The Silent Places

by James Patrick Hunt

  Molly said, “Oh, you’re up. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m feeling better, thanks.”

  “I brought you some food. Do you like tea?”

  “I happen to love tea.”

  “I hoped you would,” Molly said, setting the tray on the nightstand. “If we were in England, this would be teatime. Have you been to England?”

  “Yes. I lived there for a while, actually.”

  “Oh?” She seemed surprised by this.

  Reese said, “It was a long time ago.”

  “Did you work in the oil business? Sorry if I’m prying.”

  “You’re not. No, I didn’t work in the oil business. Why did you think that?”

  “My father worked in oil. He worked for British Petroleum. We were Americans living in England.”

  “You lived in England?”

  “For a few years. From the age of five to thirteen.”

  “Was your father an executive?”

  “No, an engineer. He was one of the pioneers on the liquefied natural gas project. I’m sorry. I’m sure that would bore you.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. Tell me about it.”

  “Well, he helped build that and he was on the ship that first transported liquefied natural gas across the ocean. From Lake Charles, Louisiana, to Dover, I think. That was before I was born.”

  “That’s terrific.”

  “You think so? I never understood it all myself.”

  “It’s quite an achievement. It’s good to leave something like that behind.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. Did you like living in England?”

  “Sort of. My mother and father put me in a British school, though there’s a school there for children of Americans. I guess he thought the experience would broaden us.”

  “Did it?”

  “Well, if you want to call cold classrooms and bad food a broadening experience.”

  Reese laughed. He said, “I liked it there. But I wasn’t a child.”

  Molly said, “What I remember was the vacations we used to take there. They’re called ‘holidays’ there.”

  “Right.”

  “We would load up the car with a picnic basket and drive to the seashore. Go out to the beach and put the blanket down, and you could just see that it was about to rain. And then it would rain. And we’d have to pack everything up and get back in the car. We’d eat our sandwiches in the car. That’s what I remember about those trips. It was either raining or it was about to rain.”

  “Right,” Reese said again, smiling at the memory. “I guess if you’re born there, you get used to it. You don’t know anything else. You left, though, when you were thirteen?”

  “Yes. We moved to California. A bit of a culture shock. My father missed England, but the rest of us were glad to be back in the States. The American kids made fun of my English accent.” She looked at him, suddenly aware of herself talking. “Sorry.”

  “What?”

  “I’m prattling.”

  “No, you’re not. I like it. You still have a trace of an accent.”

  “Do I?”

  “A trace, yes.”

  Molly poured the tea in the cups. She handed a cup to Reese. Reese sipped it and thought it was very good. Then he took a bite of one of the sandwiches. Egg salad, and that was good, too.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes, it’s very good tea. But I meant thank you for helping me.”

  Molly said, “You’re a guest here.”

  “I know, but I won’t be staying long.”

  “I know that, too,” Molly said, taking his meaning.

  They were both quiet for a few moments, having their tea, each feeling something for the other but avoiding direct looks.

  Reese said, “Do you have other family, apart from your son?”

  “My father died a couple of years ago. My mother and brother live in California. We got along okay, but we’re not that close.”

  “Don’t you want to go back? To California, I mean.”

  “No, we like it better here. Connor has friends—we’ve put down roots here.”

  “And you have this business.”

  “Yes. It keeps me occupied.”

  Reese felt pity for the woman again. But she didn’t seem to feel any for herself. He admired her for it. He said, “Do you think you’d like to get married again?”

  “I don’t think so,” Molly said. “If I had a husband, he would have to fit in here. And then there’s Connor. It’s a lot to ask of a man.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  The woman blushed and briefly turned her face away. She said, “Are you married, Mr. Bryan?”

  “No.” Reese hesitated. Then thought, Why lie to her? Why lie to someone like her? He said, “I was. She died, too. Cancer.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “And you never had children?”

  “No. We meant to, but…” He shrugged.

  “I am sorry. But a man like you, there’s still time for that. You could meet a young lady and have a baby with her.”

  “It’s a little late for that.”

  “No, it isn’t. And you’re a natural with kids. The way you handled Connor. It was very nice.”

  “Oh,” Reese said, embarrassed. “That was fleeting.”

  “It wasn’t fleeting. He likes you, you know. He says you’re ‘cool.’”

  “He’s a good kid. You’ve done well with him.”

  “No. I’ve been lucky.”

  Reese looked at her. A plain woman at first, but not plain. In fact, very attractive. Pretty, really. He said, “You lost your husband and you’re alone on a holiday. And you say you’re lucky.”

  Her voice tight, Molly Mangan said, “I was talking about my son. But it all depends on how you look at things.”

  “You did love your husband, didn’t you?”

  “Very much. Did you love your wife?’

  “Yes, but…”

  “I guess I just don’t see the point, that’s all. I don’t see the point in being mad about things.”

  She stood up and went over to get the tray. She avoided eye contact with him. Reese could see that she was struggling to hide her hurt. He felt a shame he didn’t think was in him and placed a hand on her arm.

  “I’m sorry,” Reese said.

  She shook her head slightly, still not looking at him.

  And Reese stood in the presence of the lady. He said, “I’m sorry, Molly. I’m not used to—I haven’t been with people for a while. I’m sorry.”

  Then, without thinking about it, he kissed her on the cheek. She turned and looked at him, her face registering apprehension. Not of him, but of herself. Reese was about to step back, when she leaned toward him and kissed him on the mouth. Her mouth opened and Reese felt his heart jump, as if he were a teenager. “Hey,” he said. And she dropped the tray on the floor.

  “Hey,” Reese said again.

  And now the woman apologized, seeming ashamed and self-conscious in that moment, and Reese stepped forward and put his arms around her to comfort her. He said, “It’s all right.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  He pulled her close in the embrace and kissed her on the cheek again. She relaxed in his arms and he heard her say, “I’ve—I’ve never done this before.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, not since my husband. He was … It’s only been…”

  “It’s okay,” Reese said. “I’ll go.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure.” Then she kissed him again.

  Some things you don’t forget. He had not been with a woman in over thirteen years, the last one being his wife. Under normal circumstances, he would have worried about whether or not he would be able to do it. Before Sara died, he had allowed himself to fantasize about making love to her again. In his mind, the truth su
rfaced and he was released from prison. But even in the fantasy, he was nervous about the first time with Sara. Would prison make him impotent? Sexually damaged? It’s not good for a man to be alone. To be without a woman. After Sara died, he stopped fantasizing about another time with her. It seemed wrong somehow. Instead, he thought of the times they had had.

  Molly Mangan looked better naked than she did clothed. She looked good. Her body was full and natural and she was an uninhibited lover. She thrust her hips back and forth underneath him, and when he came, she moaned softly. He stayed on top of her and asked her if he was hurting her, his weight on top of her. She shook her head and whispered “No,” smiling warmly. And he asked her if she was all right and she said she was fine. The second time, she got on top of him.

  Later, they lay in bed, and Reese realized he didn’t want to leave. He had been with a lot of women before he was married, and typically when it was done, he wanted to go. He had expected to feel self-conscious around this woman he had pitied, this woman he had mistaken for a frump. He wondered if prison had screwed him up. Had made him consider a life with a woman he barely knew, filling in for the woman’s husband, the boy’s father. People who should have been strangers to him. That he was lonely, he knew. But he had to be out of his mind to consider a long-term arrangement with this woman and her son. He had told her he would be leaving soon and she had said, “I know that, too.” He had not misled her.

  She lay nestled against him, her back to his front, his arm around her stomach. She turned to him.

  “You were hurt before,” she said, “weren’t you? Before you fell down the stairs.”

  “…Yes.”

  She said, “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know.”

  “Whatever it is, I don’t care.”

  “But you should. You should care.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you have a son. And you don’t need someone like me in your life.”

  “Maybe I do need you. Maybe you need someone like me.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t say ‘someone like me.’ You’re not just a warm body I found. You’re a good lady.”

  She almost laughed at his seriousness. She said, “I mean something to you?”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “I’m not even sure what to call you. Paul?”

  “Call me John.”

  “John?”

  “Maybe I’ll explain it to you sometime.”

  “John.” She said, “Are you in trouble?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a good man.”

  “I’m not a good man.”

  “Seducing a lonely woman,” Molly said. “Is that how you see this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, don’t. You didn’t seduce me. I may not be the most experienced woman, but I’m not stupid, either.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  “I know what I’m doing. And I’m not sorry, either.”

  Reese said nothing, looked up at the ceiling.

  Molly said, “I didn’t plan this. It happened, and I think it’s good that it happened. We can’t plan everything, can we?”

  “No.”

  “But sometimes it can be good, too, the unplanned.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “I said before that I knew you weren’t going to stay. And I wasn’t lying to you when I said it. But I want you to think about staying. Because this might be something. Will you think about it?”

  “I have thought about it,” Reese said. “Am thinking about it. But I’m fifty years old. It may be too late for me to…”

  “It’s not too late,” Molly said. “We’ll have no more talk of it now. Will you stay with me through the night?”

  “Yes.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Charlie Day used his pen to point out on the schematic where tact team officers would be placed. He said there would be uniformed officers working the streets and some plainclothesmen. Hastings would be one of the latter. There would be patrols of the Soldier’s Memorial and surrounding areas throughout the night in case John Reese tried to set up early.

  Also present at the briefing were Ronnie Wulf, Chief Grassino, Howard Rhodes, Tim Murphy, Joe Klosterman, and Capt. Dan Anthony. There were also officers from the county PD who had offered to assist.

  Charlie Day took questions, and when those were addressed, he added, “Remember, this man is not a minor leaguer. He was a sniper for the military as well as an intelligence agent. He is extremely dangerous. If you see him, do not try to take him alone unless absolutely necessary. George? Do you have anything to add?”

  “No, Charlie,” Hastings said.

  “Chief?”

  “No.”

  “Then I guess we’re adjourned.”

  As the meeting broke up, Hastings approached Captain Anthony.

  “Dan?”

  “Yes, George.”

  “Can I speak to you privately?” Hastings feigned a submissive tone. Anthony would think he wanted a favor.

  When they were alone, Hastings said in a different voice, “Did you tell Dexter Troy where Reese was the other night?”

  Dan Anthony’s face tightened. “What?” he said, his tone tense. “Where do you get—”

  Hastings said, “Did you?”

  “Who the hell do you think you are, asking me that?”

  “Did you, Dan?”

  “George, I’m on your side.”

  “I know that. But I want you to answer my question.”

  “I don’t think I care to.”

  “Look, Dan, I don’t much care if you did. If you did, it may have been innocent.”

  “Innocent? What makes you think I told them?”

  “I asked Troy about it myself. I asked him how his men knew where Reese had wrecked his car. He said something about hearing it on a police radio. Now that’s possible, but it’s not likely. It’s just not likely they picked up something that specific on a police radio or scanner.”

  “You think I told them.”

  Hastings sighed. “I’m sorry, Dan, but I do. I don’t know who else it could have been.”

  Then fear was in Anthony’s eyes. In a tone just above a whisper, he said, “Who else have you told about this?”

  And that confirmed it for Hastings. He was actually disappointed to learn he had been right. He had never disliked Anthony.

  “I haven’t told anyone,” Hastings said. “But I’m not going to lie for you if I’m asked. Do you understand me?”

  “George, I didn’t think it was wrong. I didn’t.”

  “I believe you. But you can’t help these guys anymore. I don’t care how nice they are to you.”

  “They’re not bad guys, George.”

  “Well, I think they might be. In fact, I think they’re planning to kill John Reese. Don’t ask me why I think that or if I have proof of it. Just trust me. Now there’s a line between protecting Senator Preston and straightforward contract killing. So as a friend, I’m telling you, don’t get close to these people. Whatever they’ve offered you, it’s not worth it.”

  “It’s not like that. I swear—”

  “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

  “George, I—”

  Klosterman walked up to them.

  Hastings said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dan.”

  Klosterman waited until Dan Anthony left. Then he said, “You asked if there was any sort of connection between Anders and the senator.”

  “Yeah.”

  Klosterman said, “I might have something.”

  It was around eleven o’clock when Hastings got home. He turned on the television and watched the ESPN tally of the day’s football games, all of which he had missed. He watched a highlight of a Manning pass caught in the end z
one. Then he went to his bedroom closet and took down his Winchester model 52 rifle.

  He loaded it in the living room, in front of the television set. While he did that, he remembered Dan Anthony’s pained expression as Anthony tried to explain himself, but Hastings had cut him off, saying he’d see him tomorrow. Hastings hadn’t wanted to look at Anthony at that moment. He wondered if he would have felt better about it if Anthony hadn’t been ashamed. Hadn’t shown a human weakness. Sometimes it was easier to deal with the Alan Prestons of the world who didn’t seem to feel ashamed about anything.

  The hell with it. Dan Anthony was not his problem. Not now. He pushed him out of his mind and concentrated on the rifle.

  FORTY-NINE

  At 2:45 in the morning, John Reese climbed out of Molly Mangan’s bed and got dressed. He looked at Molly for a moment. She really was beautiful. He had wanted her and she had wanted him. But lust fades and is replaced by commitment and tenderness. Things he had not expected to feel again. He did not feel he had betrayed Sara. In a way, he wondered if he had done something for her. If Sara were here—here in some ethereal way—he could ask her what he should do and Sara would say, Stay. But he would not ask her and he knew it.

  He had not slept well through the night. Whether this was due to having slept a lot during the day or anxiety, he did not know. He did know that for a few short, sweet hours he had entertained the idea of marrying Molly Mangan and beginning a new life with her and her son. But as the night wore on, he knew this was not possible. It was too late for him, as he had tried to tell her. And they deserved something better.

  He had given her his first name: John. He had told her because he didn’t want to lie to her about his name. But he had lied to her all the same by keeping silent about his past, about who he was. Today, she would find out who he was. Whether he was dead or alive, she would know. Probably it would be on the evening news. Then she would know who she had shared her bed with and she would be stuck with the memory. She would, justifiably, feel betrayed. Reese knew this and it sickened him. He had done this to her. And it made him feel worse to know that he would have probably done it anyway, because he had needed her so badly. Probably more than she needed him. He thought all that time in prison had made him stronger. But he was wrong. This sin was his alone, not Preston’s.