A Judgment of Whispers by Sallie Bissell Page B

Ewing’s skull in, just to stop her from squealing?
    She pushed the thought away. Zack was compromised, true. But where strangers saw a hulking man obsessed with inappropriate videotapes, she saw a tender boy who kept their bird feeders filled and cried when they passed a rabbit killed on the highway. He could not have killed that girl, she told herself for the thousandth time. It’s just not possible.

    They ate their ice cream, Zack scraping the last bit of chocolate from the frosty little dish, then he stood up, ready to go.
    â€œHurry, Mama.” He bounced on his feet. “We need to go home.”
    She paid Hornbuckle and followed Zack out to the car. As he began admiring his new videos, she headed for home. Despite Leslie Shaw’s hatefulness and their near miss with the semi, it had been a good day. Zack hadn’t had one meltdown, he’d apologized for bumping into that little girl, and he’d behaved respectfully toward Hornbuckle. She hoped his new tapes wouldn’t disappoint him.
    She turned down the shady, meandering lane that led to her house, wondering if Zack might get engrossed in his tapes long enough for her to get some work done. She had a landscape show coming up in an Asheville gallery, and volunteering for Mary Crow’s campaign had put her behind schedule. If he got involved in a tape for a couple of hours, she could get back to her painting. Selling a couple of canvasses would do their bank account a lot of good. She and Zack might be able to go to the beach for a long weekend. It had been years since either of them had seen the ocean. She was dreaming of warm sand and seagulls when Zack began to scream.
    â€œNo!” he cried. “No, no, no!”
    She jammed on her brakes, her heart pounding. “What’s wrong now?” she cried.
    With wide, terrified eyes, Zack pointed at their house. “He’s come back! He’s here!”
    She leaned over to peer through the passenger window. Her house stood on a small hill, overlooking the street. Parked in her driveway was a white Crown Vic with a whip antenna and a state license plate. Her stomach clenched. Detective Whaley was here. The day that she had just deemed good was turning sour, fast.
    She turned to her son. “Remember what you do when he comes, Zack? You stay in the car and sit still. That way you won’t get hurt.”
    â€œDon’t let him zap me, Mama. Please!”
    â€œI won’t, Zack. But you’ve got to sit still, okay?”
    â€œOkay, okay, okay, okay, okay.”
    She turned into the driveway, trying to take a deep breath. The last time Whaley had come, Zack had run out of the car, flapping his hands and crying. Whaley had spooked and tasered him. Zack had lain on the ground, twitching, urinating on himself while the big cop stood there laughing. If she’d had a gun, she would have shot Whaley dead on the spot.
    â€œJust stay in the car, Zack,” she whispered as she parked beside the police car. “Sit there and look through your new tapes.”
    She got out of her car, lifting her hands high over her head. Whaley had never drawn a gun on them, but she’d seen too many cops on television, killing people of color for not much reason at all.
    â€œIs there a problem, officer?”
    Whaley looked at her as if she were an idiot. “You don’t need to put your hands up. I’ve come to talk to your boy.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI’m asking for DNA.”
    â€œBut you took some, years ago.” She remembered another long-ago nightmare, where three cops wrestled with Zack in a jail cell, trying to pull hairs from his arms and groin. They finally had to sedate him to complete the test.
    â€œWe need more.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œI’m not at liberty to say.”
    â€œSo you just come out here and demand it? Do you know how traumatic that is for an autistic person?”
    â€œA lot less traumatic than getting your