With painful effort, he managed to drive back to the bed-and-breakfast.
He was relieved that Mrs. Mangan was not at the front desk. One of her employees, a younger lady, was there, and she barely acknowledged Reese as he hurried by her, turning his head so that she would not see the wounds.
He climbed the stairs, putting more of his weight on the banister than he did on his left foot. Still, it was excruciating, a pain sharper than he had hoped. He reached his room and managed to get the door unlocked.
“Hi.”
Reese turned to see who it was. It was the boy, Connor. He had just come out of the bathroom.
“Evening,” Reese said, catching the boy’s look of concern before he rushed into the room and closed the door behind him.
Reese removed the scope from his coat pocket and put it on the nightstand. At least he managed to keep that, he thought. Maybe it would make the night’s debacle worth it. Though he doubted it.
He sat on the bed and removed his boots. First the right, then the left. The left one did not come off easily. He sucked in a cry as he pulled it off. Then he examined the wound.
It was bad. His ankle and foot were swollen and tender to the touch. Slowly, he placed his foot on the ground and put a little weight on it. He winced again. It wasn’t just the ankle. He had probably broken a metatarsal bone in his foot, too.
His room did not come with its own toilet, but it did have a stand-up sink and mirror. Reese hobbled over to it and examined his face in the mirror.
Christ. He looked like a ghoul. He had probably frightened the poor kid half to death.
Reese washed the dried blood off his face and forehead. When it was as clean as he could make it, he examined the wound on his scalp. It was tender to the touch. In the army, they would probably have put in a couple of stitches. Maybe he would do it himself if he had the materials.
Shit, he thought. Forget it. First things first.
He thought again of the boy in the hallway. What would the boy say to his mother? Hey, remember that guy who was nice to me? He looks like he got run over by a truck.
He would have to think of a reason for his injuries. A twisted ankle, a busted foot, a cut on his scalp—all could have been caused by falling down stairs. No one else involved. Yes, that was it. Stairs.
First he would need to get cleaned up. Take a bath. Soak the leg in a hot tub, then wrap the ankle in ice. But which to do first …
In the mirror, his image blurred. He grabbed the sides of the sink and steadied himself. He moved to the bed and then fell on it. Then he passed out.
FORTY-TWO
The next day, it rained. It was a cold, soft November rain, the sort that does not come down in sheets, but comes on and off all day. It reduced visibility, slowed traffic, and drove the transients off the streets and into the shelters.
It was also Thanksgiving Day. Most people did not have to work. Consequently, the owner of a Mazda station wagon in Clayton did not venture out of her house until almost noon. That was when she realized her car had been stolen and reported it to the police.
Hastings was working. Amy was spending the day with Eileen and Ted and Ted’s relatives. He had been invited but had declined. Probably he would have declined even if he didn’t have to find John Reese. Spending the day with his ex-wife’s husband and his family would have been out of Hastings’s comfort zone.
Hastings was sitting at his desk downtown, reviewing the government’s file on Reese. The U.S. attorney’s office hadn’t given him much, but he had gotten a copy of the prison file. In the file was an exchange of letters between Reese’s attorney and the prison warden—an argument about letting Reese out to attend his wife’s funeral. The request had been denied, Reese being deemed too great a security risk. The warden wrote that while he was aware of the tragic circumstances of Sara Reese’s long-term battle with cancer, he could not fully sympathize with a man like John Reese, who had demonstrated such callous disregard for the lives of others. The warden reiterated that at no time had Reese expressed remorse for his actions or acknowledged his crimes. The warden finished the letter by saying that a man like John Reese could not be trusted not to use funeral leave as an attempt to escape.
There was also a letter to the warden from Reese, a personal handwritten note. In the note, Reese said he would be willing to say anything the warden wanted if the warden would allow him to attend Sara’s funeral. (He used his wife’s name.) There was no indication that the letter had been answered.
Cold, Hastings thought. But wasn’t the warden right? Hadn’t Reese created his own plight?
Hastings’s cell phone rang.
“Hastings.”
“Lieutenant?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Deputy Cudahy, county PD. Eff Escobar gave me your number.”
“Oh, good. What’s up?”
“We got a report of a stolen vehicle about three blocks from where the suspect crashed his car.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s a red Mazda station wagon, late model. This is the tag number.”
Hastings wrote it down. He said, “He’s probably ditched it by now.”
“Probably. You think it was him?”
“Any other cars stolen in that neighborhood?”
“Not last night.”
“Then it’s him. No coincidence here.”
“Okay. Well, it’s in the system.”
“Thanks.” The phone on the desk rang. “Sergeant? I got another call here.”
“Okay. I’ll call you if I got anything else.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
Hastings picked up the other phone.
“Yeah.”
“George?”
It was Jack Diedrickson from the technical investigation lab.
“Yeah,” Hastings said.
“We lifted prints from the steering wheel and we got a pretty good partial from the knob on the radio. And we ran it through AFIS. John Reese was driving the car.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Diedrickson said. “Do you mind if I go home now? My wife’s supposed to have dinner at two.”
“No, I don’t mind. Listen, Jack. I’m very grateful that you came in for this—”
“Yeah, yeah. Look, I gave you the preliminary just now. Do you have to have a formal report today?”
“No. But shoot me an e-mail confirming what you just told me, before you go. Okay?”
“All right, George. You’ll have it in about two minutes. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah, you, too.”
Hastings hung up the phone.
Jesus, it was him. It was John Reese. Here in St. Louis. He had told himself that he had known it all along. The man behind the wheel of the smashed car, the man in the apartment building across the street from the Chase Park Plaza, the man running down the alley, the man aiming a rifle at him. The voice in the darkness. You shouldn’t have come after me.
Now it was confirmed.
And Hastings was glad.
He knew a decent person should feel ashamed of this. Who should feel relieved that such a man was near? Was still in town? That a senator’s life was still in danger? Was he that intent on proving Senator Preston wrong? I told you. …
But George Hastings knew who he was and what he was. He knew that this was something beyond the senator. He knew he wanted to hunt this man. Catch him, bring him in.
Reese was proving to be smart, but in some ways not as smart as an animal. Why would Reese stay? Why would he risk his freedom and his safety to go after a man who wasn’t worth pissing on?
Senator Preston was no statesman. Okay, he was thinking about running for president. But so were a lot of politicians. Preston was no Great Man. Nor was he an American Hitler, ready to wreak havoc on the world. Why not leave him alone? Who was it that said vengeance is for suckers?
What was in John Reese’s head?
> Alan Preston had put John Reese in prison. Okay. That was a bad thing. But it was what prosecutors did. Often they were threatened by criminals they had prosecuted. Rarely did the criminals actually attempt to carry out the threat. It was mostly jailhouse posturing. He’s gonna pay. … Loser talk.
And what was John Reese? Was he just another loser? Another perp? A criminal who simply had the benefit of military training?
Like most cops, Hastings tended to think of criminals as losers. It was the sort of classifying that had always angered Carol. “They’re people, George,” she would say. Yeah, they were people. People who were losers. He felt some pity and on some matters—for instance, drug-law penalties—his viewpoints could outliberal most liberals. His thoughts on assassins and the like generally tracked with the experience of most law-enforcement officers. Most assassins targeting public figures were indeed losers. Troubled misfits with very little going for them. Jobless, poor, small, and ignored. Taking a gun and going after a famous man made them big. Gave them fame. Made them important.
But John Reese did not fit into this category. He had been important. He had accomplished a great deal. An army Ranger, a CIA operative, a successful businessman. It was Reese who had thrown it all away by selling out his country.
Wasn’t it?
It occurred to Hastings, not for the first time, that he didn’t know everything he needed to know. Preston had closed up on him. No, actually, Preston had never been open with him in the first place.
What he’d like to do was get John Reese in his office and talk to him. Ask him, “What is your problem? Why are you wasting your life on this? What is this about?” Maybe Reese would give him some straight answers. Preston certainly wasn’t.
Hastings looked out the window at downtown St. Louis. The streets were mostly empty. People with better lives than his were home with their families on Thanksgiving. Those streets would move again tomorrow. Even though Friday was also a holiday. People coming downtown to shop.
Veterans coming downtown to watch Senator Preston give a speech at the Soldier’s Memorial. Maybe see him get shot. Maybe his goons would be there to watch it happen, too.
“Oh shit,” Hastings said.
FORTY-THREE
Clu Rogers walked up to the window of the Jaguar and said, “You again? I guess you don’t listen, do you?”
Hastings was back at Senator Preston’s house. The perimeter was still guarded. Black Chevy Suburbans, men in dark clothing, hiding their weapons.
Hastings said, “They make you stand out in the rain, huh? Lousy way to spend Thanksgiving.”
“Why don’t you stand out here with me?”
Hastings said, “You got a hard-on or something?”
“Hey—”
Hastings said, “Listen to me, shithead. I saw you last night. On Clayton Road, by Reese’s car. We could have talked then. How come you left?”
“You didn’t see me.”
“I did. I called out to you and I know you heard me. Why did you take off?”
“I don’t have explain myself to you, Lieutenant.”
“What were you doing there? That was police business. What the fuck were you doing there?”
“What I was doing was—”
“Clu!”
Clu turned around. Dexter Troy walked up. Hastings saw the man direct an angry look at Rogers. A look that said, What the fuck is the matter with you?
Troy said to Clu, “Go back to the house.”
Clu gave Hastings another look, intending it to be meaningful. Then he walked away.
Dexter Troy reminded Hastings of a young Arnold Palmer. Natural athletic build, confident and sure of himself.
Troy said, “You’ll have to pardon Clu. He can be a little too diligent at times.”
“He strikes me as a man who likes his work,” Hastings said.
“I’m Dexter Troy, chief of security for Ghosthawk. I’m sorry, but we’re all a little on edge.”
“Forget it,” Hastings said.
Troy said, “The senator’s having Thanksgiving dinner with his family. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Actually, it wasn’t really the senator I wanted to speak to.”
Dexter Troy regarded the policeman.
“Who did you want to speak to?”
“Kyle Anders.”
Troy seemed to sense trouble. He said, “What do you want with him?”
“I’d like to tell him. ”
“Well,” Troy said, “he flew to Tennessee this morning to have dinner with his own family.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“I don’t know. Again, I’m in charge here. Perhaps I can help you.”
“Perhaps,” Hastings said.
Troy said, “You can park over there.”
Hastings put the Jaguar next to a black Cadillac in the driveway. He walked with Troy to the garage, where the door was open. They stood in shelter, the rain outside coming down.
“So,” Troy said, “are you investigating Ghosthawk now?” There was a thin smile on his face. Like the notion was ridiculous.
Hastings said, “John Reese is in town. It’s been confirmed. We found his prints on the car the police were pursuing.”
Troy lifted his head, unable to hide his reaction to the news.
Hastings said, “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Troy said, “I don’t follow you.”
“Yeah?” Hastings said. “I think you’ve been doing just that. I saw your man at the site of the wreck last night. That’s what I was asking him about. How did he know to be there?”
“How should I know?”
“You just told me you’re in charge. Don’t tell me you don’t know.”
“We have police radios, Lieutenant. We monitor radio traffic. So what? We’re here to protect the senator. Are you trying to tell me where I can and can’t do my job?”
“Your job is to protect Preston. Preston was nowhere near that scene last night.”
“So?”
“So you and your people had no business being there.”
“We go where we want.”
“No, sir. You don’t go where you want. If you interfere with police business, you’re committing a crime.”
“No one’s interfering with your little problems. And if you think you have cause to arrest me or any of my men, go ahead and do it.”
“I would if I could.”
“Why? Lieutenant, I’m trying to be reasonable here. We’re after the same thing.”
“No, we’re not. I’m trying to find Reese and bring him in. You guys want to kill him.”
Dexter Troy looked off into the rain. “You have no proof of that,” he said.
“Mr. Troy, I’ve got no beef with you or your boss. You want to be bodyguards, it’s fine by me. But if you expand into assassination, contract killing, I swear to God I’ll arrest all of you for conspiracy to commit murder, the senator included.”
“You’re a city cop, nothing more,” Troy said. “And you’ve got no proof.”
Hastings said, “You tell Anders what we talked about. If I know him, he’s going to make sure he’s not in town while it happens. And if shit comes down, he’ll probably try to hang it on you.”
“We’re done talking.”
“Tell him,” Hastings said. “Tell him I’m onto him. And remember one more thing: I may hesitate to shoot you. John Reese won’t.”
Troy watched Hastings walk away, waited for him to go to his car. But then Hastings turned at the corner and went to the front door of the house.
“Hey!” Troy said. But it was too late.
FORTY-FOUR
Preston found Hastings waiting for him in the living room.
Preston said, “Mr. Hastings, have you no family of your own?”
“I have a daughter,” Hastings said. “She’s with her mother today.”
“I have a daughter, too. I’d like to spend the holidays with her and my wife.”
“I’ll come to the point. John Reese is in the city. His fingerprints were found on an automobile that was involved in a high-speed chase last night.” Hastings looked Preston in the eye. “I presumed you already knew that.”
“You presume incorrectly. If it was John Reese, why didn’t Chief Grassino telephone me himself?”
“We just got the confirmation an hour ago. We found a shotgun in the trunk of the car. No rifle.”
“So?”
“So, I presume he’s got a rifle. Another one. He purchased a scope at a gun store in North County last night. That’s how we found him.”
“I see.”
“If you want to telephone the chief for confirmation yourself, you can call him now.”
“You don’t think I trust you at all, do you?”
“I don’t know what you think, sir. Listen, you cannot give that speech tomorrow.”
“Why not? Because he’s loose?”
“He’s here. The man is here. You brought him here. There was a high-speed pursuit last night. Luckily, no one got hurt. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Are you blaming me?”
“In part, yes. You haven’t been straight with us since the beginning.”
“Don’t accuse me of bad faith. You’re not in a position—”
“You knew it was Reese who shot at me in the park and yet you denied it. Why? Why did you do that?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Yes, you did. And we know why, don’t we? Don’t we?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You don’t want Reese captured. You want him killed. That’s why you called the cops off.”
“That’s slander, Lieutenant. Chief Grassino will hear about it.”
The Silent Places Page 20