The Silent Places

by James Patrick Hunt

  “Tell him what you like,” Hastings said. “But he’s going to figure out you’ve lied to him, too.”

  The senator seemed to give him an appraising look. He said, “You seem to think so little of me, Lieutenant. It’s a wonder you don’t want me killed yourself.”

  “That’s the last thing I want. Cancel the speech. Please.”

  “You’ve stated your case,” the senator said. “Now get out.”

  Hastings took another look at Preston, seeing a man trying to hide his fear, then seeing the senator’s expression change as he looked past Hastings.

  Hastings turned and saw Sylvia Preston in the doorway.

  He wondered how long she had been there, how much she had heard.

  Preston said, “He was just leaving.”

  Hastings looked at Sylvia. He nodded to her and walked out of the other door.

  When he was gone, Sylvia said, “Alan, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. He’s out of line.”

  “He’s trying to help us. He’s a good man.”

  Preston snorted. “A good man,” he said. “And I’m not?”

  “I didn’t say that. I think you try to do what’s right. You do try, don’t you?” She almost sounded like she was trying to persuade herself.

  Preston said, “I take care of my family. And my country. I try my best to do that.”

  “Alan,” she said. “Are you trying to have John Reese killed?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Do I have to explain myself to you, too?”

  “I want you to answer me.”

  “John Reese is a terrorist and a traitor. He’s a threat to me and to you and to Emily. The world would be a better place without him.”

  “You’re talking like a lawyer now,” Sylvia said. “Please answer my question.”

  “Would you rather I be killed?”

  “Oh … Alan.”

  “Maybe you would. If I’m such a disappointment to you.”

  “Alan, stop. You’re being manipulative.”

  “Maybe you believe the detective over me. Maybe that’s what it’s come to.”

  “Stop it. I want you to tell me.”

  “No, Sylvia. I am not trying to have John Reese killed.” He gave her a look she had not seen before. “Okay?” he said. His cynicism was ugly enough to be forceful.

  “Alan, I don’t even know what to say to you anymore. You didn’t even try. You didn’t even try to persuade me. It’s like you just said the words so they’d be on the record.”

  “I told you what you wanted to hear. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Alan—”

  “Don’t you see, Sylvia? Don’t you see? It has to be done. It’s not even my decision anymore.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He laughed bitterly. “You don’t, do you? Look around you. This house, the vacations, all the nice things we have. You don’t think we got that on a senator’s salary, do you?”

  “…Alan?”

  “Oh, stop. You know. You’ve always known.”

  “Have you been taking money from Kyle Anders?”

  “It’s business,” Preston said. “It’s the way things are done. Grease. Don’t look at me like that. The contracts would probably have gone to Ghosthawk anyway. I just helped it along.”

  “But the committee, the investigation…”

  “Right. You chose to believe it. I don’t remember hearing you complain when we got the new house or the other things. You’re part of it, too, Sylvia. As much as me.”

  She walked out of the room, crying.

  “As much as me,” the senator said again.

  When she was gone, he told himself she didn’t want to understand. Good man. A cop, no less. That was what Reese’s lawyer had said about Reese. “Your Honor, this is a good man who loves his country.” But John Reese was a rat and a killer. It didn’t matter whether or not the CIA had disowned him.

  There’s generally little profit in a politician’s self-examination or honest introspection. For most of them, it is better to see themselves as they wish to be seen rather than as they are. Alan Preston was not unusual in this respect. Still, there were times he looked at himself and wondered when it was that he began hating people. Sometimes he believed it had started with John Reese. Well into Reese’s trial, the general counsel at the CIA had come to Preston and confessed that the CIA’s previous affidavit was “perhaps wrong.” Preston was furious. The general counsel saying, well, perhaps Reese had been working with the CIA, just as he claimed. Perhaps. Preston had said, “But you don’t know for sure.”

  “We don’t know for sure either way,” the general counsel said. “Not absolutely.”

  We don’t know for sure either way. Not absolutely. Christ. Preston had thought of what the judge’s reaction would be if he found out the CIA’s affidavit was false. He would dismiss the case. He might even sanction Preston for prosecutorial misconduct. John Reese would go free and go back to being a millionaire mercenary. And Alan Preston would be humiliated and disgraced, his career derailed.

  He had made the decision quickly and without much thought. And in deciding to suppress the CIA’s damaging admission, Alan Preston had told himself that John Reese was trash anyway. He later persuaded the jury and the judge of the same thing and they helped him get John Reese a lifetime sentence.

  Since then, he had hated John Reese. And he had learned to hate other men, too. Men like Kyle Anders and, now, George Hastings. Men who reminded him of what he was.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Hastings was almost back at the police station when he got the call from Chief Grassino. The chief said he had gotten a report on Hastings from Senator Preston. Hastings said he imagined the chief had. Grassino said, “George, you better take this seriously.” Hastings said he was, of course. A minute later, Hastings agreed to meet the chief at the chief’s home.

  Chief Mark Grassino had been hired from Atlanta, where he had been assistant chief. He was about fifteen years older than Hastings. He was tall, thin, and dark-haired. Italian-American in his looks, his voice that of a southerner. He did not shake Hastings’s hand at the door. Nor did he introduce Hastings to his wife and children, who were in the living room watching the Cowboys-Packers game.

  Grassino led him into a small den and shut the door behind him.

  Grassino said, “George, you seem to be upsetting people.”

  “The wrong people?” Hastings said.

  “Don’t give me that. I back my officers. When they’re right.”

  “I am right. And I didn’t say anything to Preston I wouldn’t say in front of you.”

  “He says you barged into his home, accused him of corruption.”

  “I didn’t make an appointment, no. But—I did need to speak to him about John Reese.”

  “To warn him that John Reese was in St. Louis?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did it occur to you that that there were other ways you could have done that? You could have telephoned him. You could have telephoned me. And I would have let him know.”

  “Am I being ordered to treat him differently than I would any other suspect?”

  “Suspect? George, you’re a homicide detective. Do you suspect Senator Preston of committing murder?”

  “In a sense, yes.”

  “You’d better explain that to me.”

  “Sir, I think Senator Preston has a very close relationship with Kyle Anders, the owner and CEO of Ghosthawk. Basically, they’re hired guns, mercenaries. I think Preston wants them to kill John Reese.”

  “The man’s life has been threatened. He has the right to secure bodyguards.”

  “They’re not just bodyguards.”

  “What proof do you have of this?”

  Hastings told him about seeing Clu Rogers at the scene of John Reese’s wrecked automobile. He also told him about his conversation with Dexter Troy, Ghosthawk’s chief of security.

  Grassino said, “That’s it?”

  “
Yeah, that’s it.”

  The chief of police sighed. “George, that’s nothing. You arrest him with that, the district attorney will laugh at you.”

  “I wasn’t trying to arrest him,” Hastings said. “I was trying to warn him and Anders not to try to kill Reese.”

  “It’s not your place to warn him.”

  “I think it is.”

  The chief regarded Hastings. “Okay, then we have a disagreement. But you’re under my command. And I’m giving you a direct order not to harass Senator Preston.”

  “I understand.”

  “Don’t say you understand, like I’m cutting Preston a break or something, because that’s not how it is.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “You did mean it that way and I don’t need that shit. Not from you.” Grassino exhaled and seemed to let some of his anger out. Then he said, “Let me be clear about something: I’m not going to allow some fucking politician to run this department.”

  “Then why order me to leave him alone?”

  “Because he’ll come after you, George. If he doesn’t do it through me, he’ll do it through someone else.”

  “Did he request my termination?”

  “Yeah,” Grassino said, surprising Hastings with his candor. He had thought the chief would use weasel words. Grassino said, “What did you expect? From a man like that.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you were one of the best homicide detectives we have and that I had no doubt you were acting in good faith. I told him if he had a formal complaint, he could submit it to the administration, using the standard policy procedures, and that an internal investigation might be conducted to see if his complaint was valid. He was unpleasantly surprised to learn cops have due-process rights, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me, because it’s not over yet. You want to go after someone like Alan Preston, get your fucking ducks in a row. Make sure, George. Don’t go up against him with suppositions and theories. Don’t give him that opportunity.”

  “I won’t,” Hastings said. He felt now that he had misjudged Grassino, a man he didn’t know well. Hastings said, “Out of curiosity, just what did he say when you told him to submit a complaint through administration?”

  “He said he had expected better from me.”

  “Okay,” Hastings said, avoiding eye contact with the chief. “Well, what about Reese?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s still at large. Is Preston still going to give his speech downtown?”

  “Yes. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s intent on doing it, for some reason.”

  Hastings said, “Maybe he wants to draw Reese out. Offer himself as bait.”

  “Maybe,” Grassino said. “But as I said before, keep your theories to yourself. At least for now. I’ve alerted Charlie Day to get the tactical unit ready. They’ll be covering the rooftops. Uniforms on the street. Call Charlie today, coordinate with him. There’ll be a briefing downtown tonight at twenty-one hundred. I’ll expect you there.”

  FORTY-SIX

  The night had been bad. Marked by fever, sleeplessness mixed with exhaustion. Reese was unable to sleep well, but he was too weak to get out of bed and do something about it. He had no medicines. No pain relievers, nothing to break the fever. At times, he sensed that there were people in the room with him—ghosts—but he had sense enough to know that these were hallucinations caused by traumatic delirium. The sort of thing that often followed injury or shock. He hoped it wasn’t shock.

  He was almost relieved when he saw gray morning light come through the window. He had feared the night would never end. In time, he lifted his arm to look at his watch, and even that was an effort. Lifting his fucking arm. It was Thursday.

  Thursday. The next day. Had the spirits done it all in one night?

  But it was morning and the spirits were gone. The fever and the scared, helpless feeling of being sick and unattended remained. He could smell his own perspiration and dried blood. Maybe something more.

  Thursday. Thanksgiving Day. His first holiday out of prison in thirteen years. A free man’s holiday. Free but not free.

  He realized he was still in his clothes. He had not found the strength to undress. He lifted the left cuff of his pants to examine his foot and ankle. The swelling had not gone down. If anything, the pain had increased. Red, throbbing pain. An abscess had formed. Reese hopped over to his bag and retrieved a knife. With the knife, he lanced the abscess. Pus drained out. He cleansed the wound with water from the sink. He knew this would not be enough to get rid of the infection. He would need Betadine or even a bottle of alcohol. He had neither.

  He opened the door and looked out in the hallway. He saw no one. He wondered who, apart from himself, would spend Thanksgiving Day at a bed-and-breakfast. He limped down to the bathroom to clean himself. In the bathtub, he fought the urge to vomit. He would have done it, except he didn’t want to refill the tub. He feared there would be no more hot water. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the water was cold and he realized he had fallen asleep. Or fainted. He didn’t know which.

  He got back to his room and changed into a fresh pair of shorts and jeans and an undershirt. Then he persuaded himself not to get back in bed. He had work to do and not much time. He started to work on fitting the scope to the rifle. He had at least kept the scope.

  He heard the rain coming down outside. It made him feel better. It was always easier to hide in the rain.

  He finished fitting the scope about an hour later. Then he put the rifle and attached scope underneath the bed. That done, he found that he was thirsty and hungry. He put a sweater over his undershirt and moved to the door. He would have a light breakfast and then come back to the room and rest. He felt he had earned it.

  There was a moment at the top of the stairs when he felt a wave of nausea and he had to grab the banister and steady himself. It passed and slowly he made his way down. Near the bottom of the steps, the wave returned, bigger this time, and he felt shards of pain shooting up his leg. Then things went black and he fell.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Coolness. Comfort. Yes, comfort.

  Reese opened his eyes and saw the woman above him. She lifted the cold compress off his forehead.

  Reese took in his surroundings, realized he was in a bed but not in his room.

  The Mangan woman was sitting on the bed next to him. She was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and a black skirt. It’s better than her previous outfit, Reese thought. Not as dowdy.

  She said, “How are you?”

  “I don’t know,” Reese said. “What happened?”

  “I was in the dining room and I heard a crash. You seem to have fallen down the stairs.”

  Christ, Reese thought. Fell down the stairs. The story he was going to tell if asked. How was that for irony?

  “Yeah, I guess I did,” Reese said. “You didn’t call anyone, did you?”

  “Like who?”

  “An ambulance. Nine one one.”

  “No. Do you want me to?”

  “No.”

  “I can if you want.”

  “No, don’t. I’ll be fine. If you’ll just let me get back to my room.” He started to rise but felt another wave. The woman gently pushed him back.

  “You’re burning up,” she said.

  “I’m not … I’m not comfortable here, ma’am. This is your room, your bed. You have guests.”

  “No one knows you’re here. And I’m not worried about—I’m not worried.”

  “Where is the boy?”

  “He’s in Rolla.”

  “What’s he doing there? Is he with his father?”

  “No,” the woman said. “His father—my husband—died a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Molly Mangan shook her head. She had never sought pity. She said, “It’s okay. Connor went with a friend of his from school. They have a
big holiday celebration there. Family, a big dinner, football in the yard. He’ll enjoy himself there more than he would here.”

  “I see.”

  The woman looked at Reese for a moment, then seemed to become aware of herself and got off the bed.

  Standing, she said, “You need medicine. Can I get you some aspirin?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Reese said. “Do you have—do you have any antibiotics?”

  “I think so. Connor had his wisdom teeth removed last month. I think we still have some Augmentin. Would that be all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  She returned with the medicine and a glass of water. After he took the medicine, she put the compress back on his head.

  “You have a fever,” Molly said.

  Reese said, “It’ll break. Listen, I can’t stay here. If you’ll help me up, I’ll return to my room.”

  “Your room’s upstairs. I don’t think you can get back up there with that foot.”

  “I can.”

  “Please stay here,” she said. “I don’t want you falling again. Please stay. At least for a while.”

  Reese said, “I don’t want you doing this.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  Molly Mangan said, “I know.”

  Then she left the room.

  Reese looked at the door after it closed and thought there was nothing to stop him from getting up and walking out himself. But his fever was still burning and he told himself he would leave in five minutes.

  Three minutes later, he was asleep.

  When he awoke, it was darker in the room. He checked his watch and saw that it was late afternoon. Outside, the rain was still coming down. The sheets beneath him felt clean and cool. He wiggled his toes and realized the woman had taken off his shoes and socks. She had removed his sweater, too. He was still in jeans and an undershirt.

  Reese moved his legs to the side of the bed, then sat up. He looked at his ankle. The woman had taped it and cleaned it with alcohol. Reese put some weight on it and winced again. It still hurt.

  The door opened and the woman came in. She was carrying a tray. On the tray were a teapot, two small cups, and some finger sandwiches.