The Silent Places

by James Patrick Hunt

  “You’re not me.”

  Klosterman said, “You know, I never dreamed I’d agree with your ex-wife about anything. But I think she’s got a point.”

  “You can’t stand Eileen.”

  “Hey, broken clock’s right twice a day.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you what she said.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. But you did. Georgie, never marry the first woman you date after you divorce.”

  “I wasn’t going to marry her.”

  “That’s the problem. She knew it, too.”

  “Are you through?”

  “No,” Klosterman said. He lifted his head as Mrs. Preston walked up to them. “Ma’am,” Klosterman said.

  She acknowledged him politely, then turned her attention to Hastings.

  “The lights are dimming,” Sylvia Preston said. “Ready to go back in?”

  “Uh,” Hastings said, “Sergeant Klosterman’s going to take my seat for the third act.”

  “Are you not enjoying it?”

  “Of course I am,” Hastings said. “Your daughter’s very talented. But he’s been on his feet for a while and…”

  She did not hide her disappointment. “Well, okay,” she said.

  She walked away. Klosterman glanced at her backside, then turned and gave Hastings a “What have we here?” look.

  “Shut up,” Hastings said.

  “I don’t know what it is about you and these high-class types.…”

  “Go cultivate yourself.”

  They came out about thirty minutes later. Klosterman was dabbing his moist eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” Hastings said.

  “What?” Klosterman said. “It was a great ending. The fuckup brother raising his glass to toast. You missed it.”

  “Let’s go,” Hastings said.

  They walked behind the Prestons through a poorly lit parking lot. Hastings saw no tears in the senator’s eyes. He remembered that the senator hadn’t laughed at all during the play. He’d seemed even more bored than Hastings. Another thing: He didn’t look at his wife much. He wondered about Senator Preston. A rich, successful man. Yet when he wasn’t involved in some sort of power play, he seemed unhappy much of the time, perhaps even bitter. Like a compulsive gambler away from the blackjack table.

  Hastings listened for snatches of conversation between the two. The senator was saying their daughter needed to go to law school. Something about her being a decent actress, but not a great one.

  It did not occur to Hastings that he was invading their privacy. Much of his adult life had been dedicated to observing people, looking for weaknesses. It was not something he could easily turn off. When he thought about it—which was infrequently—he realized he wasn’t much interested in turning it off.

  Now the senator’s car was in sight. They had been brought here by a driver. Now the driver wasn’t here.

  Hastings touched Klosterman’s arm and they moved forward, coming up even with the Prestons.

  “Just a minute,” Hastings said. “Where’s your driver?”

  “I don’t know,” Senator Preston said. “He’s supposed to be with the car.”

  “Stay with them,” Hastings said to Klosterman.

  Hastings moved to the other side of the parking lot, circling back to a dark sedan he had seen when they’d first entered the lot. A man was sitting behind the wheel of the car. Older, late forties or early fifties. Large-jawed and pale-skinned, hair blond or gray. There was a grass knoll separating the parking lot from Grand Boulevard, and Hastings walked behind the knoll and came back up behind the car, now seeing the man’s back. His hair blond …

  Hastings pulled his service revolver from his holster. He held the gun at his side, the barrel pointed at the ground. Then he walked up to the driver’s door and yanked it open.

  The man in the car turned, startled.

  “Police,” Hastings said. “Step out of the car, please.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Out of the car. Now. ”

  The man got out and Hastings pushed him against the car, told him to spread his hands on the roof. Hastings checked him for weapons. He didn’t find any.

  “What’s going on?” the man said. “I have money. Please—”

  “Be quiet,” Hastings said. He looked into the car for weapons but didn’t see any there. “What are you doing here?”

  The man said, “I’m waiting for my girlfriend. She works at the library.”

  “A little old to be dating a student, aren’t you?”

  “She’s not a’ Jesus, what is this?”

  “You’re waiting for your girlfriend. Where is she?”

  “I just told you. She works at the library. She’s not a student here. God.”

  Now Hastings looked across the parking lot and saw something that cleared things up. A heavyset girl was approaching the car with a confused, frightened look on her face.

  She said, “Harvey? What’s going on?”

  “Marcia!” the man said. “Call the police. This guy’s crazy.”

  “I am the—”

  Then Hastings saw something else: the driver of the senator’s car now standing with Klosterman and the Prestons. The driver was holding a cup of coffee and a packaged Pop-Tart.

  “I am the police,” Hastings said, his voice a little lower now. He stepped back and the girl came forward.

  “Sorry,” Hastings said.

  “What’s the matter with you?” the man said, his voice a mixture of fear and anger now.

  Hastings apologized again and moved away. A few steps away, he heard the girlfriend call out, “Asshole.”

  When he got back to the Prestons and Klosterman, the senator was looking at him and shaking his head.

  “Nice work,” Senator Preston said. “Very impressive.”

  “Alan,” Sylvia said, admonishing him.

  “Sorry,” Hastings said. He wondered how many times he would have to say it tonight.

  Later, they were back at the house, across the street from the senator’s home. Hastings was at the window, Klosterman lying on the cot, watching Jay Leno. A commercial came on and Klosterman pressed the mute button on the remote control.

  Klosterman said, “You know Lincoln was killed during a play.”

  “I know,” Hastings said.

  “Yeah, I guess you do. You still pissed at him?”

  “Who? Lincoln?”

  “No, not Lincoln. Senator Dickhead, that’s who.”

  “Not really.”

  “Asshole,” Klosterman said. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything to him.”

  “What could you have said?”

  “I could have told him we’re here because he requested our protection. We do our jobs and then he gives us shit about it so he can look good in front of his wife. Chickenshit.”

  Hastings shrugged.

  “We shouldn’t have to take that,” Klosterman said.

  “I think we do have to.”

  “Shit detail,” Klosterman said.

  “Yep.”

  Klosterman clicked the mute button. Jay Leno could be heard again. A few moments passed and Klosterman said, “Oh hell. How many times can he have Howie Mandel on?”

  “Change the channel,” Hastings said.

  “This is the only channel we can get. You got anything to read?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve got some paperbacks in the trunk of the car.”

  “I’ll get them,” Hastings said.

  “You mind?”

  “No. I need some air anyway.”

  Cops, like soldiers, like to read paperbacks. They are in professions with a lot of downtime. Often books were read and discarded in the department’s locker room, to be picked up by anyone else with an interest. Klosterman kept a few paperbacks in the trunk of his car.

  Hastings walked out to the car, opened the trunk, and observed the scattered collection. It included Fatal Vision, Vincent Bugliosi’s book on the O. J. Simpson trial, a
couple of Fletch novels, and something called The Chicago Way. Hastings took two of the non-fiction books and two novels out and shut the trunk.

  Stepping back from the car, he saw motion, someone coming out of the house.

  It was the woman. Saying something to someone. Hastings heard a jingling of dog tags and then saw the little dog. An off-white Westie.

  The dog smelled him and started to growl.

  “Hi,” Hastings said.

  Sylvia Preston squinted in the dark. “Oh, hi. Lieutenant?”

  “Yes.”

  The senator’s wife told the little dog to behave. Hastings set the books on the trunk of the car. Then he walked over to her.

  Hastings ignored the little dog, knowing that doing so would relax the dog and him. The dog understood and ran off to find a place to do his business.

  Hastings said, “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Preston said. “His name is Fred. He’s my daughter’s dog, actually. We got him when she was fifteen. But … I’m the one who’s ended up having to take care of him. You know how kids are.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry. I just presumed you have children. Do you?”

  “Yes. A daughter. She’s thirteen.”

  “Here in town?”

  Hastings hesitated for a moment, wondering where else his daughter would be. He said, “Yes. Her mother and I are divorced. We share custody.”

  “Oh. Well … that’s good.”

  “Yeah, it is. She’s a great kid.”

  They were quiet for a moment, standing about ten feet apart. The pretty lady waiting in the dark while a little dog ran around in the yard. The policeman feeling awkward. Like many cops, Hastings was class-conscious. He was about to excuse himself, when she spoke.

  “About this evening,” the woman said. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “My husband,” she said. “He was rude. He’s not usually like that.”

  Hastings assumed that he very likely was usually like that. He said, “It’s okay. I embarrassed him.”

  “He’s on edge, I think. He says he’s not afraid of this … this man. But he is. I am, too.”

  “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  “Are you?” she said. She gave him a steady look, not hiding it. Then she said, “Why did you—why did you question that man, then?”

  “Well,” Hastings said. “We came back and your driver was gone. And then I saw the man in the parking lot and he fit, roughly, the description of John Reese. I guess I’m a little on edge myself.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “You’ve never seen a cop make a mistake?”

  “No.” She smiled. “No. I’ve never seen a police officer take charge like that. You were very cool. Even when you—” She laughed.

  “Even when I realized I’d screwed up?”

  “Yes,” she said, laughing some more. “I’m sorry. Seriously, you handled it very well. Better than I would have.”

  “Yeah, well,” Hastings said, “it’s the, uh, training. I’ve got to get back in.”

  “Okay.”

  He started to walk away, feeling a little off balance. A few feet away, he heard her speak to him again.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Hastings turned and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  She gestured with her head to the back of the unmarked police car.

  “Aren’t you going to take those books up with you?”

  “Oh.”

  She smiled at him again. “I presume only one of you will be reading while the other keeps an eye on us.”

  “You’ve a very discerning woman, Mrs. Preston.”

  “Sometimes,” she said.

  TWENTY-TWO

  David Chang picked out three movies—Caddyshack, Chinatown, and As Good as It Gets. His wife, who was at home, wanted to see the last one. She was a Jack Nicholson fan, even though she said Nicholson didn’t seem to be taking his acting too seriously since he’d played the Joker. Chang paid for the DVDs and walked out to his car.

  His Nissan Altima was parked next to a Lincoln Continental. He walked between the cars, when the door to the Lincoln opened and smacked into his car. Chang stopped and stared at the man who got out of the car.

  “How clumsy of me,” the man said.

  Chang heard something behind him. He started to turn around, but then he was grabbed from behind, an arm encirc linghis neck. He felt the wet cloth against his nose and mouth. Chloroform …

  Dexter Troy rode in the van with two other men. They had Chang in the van, his hands tied behind his back, a thick piece of duct tape across his mouth. Clu and another man followed them in the Lincoln Continental. They drove to an isolated area in the woods. They stopped the vehicles and pulled Chang out. Then they walked. Two men in front of Chang, three behind. Two of the men held short machine guns with thick noise suppressors that were shaped like oil cans. Another of the men carried a folding chair.

  They walked almost a mile. Then they reached a clearing. The man with the chair unfolded it and set it on the ground. Two of the other men placed Chang in it. They untied his hands from behind his back and taped them to the arms of the chair. When that was done, Clu Rogers stepped in front of Chang and tore the duct tape from his mouth.

  Clu said, “That hurt you, professor?”

  Chang looked up at Clu. He said nothing to him.

  Clu moved away and Dexter Troy took his place.

  Troy said, “A few questions, Mr. Chang. Answer them correctly and you go free. If you don’t, we’ll torture you and then we’ll kill you.”

  “Torture me,” Chang said, as though the notion made him merely curious. He looked at the men forming a semicircle around him. “I thought terrorists usually wore masks.”

  “We’re not terrorists. We just want information.”

  “Torture usually leads to the wrong information. Or didn’t they teach you that?”

  Troy smiled. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But once these fellows go to work on you, you’ll crack anyway and you’ll have suffered through it for nothing.”

  Chang said, “Are you a soldier?”

  “I was,” Troy said.

  “And now you work for money.”

  Clu said, “Now how did you know that?”

  Troy asked, “Have you been warned about us?”

  “I know nothing about you,” Chang said. “Or what you want.”

  “I think you do,” Troy said. “You remember John Reese, don’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “That’s funny. John Reese. He got you and your family out of China. We think he’s been to see you lately.”

  “John who?”

  A kick from the side, tipping the chair over. Chang’s face hit wet mud. Clu walked over and put a boot on Chang’s other cheek.

  “The name is John Reese,” Clu said. “He killed a man in Washington. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Troy said, “Mr. Chang, you’ve already tipped your hand. You seem to know who we are. Maybe you were expecting us. Maybe Reese warned you we might be coming.”

  Clu shifted the weight of his boot to Chang’s neck.

  Troy said, “Where is Reese, Mr. Chang?”

  “I told you. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Clu pressed his boot down.

  Chang struggled, but he did not talk.

  Troy said, “Hold it. Trent, Matt. Go get his wife, bring her back here.”

  Two of the men started to go.

  “Wait,” Chang said.

  Clu lifted his boot.

  Chang said, “If I tell you what you want, will you promise to leave her out of it?”

  Troy said, “If you tell us, yes.”

  “Your word?” Chang said.

  “Yes,” Troy said. “You have my word.”

  “Reese was here, a few days ago. He asked to borrow some money. I gave it
to him. He didn’t tell me where he was going and I didn’t ask. But I think he was going to England.”

  “How do you know that?’

  “Because that’s where he used to live. That’s where he was the most happy. He wanted to go back.”

  “I think you’re lying.”

  “What reason would I have to lie to you? John Reese is nothing to me. Years ago, he used me to get information for the CIA. I used him to get out of China. That is the extent of our relationship.”

  “Yet you loaned him money.”

  “I wanted nothing more than to see the back of him. I was willing to pay to see him go.”

  “I still say you’re lying. What if I told you I have personal knowledge he is still in this country?”

  “Then I’d say he lied to me, too. Torture me all you like, but it won’t change what I know.”

  “Tell me the truth and we’ll let you go.”

  “I have told you the truth. And we both know you’re not going to let me go. I’ve seen your faces.”

  Troy said nothing, suddenly uncomfortable. This man on the ground seeing him as he was, not as he thought he was.

  Chang gestured with his head to Clu and said, “You’re going to have this man do it for you.”

  Troy said, “How do you know that?”

  “Because you don’t have the courage to do it yourself.”

  Chang smiled, and Troy pulled a pistol from his coat and shot Chang twice in the head.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Reese arrived in St. Louis a little after one o’clock in the afternoon and checked into a Holiday Inn near Forest Park. He had stayed the previous night at a cheap motel in Tennessee and slept badly on an uncomfortable bed. He signed the register as Paul Bryan. In the hotel’s courtesy fax/Internet room, he checked Senator Preston’s Web page again and confirmed that he would be at the fund-raiser at the Chase Park Plaza at six that night. Reese returned to his room and debated taking a nap, then decided against it. He showered and shaved. Then he put on a new suit, brown-and-blue twill. White shirt, a tie, and cordovan shoes. The suit was off the rack from an Atlanta department store. Carrying the briefcase, he would look like a lawyer or a businessman. Inside the case was the disassembled rifle.

  It was approximately two o’clock when he drove to the Central West End.

  By three, he had secured an apartment on the tenth floor of a building across the street from the Chase Park Plaza.