Read Online Silent Son by Gallatin Warfield - Free Book Online Page A

Baker?”
    Purvis smiled to himself. “Five K plus.”
    “Five thousand dollars?” The voice sounded irritated.
    “No… five hundred K. Five hundred.”
    The words were met with silence. “Five hundred thousand?” Cooney asked.
    “Yes, sir. Cash.”
    “Mr. Baker, I think we can swing it. Might have to bend a rule or two, but I’m certain we can guarantee your client’s anonymity.”
    Purvis smiled. “Good. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.” Then he hung up the phone and got up from his desk.
    The Veil Valley Professional Center contained two side streets that veered off the main road where Kent King’s office was
     located. At the far end of the southern branch lay the County Outpatient Clinic. And on the second floor was the Family Counseling
     Unit.
    Gardner was familiar with the place. On many occasions he had watched from behind the one-way mirrored glass as young abuse
     victims were treated by the therapists. He’d always gone there to assess the possibilities of going to trial. Some kids were
     so messed up, they couldn’t communicate at all. On those cases, he did everything he could to negotiate guilty pleas. But
     there were others, where the children were more articulate about their ordeals. They talked freely with the counselors, and
     were able to explain what happened and who did it. Those children were candidates for court.
    But now he was behind the glass, watching his own son. And what he saw was making him very uncomfortable.
    “Let’s talk about what you like to do for fun,” Nancy Meyers said. She was a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length gray hair
     and glasses, a licensed mental health social worker, and an expert in child trauma. Gardner had seen her in action many times
     over the years, and as a therapist she was about the best.
    Granville sat in the middle of the the floor, with his legs crossed under him. The walls were lined with shelves, filled with
     toys. Dolls. Space planes. Building blocks. The ambience was strictly juvenile. Anything to break the ice and get the children
     on common ground with the therapists.
    “How about it?” Nancy said gently. “Tell me what you like to do.” She was sitting beside him, wearing slacks and a T-shirt,
     trying to put him at ease.
    Granville sat immobile. “Watch TV,” he said suddenly, his head down.
    “Okay.” Nancy’s voice was as soft as a lullaby. “And what do you like to watch on TV?”
    “Captain Freedom.”
    “Okay. Anything else?”
    “Monkey Shines.”
    Gardner could see that Granville was slow to respond. Why did he have to go to talk to someone, Granville had asked before
     they came. It had been easier, down at the hospital. They had all dressed alike, in white smocks, and the boy could not tell
     a shrink from a surgeon. He’d had three sessions, and not even realized it. But now he was home, and his head had stopped
     hurting. So why did he have to go see some dumb ol’ lady?
    “You like cartoons?”
    “Uh-huh.” He was staying monosyllabic.
    “Do you like to draw?”
    Granville’s head finally came up. “Sometimes.”
    “Well, would you like to try some drawing now?” Nancy picked up a sketch pad and some color pencils, and put them beside Granville.
    From behind the mirror, Gardner tensed. Art therapy was a device often used with severely traumatized kids. They were so beaten
     down, so repressed, that they could not even speak the words. What had happened? Who did it? The questions could not be answered.
     At least not with words. But sometimes they could draw what they could not say. And the drawings spoke for them and revealed
     the horrors that they could never, ever utter aloud.
    Granville picked up the pad and laid it across his knees.
    “Draw anything you want,” Nancy said in an hypnotic voice.
    Gardner pressed close to the glass so he could get a better view of the pad. Granville was situated just below and to the
     left. He sat there with the pad on his knees, but did nothing.
    “Go