The Silent Places

by James Patrick Hunt

  He held his breath as he left her room. His ankle was still in pain. He found that he could not avoid limping.

  Five minutes later, he left the house.

  He parked the Mazda about a mile and a half from the target. He checked his watch and saw it was about ten minutes after three. The sun would rise at 7:06 A.M. He would have liked more time, but he should have enough. He looked around the neighborhood. He didn’t see anyone. Houses and cars, but everyone was asleep. He applied black, green, and brown grease-paint to his face and hands. Then he got out of the car, taking the long-stemmed dark green tote bag with him. He slung the bag over his back. This would be his departure point.

  He had bought the tote bag at a hardware store. It was intended to store a folded-up summer chair. Now it contained the Enfield rifle.

  Under cover of darkness, he slipped from the car into some trees. Then he climbed down into a gully. The gully was bordered by trees and brush and it snaked through the neighborhood that straddled the border between Clayton and the city limits of St. Louis. It would take him within three hundred yards of Senator Preston’s house. It’s better than being in a field, he thought. In tall grass, you had to slow every movement. You had to move by inches. It could take an hour to cover fifteen yards. There had been a job in South America that required him to go through grass. He’d had to lie still, not even breathe, as men on foot conducted their morning patrols.

  But he’d had two good feet then. Now he had a bum leg and the pain was increasing. At one point, he put the bad foot wrong on a stone and it twisted it even further. He swallowed his cry as the pain shot up his leg and into his eyes. He stopped and allowed himself a few hard breaths. He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, tears came and rolled down his cheeks.

  He kept moving. And as he moved, he thought of Preston coming out of his house, walking to his car. He would have that space of time, that opportunity. Plenty of time. Plenty. He thought of Molly Mangan and then pushed her out of his mind and thought of Sara, the other woman he had let down. The woman who had died alone while he was in prison for a crime he had not committed. Some people just have to die, Reese thought.

  Yes, die. But my, the water was cold, even though it was only around his ankles. Now he started to shiver and he had to stop again.

  Christ. The fever was returning. He thought he had broken it back at Molly’s, but it had come back. He had not given himself sufficient time to heal. Any lance corporal would have told him he had to let his body heal. You ain’t a kid anymore, son. You’re an old man.

  But it had to be done. There would be no more opportunities. And if he survived it, he could heal his body later. He couldn’t allow this injustice to pass. He could not resist the sordid, empty promise of vengeance.

  At 4:18, he came out of the gully. From then on, he crawled. And though it hurt his knees, he was relieved, because there was no longer any weight pressing down on his ankle. He believed now he would make it.

  Approximately 270 yards from the Preston house, Reese took his field glasses from his coat pocket. He examined the front door and the semicircle driveway. He repositioned himself to the west. Then he dug a shallow ditch for himself and covered it with leaves and brush. He set his rifle on a wet mound of dirt, finding a point where the dirt would no longer give. Then he removed a washcloth from his coat. He folded the washcloth and put it between the muzzle of the rifle and the dirt. This would prevent dirt from spitting up when he made a shot and decrease the chance of his being seen.

  Reese checked his watch. It was 4:40 A.M.

  Now he would wait.

  At 6:45, he heard voices. Then he heard footsteps. He withdrew his rifle into his cover and held it close to his chest. He would not risk making the noise required to close the hole. The only way it would be seen was if someone crouched right down in front of it. He made his body still and then he stopped breathing.

  The voices drew closer.

  Men. Two of them. Talking.

  Chops, he thought. You don’t talk on a foot patrol. Not if you’re looking for an assassin. You can’t sneak up on anyone if you’re making noise. Amateurs not using the weapon of silence.

  The voices stopped and now the two men were near him. Reese continued to hold his breath.

  He heard the flick of a cigarette lighter. A Zippo.

  A man said, “The per diem in Afghanistan is good. But the duty is shit now. Used to be a good pull. Now it’s even more dangerous than Iraq.”

  The other man said, “The best duty is Qatar. They got some good discos and the food is outstanding.”

  Reese felt the stock of the rifle, then the muzzle. The muzzle was bare and dry.

  Christ! He had left the washcloth out on the mound of dirt.

  If they saw it, they would examine it. And then they would find him. He could kill one and maybe the other, but there was no silencer on the rifle and he would be blown. It’s still dark, he thought. They won’t see it if it’s still dark.

  Another pull on the cigarette.

  Then: “Well, at least it’s stopped raining.”

  “Let’s go,” the other said.

  They left and Reese waited another thirty seconds before he let himself breathe. Slowly at first, then taking bigger gulps of air.

  Reese let ten minutes pass. Then he took the rifle from his side and poked it, inch by inch, back out on the mound. The washcloth was still there. He put the rifle back in its place.

  The sun came up a few minutes later. Forty minutes after that, Reese brought his shoulders and head farther out of his pile. His entire body ached and his fever was still with him. He knew he should be patient, but he had been on his belly for hours and it was getting to him. He wanted the senator to come out of his house. He wanted it to be done. He was ready.

  At 8:10, the front door opened. A man came out in a dark suit and an overcoat. Not the senator. The senator’s legislative assistant.

  No. Not an assistant. A bodyguard. Probably another ex–Navy SEAL. He would be checking the vehicles.

  Which meant the senator would be coming out.

  Reese leaned forward, his finger over the trigger.

  “Reese!”

  Reese froze.

  The voice was coming from his right.

  A man positioned behind a tree, a Winchester rifle aimed at him.

  “Take your finger off that trigger,” Hastings said. “You won’t makeit.”

  Reese thought, I might. Then he swung the rifle at the voice and fired.

  FIFTY

  The shot hit the tree and Hastings flinched and stepped back, taking cover behind the tree. Then he stepped back out and saw Reese running, limping, but running for cover. Hastings raised the Winchester, aimed for Reese’s leg, and pulled the trigger.

  The shot boomed out and Reese flipped in the air. Hastings pulled the bolt back to put another shell in the breech, but now Reese had scrambled behind a tree.

  Now they both had cover.

  Birds flew away in the damp chilly air. A couple of moments passed by.

  “Shit,” Reese said, loudly enough for Hastings to hear. “How did you find me?”

  “Your scope,” Hastings said. “It reflected sunlight.”

  “Goddammit. I forgot to shield that. Dumbass mistake.”

  “It happens,” Hastings said.

  “You working for Anders?”

  “No. St. Louis police.”

  A pause. Then: “Are you the one who followed me into the park?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hell. Do you know I could have killed you back there?”

  “No.”

  “I could have, but I hesitated. If I’d thought you were working for Anders, I wouldn’t have hesitated.”

  “You didn’t hesitate just now.”

  “Well, I didn’t know you were a cop.”

  “You do now. Why don’t you throw down the rifle and come out with your hands on your head.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

&nb
sp; “It’s over, Reese.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s over,” he shouted. “Do you have any idea what that piece of shit did to me? What he’s doing to other soldiers?”

  “What do you mean, ‘other soldiers’?”

  “His relationship with Anders. Don’t you understand? Anders is getting rich off those contracts, and Preston is, too. By supporting an unnecessary war. Men are dying for that. Men with families.”

  “That’s not my concern.”

  “It isn’t? Just who the hell are you working for?”

  “I told you. I’m a cop. Besides, this isn’t about soldiers in Iraq. You just want revenge.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you? Preston knew I was innocent. The CIA told him I was, but he went ahead and put me in jail anyway. He lied. To him, I was nothing. A step in his career.”

  “Look,” Hastings said, “if it’s any consolation, I believe you. But you can’t kill him. You do that, you’re nothing but a murderer.”

  “He tried to have me killed. How do you think I got out of prison? He sent men there to bring me out and kill me.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. God, don’t you know anything? He’s using you, too.”

  “That’s my problem,” Hastings said. “But I cannot let you kill him.”

  “You’d protect him?”

  “It’s not about him,” Hastings said. “Listen to me, John. I know about your wife. I know she died while you were in. Do you think she’d want this?”

  “You don’t know anything about her, so just shut your mouth.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for the injustice. But you can’t kill him. Not in cold blood. Not in my town.”

  Hastings heard quick steps behind him. He turned just in time to see Clu Rogers hit him in the face with the butt of a machine gun. Hastings went down. Not unconscious, but stunned. He reached for his rifle on the ground, but Clu stepped on it.

  Clu pointed the machine gun at Hastings.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” Clu said, a nasty smile on his face. He raised the gun and said, “We’ll put this on Reese, huh?”

  The crack of a shot, and before Hastings could cry out, he saw Clu stop. A hole now in Clu’s forehead. Clu fell back. One shot, one kill.

  Reese rammed another shell in the chamber and turned on Dexter Troy, who was back and to his left. Reese raised the rifle as Troy fired the M16 at him. Shots exchanged, but Reese taking three to Troy’s one. Both men went to the ground.

  Troy was on his back. He had been shot through the stomach, the shot going out the back. Slowly, he sat up and reached for the M16, and Reese shot him again, this time through the heart.

  Hastings ran over, the Winchester in his hands. He pointed it at Troy and said, “Stay where you are! You hear me! You go for that rifle, I’ll kill you!”

  The shouts were for nothing. Dexter Troy was dead.

  Hastings picked up Reese’s Enfield and flung it away. Then he turned Reese over. Reese was shot to pieces, his chest and neck open and bloody.

  Reese was grinning at him. He said, “You never know who your friends are, huh?”

  “Shit,” Hastings said, overwhelmed by the sight of it, the man red and busted apart. “Why did you do that?”

  “He hadn’t earned the right to kill you,” Reese said.

  “John. You shouldn’t have come back here.”

  “I had to,” Reese said. “Now look at me.” He gasped out something like a laugh. “What folly. I guess I’m going now.”

  “What are you talking about, ‘going’?”

  “You know,” Reese said. Then he died.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Hastings was leaning against the back of one of the police cars parked by the Preston house. Chief Grassino broke away from a group of police officers and federal agents and walked up to him. The chief was holding two cups of coffee. He held one of them out to Hastings.

  Hastings took it and thanked him. Grassino leaned up against the car next to him.

  Grassino said, “Where were you hiding?”

  Hastings said, “I was on third floor of the house across the street. The place we were when we did our stakeout.”

  Hastings held a cloth over a cut above his eye. The skin had been slashed open by the butt of Clu Rogers’s machine gun.

  Chief Grassino said, “You had permission from the owners?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Preston? Did he know you were there?”

  “No. His wife did, though.”

  “You asked his wife?”

  “Yes. She said it was okay.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Since about midnight,” Hastings said.

  The chief said, “The senator’s not happy about this.”

  “I don’t care.” Hastings lowered the cloth and looked at the chief.

  “Well,” the chief said, “I do. It seems pretty clear to me you saved his life. But I wouldn’t wait around for a thank-you if I were you.”

  “I don’t plan to.”

  “How did you know, George? How did you know Reese would come here? That he wouldn’t try the assassination downtown?”

  “I didn’t know for sure,” Hastings said. “But I suspected it. A Hinckley, a glory seeker, would have done it at the Soldier’s Memorial. Try to make a name for himself. But Reese wasn’t after glory. He just wanted to kill Preston. This was the smart move.”

  “And you say he saved your life?”

  “He did. I don’t know why.”

  Martin Keough was striding toward them.

  “Oh, here we go,” Hastings said.

  Keough stood in front of him and said, “You’re finished.”

  “Pardon me?” Hastings said.

  “You heard me,” Keough said. “Your career is over.”

  “Why is that?”

  “To begin with, who the hell gave you permission to be here? Huh? You were not authorized. We’ve got two men dead.”

  “I didn’t kill them. Reese did. And I’m glad he did.”

  Keough leaned in. “What?”

  Chief Grassino started to speak, and Hastings raised a hand to stop him. Hastings said, “I said I’m glad he did. One of them was going to kill me. Probably the other one, too. Reese saved my life.”

  “I say you’re lying.”

  “I don’t care what you say. I don’t work for you.”

  Keough turned to Grassino. “What do you say?”

  Grassino said, “I say it’s a police matter, and if you’re half as smart as you seem to think you are, you’ll move on.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “By the way,” Grassino said, “where do you get the idea that you get to determine what is or is not authorized by the police department? You got some special police badge in your pocket? Because if you do, I don’t remember deputizing you.”

  Keough took it in. Then he snorted out one of his shitty little laughs and said, “I see. You’re going to protect your own, huh?”

  “Whatever I do, it’ll be my decision. Not Preston’s and certainly not yours. Savvy?”

  Keough looked at Hastings, then at the chief, and then at Hastings again.

  “You’ll regret this,” Keough said.

  Grassino gave him an up-and-down appraising look, then smiled and said, “I doubt it. Go on.” The chief waved his hand as if he were shooing off a child. “Go,” he said. And Keough went.

  Hastings said, “You know, Chief, you’ve got quite a way with words. You ever think of running for public office?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, George. Not now.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  The boy behind the desk was polite and he handled the guests professionally. He gave them directions to the St. Louis Zoo and told them to have a nice trip. They thanked him and left, impressed with his maturity and attitude. The boy made an entry into a computer behind the desk and then looked up at the man with a bandage over his eyebrow.

  “Yes, sir?”

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nbsp; “My name is Lieutenant Hastings. I believe Mrs. Mangan is expecting me.”

  The boy’s expression changed.

  “Yes,” Connor Mangan said. “She’s my mother. I’ll get her. If you like, you can wait in the dining room. There’s coffee in there.”

  Molly Mangan wore a blue winter dress, which Hastings thought flattered her. She sat with him at a table in the corner of the dining room. She asked if he preferred tea or coffee. Hastings told her he preferred coffee and what he had was good.

  Molly said, “You didn’t have to come see me. I guess I should thank you.”

  “I had the time,” Hastings said.

  “I called after I saw it in the paper,” Molly said. “I saw his picture and I knew it was him. He had told me his name was John. He had told me that he’d lived in England.”

  “He told you the truth.”

  “He didn’t tell me everything.”

  “Maybe he told you all he thought he could.”

  “He was kind and I want you to know he didn’t try to trick me. Or—”

  Hastings imagined what had happened between them. He told himself it was none of his business.

  Molly said, “But I didn’t know. I didn’t know why he came here.”

  “I believe you. You have no obligation to explain yourself. Not to me or anyone else. I understand he registered here under a false name.”

  “But he told me his real name.”

  “Yeah,” Hastings said. “He did.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “They buried him in a pauper’s grave. It’s standard procedure when the person has no funds. Or family.”

  “Couldn’t they have buried him next to his wife?”

  “No one claimed him. I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s how it is.”

  A man and woman came into the dining room. The woman took a seat and crossed her legs. The man went to the long table and poured two cups of coffee and put cream in one of them.

  Molly said, “I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you think he would have killed Senator Preston if he could have? If he had had the chance?”

  Hastings had no doubt that he would have. But now he said, “I don’t know. He never got the chance.”