The Silent Ones

by James Hunt

  Grant studied the shadows in the dark, unable to tell which one was Dennis, and unsure of who else he might have waiting for him in the darkness. Chambers had been a surprise, but it made sense.

  “Chambers was how you found the Judge’s address,” Grant said. “It was how you found his son’s school, the bus driver, and once you had his son, you leveraged the boy to have Brockwater unseal the documents holding the jury’s identities.”

  “I sought counsel,” Dennis said, a smile to his voice. “I figured my old defense attorney would be my best option. Killing Brockwater and Winger were satisfying, but they were a means to an end. And I didn’t kidnap Chambers to only find the judge.”

  One of the shadows was thrust from the darkness and stumbled into the light, collapsing to his hands and knees. The man kept his head bowed, his body shaking. And when he lifted his face, Grant saw the tears and blood on Detective Lane’s face.

  “I’m sorry, Grant,” Lane said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Dennis’s laughter echoed from the darkness, low and rumbling, like the warning of a storm on the horizon. “Surprised? I hoped you’d be. Funny how life always comes full circle.”

  Grant shook his head. “Why would you be here? Why would you—” And then the realization sank in, and Grant looked behind him to where he’d left a wounded and dying Douglas Chambers by a tree. He slowly faced Lane again. “He’s your father.”

  “Ding ding ding!” Dennis said. “And the old detective still has it! Apparently our father and son duo had quite the estranged relationship, Lane going so far as using his mother’s maiden name. But after Chambers retired, the pair began to mend their broken ties. Very touching.”

  Lane violently shook his head back and forth. “I didn’t know he was going to take the lieutenant’s family, Grant. I swear I didn’t. But he threatened to kill me, my dad—You’ve seen what he can do. He’s an animal. He had my dad hostage.” Lane scrunched up his face, a line of snot dangling from his chin.

  Grant shut his eyes, shoulders slumping. “That’s how the Mary Sullivan video was released. It was you.”

  “I’m so sorry, Grant.” Lane’s cheeks were red and shiny, and he bowed forward, placing his forehead in the dirt.

  “The detective has been very helpful,” Dennis said. “But he’s not done helping me yet.”

  Grant clenched his fists and then raised his eyes toward the last two shadows in the darkness. “What do you want, Dennis?”

  “You mentioned a trade earlier,” Dennis answered. “And I think that’s a fine idea.”

  A pistol was flung from the darkness and landed at Grant’s feet.

  “Kill Lane.” Dennis pushed little two-year-old Chase, who was crying silently to himself and wearing an explosive device around his little waist, from the darkness. “Or I kill the boy.”

  Lane wailed again, and Grant stared at the pistol on the ground.

  “There’s only one bullet in that gun, Grant,” Dennis said. “That bullet goes anywhere besides Lane’s skull and I let go of the trigger.” Dennis thrust his arm from the darkness, holding the device. “And you know I’m not one for bluffs.”

  Grant grimaced. “No. You’re not.” He stared at the pistol on the ground and picked it up, a few pieces of dirt and leaves clinging to the barrel.

  Lane stared at the pistol, shaking his head. “No, Grant, please. Please! You don’t have to do this.” He trembled on his knees, hands clutched to his chest like he was praying. “Don’t do this.”

  “That’s right, Grant,” Dennis said. “You really don’t have to do this. But we both know the consequences if you don’t. But I should warn you that while the explosion would kill me and the boy, you would most certainly live.” Dennis placed one hand on Chase’s shoulder. “And this is one soul you don’t want haunting your nightmares.”

  Thoughts of Mocks and Rick flooded through Grant’s head. He thought of the consequences that would follow such an act, and the consequences should he not follow through. He thought of Sam, and little Chase, too young to know the true danger and meaning of everything that was happening around him.

  “My patience is running thin, Grant,” Dennis said. “If you don’t kill him by the time I count to three, then the boy dies. One.”

  Lane looked up at him, his eyes red and full of tears and terror. “Please!” He mumbled some other words, but that was the only one that Grant could understand. He reached for Grant’s leg, and he stepped out of reach so Lane couldn’t get any closer, and it caused him to drop to all fours, head still lifted, still sobbing, snot dribbling over his lips and dangling off his chin. “Please…”

  Grant slowly aimed at Lane’s head, his finger on the trigger. Mocks’s words flooded through his head, the pleas, the request, her begging to bring back her family. He knew what it would do to her if he didn’t. But he also knew that his future would never be the same once he pulled that trigger. One way or the other, a life would end tonight.

  “Two!”

  But this was different than pressing the button that killed Mary Sullivan. He wasn’t in a room, miles away, watching the events unfold on the television screen like some surreal movie. Here Grant could smell the fear and sweat and piss that covered the man on his knees. He felt Lane tremble as he pressed the barrel of the gun against Lane’s skull.

  “I’m sorry.” Grant whispered, his mouth dry.

  Grant applied only the lightest pressure to the trigger, but it was enough to end the man’s groveling, end his life, his future, and alter the lives of everyone that he knew and was close to. Everyone he loved, and who loved him in return.

  The lights that Dennis had set up made the gore spread out over the rocks look splendid in its detail. The bright reds and whites were striking against the earthy tones of the forest floor.

  The bullet had gone straight through and took half of the man’s head with it. The body lay in a crumpled mess, arms and legs strewn about, dangled precariously over each other as if he was some kind of human jigsaw that didn’t have all of the pieces in the right places.

  “I knew you could do it,” Dennis said.

  Grant dropped the weapon and then collapsed to his knees, all of his emotions shoved aside by one trembling experience of rage. “Why won’t you just kill me?”

  Dennis emerged from the shadows, but only a sliver of his face was visible, enough for Grant to make out a single eye and the smile that spread across the lower half of his darkened face. “Because death is a release for you, Grant. Exile is your curse now. Because you will be hunted, like I have been hunted. You will run, like I have been forced to run.” Madness escaped from his soulless smile as he tossed his head back and cackled. "I've spent the past ten years devising a plan to bring you down, to hurt you in the worst way possible. And I finally figured it out." He stepped closer, further exposing his body from the darkness, his skin pale in the moonlight. "You learn a lot sitting in a jail cell all alone with your thoughts. You start to wonder what it would be like outside the walls. You wonder because you remember. You remember the sunlight, the breeze, the freedom. And at the very back of your mind, you still believe that you can be free." His eyes twitched, his expression giddy as a line of saliva fell from the corner of his mouth. "True suffering isn't the desolation of hope, Grant. It's keeping just enough hope to survive, to push past the pain. Hope is the slow knife into the gut, the ever-tightening noose around your neck that continues to provide one more gasp of breath." He smirked, twisting his mouth to the side as he shook his head, leaning ever closer, so close that Grant smelled the snot on his upper lip. "You will have no absolution, Grant. You will be forced to watch through a glass wall as the people you love in this world move on without you.”

  Grant trembled, knowing that every world was true, and that the course of his life was altered forever.

  “But I am a man of my word.” Dennis walked over to Chase, removing the boy’s vest and restraints, and the boy sprinted toward Grant, wrapping his little arms around Grant’s neck. />
  “I want to go home,” Chase said.

  Grant squeezed the boy tight.

  Dennis tossed a phone to Grant’s feet. “Keep that on you. We’ll need to be in touch in the coming days.” He turned one of the lights toward a path. “That will take you back to your car.” He turned away, but then stopped suddenly, lifting his hand. “Oh! I do suppose I should give myself a little insurance policy. Just to put some distance between us.” He raised his rifle and Grant turned, shielding little Chase with his own body as the gunshot rang out.

  Chase screamed and cried, but Grant felt no pain from any bullet wound. All but one of the lights shut off, which shone down on Rick, who clutched his bloodied stomach.

  Quickly, Grant had the presence of mind to grab the phone and stuff it in his pocket. From there, he lifted Chase and sprinted to Rick and examined the wound. “Oh Christ.”

  Blood seeped through both Rick and Grant’s hands, neither unable to stop the bleeding. Grant leaned Rick forward, checking for an exit wound, but found none. If he couldn’t get the man to a hospital soon, then he’d die.

  Grant glanced out into the darkness where he’d left Douglas Chambers. He wouldn’t be able to carry all three. So, he focused on carrying two.

  Grant spun around and placed two hands on Chase’s little cheeks, smearing his father’s blood over the pale skin that he’d inherited from his mother. “Chase, I need you to listen.” He pressed firmly against the boy’s face and forced him to look Grant in the eye. “I’m going to put you on my back, and I need you to wrap your arms around my neck and squeeze tight, okay?”

  “I want my mommy.”

  “I know you do, but right now we have to get your dad out of the woods, okay? And I need you to be a big boy. So does your mom. Can you do that for your mom?”

  Chase nodded.

  “Good boy.” Grant spun around. “Just like a piggyback, but you need to hang on tight, okay?” He waited for Chase to climb onto his back, and then scooped Rick into his arms. “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, remember, don’t let go.” Grant planted a shaky leg forward toward the path that Dennis had shown him, and it took all his concentration to keep the three of them from tumbling down the mountain.

  It was all about momentum. Grant kept a steady pace, checking on little Chase, who was able to hang on and whose spirits had lifted now that they were on the move despite the danger that still lurked around the corner.

  “Still good, buddy?” Grant asked, getting into a groove where the burn and ache of his muscles had numbed.

  “Yup.”

  “You’re doing great, Chase. We’re almost there.” At least that’s what Grant hoped.

  Grant had never been one for prayer, and after what he’d just done, he didn’t think that God would have anything to do with him, but still he whispered a silent prayer to himself. Loud enough to make sounds, but low enough for not even Rick to hear.

  “Get me to the car,” Grant said. “Just get me to the car and I can do the rest. I swear I’ll do the rest. All of it. Just get me to the fucking car. Please.”

  He wasn’t sure about the protocol for swearing in a prayer, but Grant thought that the big guy would have other things to judge him on. Plenty of other things.

  And so, Grant trudged blindly on through the forest, carrying Rick in his arms, thinking about what would come next.

  No resource would be spared. No cost of capture too high. His picture would flood the news outlets, and the public would cry for his head on a silver platter. Everyone would come to collect their pound of flesh.

  But that’s not what he dreaded the most. It was what it would do to Sam. Because as much of the attention would be on him, twice as much would be on her.

  Sam was strong, but everyone had their limits. He wouldn’t even get the chance to explain it to her. Because while the authorities would be hunting him, he would be hunting Dennis. Because that’s all he had left.

  And then he’d turn himself in.

  Finally, ahead, Grant saw moonlight reflect off something metallic through the darkness and exhaled in relief.

  “We made it, buddy,” Grant said, though there was no smile. “We made it.”

  Grant was glad to find the van gone, which meant that they’d taken Mocks to the hospital. He slid Rick into the back, pressing his fingers against the soft flesh of his neck for a pulse. It was faint, but it was there. He hurried around and placed Chase into the front seat and put the seat belt around him. “Okay, buddy, I need you to face forward and don’t look back, okay?”

  “Why?”

  Grant stammered but finally found the words. “B-because your dad is sleeping, and he needs his rest, so he can get strong.”

  “Okay,” Chase said, though he sounded upset about it.

  “Good.” Grant kissed the top of the boy’s head and then hurried toward the driver’s side, but when he plugged the keys into the ignition, he paused, a sob escaping from his throat, and he froze.

  “Uncle Grant?” Chase asked. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine, buddy.” Grant wiped his eyes, the dried blood on his fingers smearing red from the tears. “Just keep looking straight ahead.” He started the car, flicked on the lights, and put the dirt path and Dennis’s hunting preserve in the rearview mirror.

  It was shock that kept Lacey still. Shock of what she’d just seen. A live execution. When the lights finally shut off and the final gunshot rang out, Lacey lay still on the uneven forest floor. She was afraid of what would happen if she was seen.

  She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, but it was a long time before she finally had the strength to move.

  Lacey stumbled back to the trail, following it, tripping in the darkness. She didn’t dare use the light on her phone lest Dennis find her and shoot her. But after hours of walking, she finally made it to a road. It was here that she watched the video she recorded on her phone.

  The video of Chase Grant murdering a Seattle police detective.

  40

  The Next Day

  Fog and darkness had plagued most of Mocks’s dreams. But then light broke through all the black, and she was blinded by a different vision, the dull pain of her subconscious sharpening into reality. Her body flushed with heat, and the lethargy slipped off her like water on a seal.

  Mocks gasped and thrust upwards in the hospital bed, the machines attached to her arms and chest beeping with alarm.

  A heavy hand pressed her back against the pillow.

  “Easy there,” Hickem said. “Just relax. Breathe. Just breathe.”

  When Mocks realized it was Hickem’s hand that held her down, she smacked the big man’s hand away with her right arm, noticing that her left arm and shoulder were completely immobile in a mixture of cast and bandages. “Chase, Rick—”

  “Chase is fine,” Hickem said, still trying to calm her, though his demeanor wasn’t as well practiced in the art of the bedside manner. “He’s with Rick’s sister, at home, circled by a slew of cops and federal agents. No one is getting near that boy.”

  Mocks’s lower lip quivered and she covered her mouth, nodding the only response that she was able to give. When she collected herself a bit more, a nurse poked her head inside, no doubt coming to check on her after the alarm bells of equipment that were going off.

  “I just need to check your bandages, Mrs. Mullocks.” The nurse smiled at her, but then glared at Hickem. “You can wait outside.”

  Hickem held up his hands and left the room without a word.

  Once he was out of earshot, the nurse shook her head and murmured under her breath. “That man is a piece of work. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone so overbearing and entitled my entire life.”

  Mocks smiled as she carefully flipped to her side, letting the nurse get a good look at the bandages.

  “You have a little leakage, but that’s normal so quickly out of surgery. How’s the pain?”

  Mocks winced as the nurse prodded her. “My husband, Rick,
he was in the woods with my son, he—”

  “He’s resting,” the nurse said, placing a comforting hand on her leg.

  “How bad is it?” Mocks asked.

  “The bullet struck his liver and damaged one of his kidneys,” the nurse said. “There weren’t any spinal injuries, and the doctors did what they could, but he might require a transplant if he doesn’t improve, and another surgery … Well, it makes things more complicated.”

  Mocks nodded. “I want to see him.”

  The nurse opened her mouth as though she were going to speak, her head tilted to the side in the way that most people did when they were about to deliver bad news.

  “I’ll take you to him.” Hickem stood in the doorway, nearly taking up the whole damn thing.

  After the nurse confirmed that it was fine with the doctor, Hickem wheeled her out of her room and to the ICU where she saw her husband lying unconscious, hooked up to a breathing machine, and she burst into tears.

  Mocks grabbed hold of Rick’s hand and kissed it. It was still warm but was unable to return the embrace of her touch.

  “Grant barely got the two of you here in time,” Hickem said.

  Mocks, with her eyes still on her husband, asked, “Is Grant hurt? Did he make it out okay?” She hoped he did, so she could thank him, add it to the list of unrepayable debts that she owed to him.

  But when Hickem didn’t respond, Mocks turned around.

  “There are some things we need to discuss.” Hickem cleared his throat. “About what happened in the woods.”

  Mocks frowned, shutting her eyes and trying to clean the foggy memories. It must be the painkillers they were giving her. “I came home, and there was a note—”

  “We found the note at the house,” Hickem said. “What happened in the woods, Susan?”

  “We went to get them back, and I was shot. Grant brought me back to the car, and then…” Mocks turned around and looked at Rick. “And then he went back to get my family.”

  Hickem sighed. “So, you don’t know.”