding in the woods. Was this a tragic accident or something more heinous, and if so, whodunnit and whydunit? Set in Buffalo, New York, and in the Big Bend area of Texas, the heart of the novel centers on how survivors deal with the circumstances and subsequent revelations surrounding the incident. But as each one begins to piece together the events of that day a mantle of ambiguity—a kind of hush—hangs between them like a live grenade without its pin.’

Clearly, JoDee has the gift for exploring and resolving family grief and the permutations of a tragedy that alter perceptions and interactions. Superb writing from a rising author. Recommended