Hush Hush

by Erik Carter

  “Weasel,” Silence said.

  “That’s what they called me, yeah. I was a junkie. And a rat.”

  “And an abuser.”

  “Huh?”

  “Of women.”

  Beasley’s shoulders dropped. “Yeah, man. I did. Hookers, you know? I used to slap them around a little.” He paused. “No. No, it was more than that. I beat the shit out of ’em. Sent a few to the hospital. Nearly killed one. I was a monster. A real weasel. But people can change. Look around you, man. I’ve cleaned myself up. Done good for the world. Started a business. Volunteer work.”

  Silence pointed at his eyes. “But still taking.”

  Beasley cocked his head.

  “Bloodshot,” Silence said.

  “Oh.” Beasley scoffed, shook his head. “I’m not taking, asshole. I’ll show you why my eyes are bloodshot.”

  He shifted past Silence and Jonah, back to the front door, which he swung open hard enough that it cracked into the wall. He pointed. “Go see for yourself.”

  Silence stepped over, looked outside to where he was pointing—the sports bar across the street, the one with a crowd formed around the television sets outside.

  “Amber called me her uncle,” Beasley said. “But to me she wasn’t a niece. She was more like a daughter. Remember that.”

  His bloodshot eyes filled with tears. One escaped, raced down his cheek. He swiped it away.

  Silence looked at him. Then stepped past, back into the sunshine. Jonah followed. The door slammed shut behind them. A deadbolt thudded into place.

  Silence put his hands in his pockets as he walked down the sidewalk. His mind mulled over everything he’d just heard.

  It was a quiet street, pristinely landscaped. Silence and Jonah strolled across it to the sports bar, stepped to the back of the crowd. There were no cheers, no drunken exclamations from the onlookers. Rather there were whispers, shudders, Oh-my-Gods.

  A projector screen television filled the wall behind the bar. Wall-mounted television sets were scattered throughout the space. All the screens showed local news programs. The screen closest to Silence bore a large headline:

  AMBER LUND’S BODY DISCOVERED

  Chapter Twelve

  Silence slowly turned his head, looking out the corner of his eye. Beside him, Jonah wore the same non-expressive look as when they first met. That blank, not quite emotional, not quite upset expression.

  Silence took a couple steps away from Jonah, toward one of the television sets that bore closed captioning. He didn’t want to encourage Jonah to join him, uncertain of the younger man’s emotional state. But Jonah did follow.

  A gray strip of empty highway crossed the bottom of the screen, and beyond, a flat marshland dotted with palms and pine trees stretched to the horizon. An ambulance was to the left, cop cars on the right, all the vehicles’ lights flashing. The energy was languid and careful as a group of uniformed personnel lifted a stretcher, covered with a white blanket, over the guardrail.

  The close captioning read,

  AND EARLY REPORTS INDICATE THE BODY WAS FOUND ON STATE ROAD 50 OUTSIDE TITUSVILLE, IN A PATCH OF BRUSH, HALF-SUBMERGED. A PASSING MOTORIST MADE THE SIGHTING.

  “They checked that area. Impossible,” Jonah said. Although his face was still emotionless, there was pain and disgust in his tone.

  SOURCES INFORM CHANNEL 16 THAT DRUGS HAVE BEEN DETECTED IN LUND’S SYSTEM. A SAD DAY IN THIS EVER-EVOLVING STORY, BUT AT LEAST NOW LUND’S FAMILY AND FRIENDS HAVE SOME MODICUM OF CLOSURE. STAN.

  The camera went from a pretty, middle-aged blonde woman to a suited and dignified, silver-haired gentleman of maybe sixty. Stan. In the graphical rectangle over his shoulder was an image related to a new story—a baby panda bear. Stan spoke. Closed captioning said that the zoo had welcomed a recent addition.

  Silence turned to Jonah. He was the same. That same look. Even with the bit of reaction in his tone moments earlier, nothing had changed about his face. And as Silence considered this, trying to make sense of it, Jonah suddenly turned and rushed off.

  He went to the wrought iron, decorative trashcan a few feet behind them. And vomited.

  Someone laughed.

  Silence approached him.

  Jonah’s hands were on the flared lip of the trashcan receptacle, his fingers wrapped around it tightly, interlaced in the gaps, head hung over the gaping hole in the center, drool dripping down, coughing.

  An image flashed through Silence’s mind.

  An image of himself. In his previous life. With his previous face and previous voice and previous name. Before the incident, the surgery, his conscription into the Watchers. A disembodied view. A floating camera. The man who Silence had been, crouched on a mansion’s hardwood floor, in a pool of blood.

  C.C.’s body.

  She was face down.

  Cold.

  Black hair splayed in the blood.

  A hole in the back of her head.

  The man who would become Silence had heaved. Like Jonah just had.

  And then the man who would become Silence had passed out.

  Jonah wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Straightened up. Put one hand to his stomach.

  A wave of empathy flushed over Silence, a peculiar feeling of connection. Something from his old self fired off in the back of his mind, flickers of what he had been, the compassion. He wanted to reach out to Jonah, embrace him.

  But he didn’t.

  Silence remembered the judgement he had leveled at Jonah, not an hour ago, when he found out why the man had cheated on his then-fiancée, when he found out that it had been only a matter of months ago.

  “Abhorrent piece of shit” was the snap-judgment title his mind had conjured for Jonah.

  Which seemed trite now. And petty.

  “Go home,” Silence said as quietly, as gently as he could.

  Jonah took a deep breath, cleaned his lips again, looked at the back of his hand and wiped it on his jeans quickly, embarrassed.

  He shook his head.

  “Go home,” Silence said again. He swallowed. “Meet tomorrow.”

  “No. Let’s continue. Come on.”

  And before Silence could respond, Jonah stepped away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gavin Stokes was in complete darkness.

  A tumult of deep reds and shadowy grays swam before his closed eyes. His body swam too, violent twists of his torso, swings of his arms, tossing the abstract distortions, twirling and skewing them.

  The sight of Amber’s body on the newscast. The confirmation of her death coming from a television set. Knowing that somehow she had met her end in the middle of a swamp. He pictured her beautiful, guiltless face in the murk, blonde hair stained brown and foul green.

  Another round of tears coursed out of him, head between his knees, hands in his hair.

  A thick scent. Flowery sweet. Lilac. Lingering notes of detergent or fabric softener, whatever had been used to clean the blanket that his face was buried in, a fleece throw that had been draped over the arm of the sofa.

  The smell of lilac would be associated with his niece’s death, every time he smelled it, from here on out. Forever. He could predict that bit of the future.

  A wave of anger. He pulled at his hair hard enough to water his eyes more.

  This was an injustice. He didn’t know what had happened to her. But it was an injustice.

  He could already hear the cynical voice of the collective in his head, the increasingly over-informed, opinionated public, saying that the drugs in Amber’s system spoke to her character. They would say that drugs explained why Amber’s car had veered off the road, gotten stuck in the mud.

  But those voices, those people didn’t know Amber. Gavin had been foolish, stupid, to have allowed himself to be separated from her in recent years, but he was never disconnected from her essence. Amber was pure. Whatever led her to drugs, it was not her fault.

  None of this was her fault.

  He knew it.

  Wh
y had she been taking drugs? Why?

  Another surge of pain, so strong he felt it in his head, a tension in his skull, his brain. He was lightheaded for a moment. His fingers tingled. A dappling of sweat on his forehead, absorbed by the fleece blanket.

  A realization. He’d heard nothing from the other side of the room for some time now. Minutes. He took his head from the blanket, opened his eyes.

  Carlton was in the recliner opposite the sectional on which Gavin was sitting. It was his house, Carlton’s, only seven years old, stylish yet not overbearing, trendy furniture and all the latest amenities. A bank of picture windows behind them, through which inappropriately chipper sunlight entered the room from the countryside beyond, blazing green and blue.

  Carlton stared off. Motionless. Bloodshot, wet eyes. A tumbler of bourbon in his hand.

  Gavin tried to speak. Couldn’t.

  He tried to stand. Couldn’t.

  Then he reminded himself again whose daughter Amber was.

  Was.

  He found his strength and stood, then stepped to his brother, placed a hand on his shoulder. “Carlton?”

  Nothing. Motionless.

  Gavin remained there for several long moments, keeping his hand on Carlton’s shoulder almost as much to steady himself as to comfort his brother. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen a few feet away. Additional humming from the ceiling vents, air conditioning that felt too cold.

  Finally, Carlton spoke, that deep voice of his more gravelly than normal, not as loud. “Here,” he said. He stood, wobbled, and trudged to the kitchen. He pulled open a drawer, retrieved a small paperback, and slowly made his way back to the recliner.

  Gavin watched the book as he approached. He knew immediately what it was, from just a glimpse of the bright blue cover, the thin spine, a splash of red lettering in a distinctive font on the front cover.

  Gavin’s hands shook.

  “Here,” Carlton said again. “This was on her desk. One of the books you read to her, right?”

  Gavin had to reach both hands out to take it. “Yes.”

  The Secret of Summerford Point

  Kara, Kid Detective, Book 7

  All of its edges—the outline of the cover, the text block, the corners—had been worn to a fuzzy, cloth-like texture through hours of gentle use.

  Gavin’s fingers trembled as he pulled back the front cover. The pages within had yellowed with time, turning to a dark amber color.

  Amber.

  The comfortable scent of a used bookstore wafted from the pages. The copyright page showed a publication year of 1972.

  In the upper right-hand corner of the first page, a blank page, was Amber’s name in big, awkward, print letters, the handwriting of a second grader—AMBER STOKES.

  And farther down the page, centered, were a few lines in an adult’s handwriting. His handwriting. Gavin’s.

  Amber,

  It has been a pleasure experiencing these wonderful mysteries with you. You are a real sleuth in the making.

  Love,

  Uncle Gavin

  When Amber was a tiny girl, it had stunned Gavin to discover that Carlton didn’t read to her, given that two of them—he and Carlton—had read together as boys, voraciously. They devoured copious detective stories, long nights with flashlights and graham crackers and giggles. The habit led to a brotherly oath: they’d both grow up to become real-life detectives. The oath was honored, but Carlton was quick to point out that he’d become a real police detective, and Gavin was just a part-time private eye.

  Since Amber’s mother had died when she was young and Carlton wasn’t reading to her, Gavin filled the void, a great chance for him to bond with his niece and a way to perpetuate one of the warmest memories of his childhood—reading detective stories with a loved one. For years, until Amber finally grew too old, too cool, he read her scores of children’s detective books. Her favorites were Nancy Drew and Kara, Kid Detective.

  Reading to Amber was one of Gavin’s most treasured memories, and apparently it was one of Amber’s too. Because she’d held on to at least one of the books. For all these years.

  Gavin held it in his hands.

  He stepped back to the sectional, clutching the tiny book. The cover was slightly sticky, a child’s possession, read at night with a flashlight while eating surreptitious candy that sullied the fingers, sullied the cover.

  He stared at it now, sitting between his knees, held between both his hands.

  It had hit him like a punch seeing both of their handwritings within the front cover, his and that of a childhood version of Amber. And he didn’t know if he could take another blow.

  But he also clearly remembered how much Amber used to write in her books. Little notes. Underlinings. Highlights. Gavin had never been a fan of marking up a book, something he viewed as destructive and potentially changing the author’s original intent. But he had never discouraged Amber, a young, plucky, would-be gumshoe. So he knew that if he turned the pages, he would see more evidence of young Amber in the form of her notes.

  He wanted to.

  But he didn’t know if he had the strength.

  He opened it anyway.

  And there they were, just as he remembered. Amber’s little musings.

  What does this mean?

  What is a buoy?

  I like this!! So funny

  He continued turning, saw his own name.

  Uncle Gavin says I should look this up

  He turned the page.

  Kara is so COOL!!!

  He flipped another page.

  And stopped.

  Something peculiar.

  There was another one of her excited notes…

  Oh no!! Kara is in trouble!

  …and beneath it was a line of adult handwriting.

  But this time the adult handwriting wasn’t his own.

  He recognized it from the sticky note Jonah and his associate, Brett, had shown him earlier in the day.

  It was Amber’s adult handwriting…

  And the message was alarming.

  I think I might be in trouble.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A perky, chipper little coffee shop/Internet café wasn’t the sort of destination that Jonah would have expected from Brett, this tall, unsmiling, violent, mysterious man who Jonah was beginning to think was some sort of spy or assassin rather than a private detective.

  The place was a bit bigger than Jonah’s own coffee shop, seating maybe thirty people, which made sense given its dual purpose as an Internet café. He admired what they’d done with the place, a contrast to Roast and Relax, to which Jonah and his business partner had given a retro vibe. The aesthetic of this place fell somewhere between a Starbucks and the romanticized, deceivingly perfect coffee shops in primetime sitcoms. Quirky paintings, shelves with knickknacks, and a random guitar adorned the walls, one of which was olive green, the others light tan. Copper ceiling. Wooden, two-seat tables. Everything had a glowing, golden, earthy feel, except for one contrasting table, bright blue with white chairs. Along the far wall were several computer stations, Brett and Jonah’s purpose for entering.

  They soon found themselves at one of the seven matching Macintosh computers. Jonah took a sip of his latte and watched as Brett hunched over the computer, squinting at the monitor. Beside him on the wooden counter was a steaming mug of regular coffee, black. Jonah would have thought that Brett would look out of place here, but his chic clothes and, surprisingly enough, his demeanor fit right in.

  It’s funny how places seem to adapt to people.

  Jonah pulled his stool closer to Brett’s, looked at the screen.

  Brett had a program open, Netscape browser, a portal to the World Wide Web. The website that he’d accessed was Yahoo! search engine.

  Brett dragged the mouse, bringing the cursor into the search field, clicked, then started typing. He used both hands, all fingers, in proper typing form, not pecking with two fingers as Jonah had noticed so many people over thirty doing. In th
e search field appeared:

  “ray beasley” orlando

  Again Jonah was impressed. Brett had Internet search savvy; he knew that placing search terms within quotation marks joined the contained words into one term, a better way of getting relevant, precise results.

  A list appeared on the screen—hyperlinks with descriptions—and among them was an old police article from the archives of the Orlando Defender.

  Police Apprehend Four in Late Night Raid

  Brett clicked the link, which brought up the Defender’s website. The article was from 1986. Jonah leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the screen, but before he could, Brett was already dragging the scroll bar on the side of the screen, the text flying by, getting a rapid-fire assessment of the article.

  A moment later, Brett brought the cursor to the top of the screen, highlighted the URL. But instead of typing a new URL, he began entering a long streak of numbers. His fingers moved rapidly, no hesitation, which meant he had this long number committed to memory. Jonah stopped counting after twenty digits.

  “What’s that you’re entering? It’s not a URL.”

  Brett didn’t respond.

  “Do you have this number memorized?”

  Brett didn’t respond.

  Jonah’s mind flashed to his thoughts moments earlier, those of Brett being something quite more than a private detective. He thought of the card Brett had handed him at their introduction. It had said he belonged to an “organization.” No further clarification. Just an “organization.”

  Who was this guy?

  And what the hell had Jonah gotten himself involved in? This secretive organization that—if it even existed—claimed to have a mission of helping people in need.