Silent Son by Gallatin Warfield Page A

Gardner had bought to celebrate his son’s birth.
     It was “a child lives here” symbol. And, as Granville grew, he was out there all the time.
    “Push me,” Granville called again.
    Carole watched from the porch as the boy allowed the swing to slowly lose its momentum and die. In the past week, he’d continued
     his backward slide. He had insisted on sleeping in her bed every night now, and today he couldn’t even keep the swing going
     by himself. This was normal, the therapist said. The increased clinginess was a natural by-product of the shootings.
    Carole stepped into the yard and took Granville by the waist.
    “Push, Push!” Granville chanted.
    “Okay,” Carole said.
    She drew him back, and released, allowing a gentle forward swing.
    “Do what Dad used to do!” Granville begged. “Ride under!”
    Carole’s mind flashed back to Gardner pulling the swing way, way back, then running forward, pushing it up over his head,
     and releasing. She’d always hated it, the steep angles were too dangerous. She’d even made Gardner stop doing it.
    “Ride under, Mom!” Granville was still lobbying for the high ride.
    “No, Granny. I don’t like it.”
    “Please?”
    “I’ll give you a big push instead,” Carole said, shoving harder.
    Meanwhile, in a wooded strip two hundred yards below the house, a pair of eyes was watching.
    The man adjusted his binoculars and tried to keep the face of the little boy in view. Because of the angle, and the motion
     of the swing, it was hard to do. But at the top of the ride he stopped for a fraction of a second, and the face was perfectly
     framed in the circular lens.
    That was him. The little shit who had walked in at the Bowers’. Sticking his nose into a situation that was none of his business.
    The swing dropped back, and the face disappeared. Then it returned. No memory, huh? No ID? I don’t believe it. He
knows
. The bastard
knows
. The little shit should have gone the same route as the Bowers. A 280 grain shot to the head.
    The man shifted his position on the ground. A nice setup the prosecutor had. Ex-wife and son in a big house in the middle
     of nowhere. So remote. So accessible. The address was no secret, and with all of the trails and woods and back roads in the
     area, it was a piece of cake to sneak up on it. The face popped into view again. No way the kid’s sick, the man thought. He’s
     a normal jerky little kid. A witness. Nothin’ but trouble…
    Just then, he detected movement past the house, and shifted his glasses to the parking area. A county police car was pulling
     up to the front of the house.
    The man ducked, and retreated into the woods. Can’t remember! Bullshit! The cops are working on him. They’ve got nothing else
     to make the case. If he shoots off his mouth, it’s all over.
    The man was sprinting now, dodging trees and bushes to retrace the route he’d taken in. The image of Granville haunted him
     as he ran. Something had to be done. One more hit. Wipe that goo-goo expression off the little bastard’s face with another
     look down the barrel of his gun. One more face-to-face. Only this time, he’d get more than a bruise between the eyes.
    Purvis Bowers was already at the store when Brownie arrived. They had agreed to meet at 10:30 A.M ., but Brownie decided to
     get there early and walk the perimeter again. It was 10:00 A.M ., and Bowers was parked out front and waiting. He got out of
     his gray compact car when he saw Brownie’s door open. Wearing a blue polyester suit and a knit tie he looked like a character
     in a 1930’s movie.
    “Mornin’, Mr. Bowers,” Brownie said with a smile. “See you’re a bit early.”
    Bowers nodded.
    “Been inside yet?”
    Purvis shook a no, adding, “You people took the key.”
    “You didn’t keep a spare?”
    “No. Police told me they didn’t want anyone in the store but them.”
    That was correct. The initial investigation team had confiscated all the keys to the store, and had