Pockets of Darkness by Jean Rabe Page B

came down the stairs.
    Bridget felt the color drain from her face and her knees threatened to give out. That wasn’t possible. Tavio … there was a mistake.
    “Dead,” Otter repeated.
    “What happened?” Bridget went to Otter’s side; hand on his arm, a dozen questions flashing through her mind and waging war with disbelief. She’d seen Tavio Sunday night; he hadn’t looked ill. He was reasonably young—mid-fifties, roughly two decades older than her. “What happened? Was there an accident?”
    Otter shook his head. “No. I don’t know. He’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Someone killed him and—”
    “Killed?”
    “Your son’s a minor,” one of the policemen interrupted. Bridget didn’t know which had spoken; her full attention was still on Otter. “Miss O’Shea, in school records you’re listed as—”
    “Yes, I’m his mother.”
    “The last names—”
    “I took my name back after the divorce. My maiden name.” Bridget swallowed hard. “What happened? With Tavio. Tell me.”
    Otter’s shoulders shook. “Somebody got into the condo, Mom. Last night, this morning, I don’t know. I was getting ready for school this morning and Dad hadn’t come out of his bedroom. I thought maybe he had company, you know. He had company late sometimes. So I didn’t want to disturb him … them. I caught the bus. Then the cops pulled me out of world history and brought me here.”
    For several minutes Otter continued to sob and Bridget didn’t move. The police were respectful, not intruding or interrupting.
    “They said he was dead, in bed.” Otter pushed Bridget away, wiped at his face with his scarf. “I should’ve checked on him this morning. Before I caught the bus, I should’ve checked. Maybe I could’ve—”
    “—done nothing to prevent it,” the same officer cut in. “Listen, Otemar, Miss O’Shea, we should—”
    “I don’t want to stay here, Mom.” Otter said. “I want to go home, to the condo. I’m perfectly able to take care of myself at home. I want to go home.”
    “Fifteen, not fifty,” Bridget said so softly she doubted the boy could hear.
    Bridget finally regarded the policemen. They were both in their late twenties and rail thin, one with dark hair and the swarthy complexion of an Italian. That badge read: Bernardini. The other was Irish judging by the badge: McGinty. It was the Irish cop who’d been doing the talking, a sergeant by the insignia.
    “How did it happen?” Bridget addressed the sergeant.
    “Miss O’Shea, we’re not really at liberty to discuss the case yet. Detectives are at the scene.”
    “He was murdered,” Otter said. “They told me someone killed him. They wouldn’t tell me more than that.” He paused. “I want to go home, Mom. I can take care of myself.”
    “Miss O’Shea, we’d like to ask you a few questions about your ex-husband.” This from the Irish policeman. “Is there someone here Otemar can stay with while—”
    “Of course.” Bridget gestured to Michael, who’d been keeping a courteous distance. “Michael, have Jimmy refresh Otter’s room. I’ll be going with—”
    “I should call my grandmother,” Otter said. “She needs to know.”
    Michael stepped forward. “In a little while, Otter. We’ll call her together. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me until some things are sorted out?”
    Otter looked to Bridget.
    “It’s okay. I won’t be gone long,” she told her son. “And I’ll get us some answers. I promise.”
    Michael held out a heavy coat and Bridget took it and closed her eyes. The damnable beast was at the bottom of the staircase, babbling and oozing and adding to a headache that had suddenly sprang up behind her eyes. She prayed that the monster would stay behind, though she knew that wouldn’t be happening.
    It found a way to fit into the back seat of the police cruiser, babbling and oozing puss the entire ride to the 7th Precinct, the ugly briefcase on the floorboard, though Bridget had not