The Silent Ones

by James Hunt

  “We see it, Grant,” Mocks said, her voice calm and reassuring in his ear. “We have disposal on standby and ready to move in when you give the word.”

  Grant kept his distance, his attention split between the woman, the bomb, and the man with his finger pressed down over the detonator’s trigger.

  “Put the gun down, Mr. Grant,” Chet said, an eerie calmness to his voice. “Put it down, or I release my finger and we all die.”

  Kelly whimpered through the gag, her body drenched in sweat, her shoulders slumped as she leaned forward slightly, pressing against her restraints.

  Grant removed his left hand from the pistol and raised both hands in the air. “Okay.” He slowly lowered the weapon to the floor as instructed, and then stood.

  “Kick it over to me,” Chet said.

  He pressed the toe of his shoe on the weapon and then slid it across the wooden floors, and it came to a stop next to the kidnapper’s shoe.

  “Good,” Chet said. “Very good, Mr. Grant. Mr. Pullman said you would be cooperative.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Pullman said a lot of things,” Grant said. “So what’s the play here, Chet? Because I don’t think you want to blow yourself up.”

  Chet kept his eyes on Grant, but turned his face away a few inches and produced a sly smile. “No, I don’t want to blow myself up, Mr. Grant. I want to blow all three of us up.” He raised his voice. “Along with any other law enforcement officers stupid enough to rush inside!”

  Grant shook his head. “No one else is coming, Chet. It’s just us.” He took one step from his position at the door, and Chet raised the detonator threateningly.

  “Uh-ah, Mr. Grant,” Chet said. “Back to where you were.”

  Grant returned his foot to its original position, and then Chet bent down and picked up the pistol that had been slid across the floor.

  “Good.” Chet adjusted the weapon in his right hand, struggling with the Glock’s size and weight. Chet was maybe five-foot-five, and overweight. If Grant could get close enough, he could easily overpower the man. “Mr. Pullman wanted me to play a game with you.” He smiled. “The game is simple. You answer correctly, and I let her go.” He raised the detonator. “You answer incorrectly, and we all die.”

  Kelly trembled in her seat, and Grant worried that should she move too much, she might detonate the device.

  “What’s the question?” Grant asked.

  Chet smiled. “There are three things in this room that can kill Kelly.” Chet tilted his head to the side. “What are they?”

  Grant examined the detonator and the pistol in Chet’s hands, two of the obvious choices, but the final could be a handful of options and scenarios.

  “The bomb,” Grant said.

  “That’s one,” Chet said.

  Kelly whimpered, lowering her head and squeezing her eyes shut.

  “The pistol,” Grant said.

  “That’s two,” Chet said. “Last one, Mr. Grant. Make it count.”

  Grant hesitated. He looked to Kelly, then back to Chet.

  “Tick tock, Mr. Grant,” Chet said.

  Grant swallowed, sweat pouring down his face as he remained frozen in the doorway. “Me.” He nodded. “I can kill Kelly by answering the questions incorrectly.”

  That cool, collective demeanor that Chet had worn since Grant had entered the room slowly faded, revealing the same madness that Grant saw on the face of Dennis Pullman.

  Chet removed the pistol from the back of Kelly’s head, who gasped and hyperventilated through choking sobs.

  “Very good, Mr. Grant. Mr. Pullman said that you wouldn’t disappoint. But then again, Mr. Pullman is never wrong.” Chet raised the hand that still held the detonator and stepped around Kelly, extending his arm as if to give the device to Grant. “I wish you the best of luck.” But instead of handing over the device, Chet raised the pistol to his temple and squeezed the trigger.

  The world flashed white, and time slowed as the deafening roar of the gunshot narrowed into a high-pitched din. Chet collapsed to the floor in a lifeless pile, but as Grant stumbled forward over the dead body, he realized that he and Kelly were still alive.

  Kelly screamed, pulling Grant’s attention to her and the digital timer by the chair’s rear legs that had started to count down from ninety seconds.

  “Mocks—”

  “Disposal is en route.”

  Grant stumbled toward Kelly and removed the gag from her mouth, which triggered another scream. He gripped her hand, which was still tied to the chair, and examined the bomb. “Kelly—Kelly! Hey, it’s all right.”

  “Get me out of here, please, just let me go!” Kelly squirmed in the seat, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “We are,” Grant said. “But we have to get this bomb turned off first, okay? If you stand up, it could go off.”

  The heavy stomp of boots became louder until it erupted inside the room. “Stand aside!”

  Grant raised his free arm, keeping hold of Kelly with the other. “The suspect is down! We need bomb disposal now!”

  The SWAT leader thrust one of his men into the room, and Kelly whimpered as the tech removed some of his gear.

  Grant gave her a reassuring squeeze. “It’s all right, Kelly, he’s trained for this.”

  “Pressure mechanism,” the tech said, his voice shaking. “We try and lift her up, and it’ll blow.”

  “How much time left on the countdown?” the SWAT leader asked.

  “Eighty seconds.”

  “Christ.” The leader stepped out of the room. “Clear the house! Push everyone back!” He turned to Grant. “That means you too, hotshot.”

  But Grant didn’t move, keeping hold of Kelly’s hand as he shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere, Kelly. We’re fine. We’re going to be fine.”

  “Hey!” The SWAT leader barked, grabbing Grant’s shoulder and twisting him toward the door. “I need this room cleared!”

  But Grant easily shrugged the SWAT leader off him, and Kelly gasped, breaking into full-blown hysteria. “Oh God, I don’t want to die.” Kelly scrunched her face, fresh tears squeezing from the corner of her eyes that she shut tight.

  The bomb tech worked efficiently, quickly exchanging tools from his kit, slowly dismantling the weapon that could kill all of them in a matter of seconds. He tossed a glance to Grant, eyebrow raised, and then returned to his work.

  “Grant,” Mocks said, her voice calm and slow. “Get out of that room. Now.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” The response was meant for Mocks, but Grant kept his attention focused on Kelly. The woman who looked so much like his wife. A woman whom he mourned for years after her unexpected death. “You’re going to be all right.” He looked at the clock ticking backward, dropping below thirty seconds. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Control, I have a dual detonation system, are you seeing this?” The tech’s voice was strained, cracking under the pressure. “Copper or silver?” He waited, droplets of perspiration forming on his face, his breathing suddenly labored and quick. “Control, I need confirmation.”

  Grant wasn’t privy to the radio in the bomb tech’s ear, but judging from the tech’s expression, the team in the command center was struggling to come up with an answer. Grant glanced to the clock again. Less than ten seconds.

  “Command, I need an answer!” The tech raised his voice.

  Kelly whined. Grant tightened his grip on Kelly’s hand and kept his eyes on the clock. Less than five seconds.

  “Confirming copper,” the tech said.

  A quick snip, and the digital timer stopped with two seconds remaining, the trio remaining in the room exhaling the same pent-up breath.

  “Timer stopped,” the tech said, dropping his head in exhaustion.

  “We can move her?” Grant asked.

  The tech nodded, and Grant removed the restraints as SWAT and other emergency personnel flooded the house.

  Kelly grabbed hold of Grant’s shoulders, squeezing him tight as he lif
ted her up and off the chair. She buried her face into his chest and cried, clawing at his back as though she could use him to climb out from the hellhole that Chet had thrown her in.

  “It’s all right,” Grant said, whispering the reassurances in her ear. “Everything is all right.”

  Once the paramedics were on scene, Grant passed her over for a medical check and then headed outside. It had grown hotter outside, but before he could exit the front yard, the SWAT leader blocked his path.

  “What the fuck were you doing in there?” The officer had pulled down his mask, revealing a five o’clock shadow and a bristly, dirty-blond mustache. “I don’t care if the President of the United States was in your fucking ear, you do not—”

  “Stand down, Sergeant.”

  Grant saw Mocks walking up with the chief, and either propelled by Mock’s order or the sight of the big boss, the prickly sergeant backed down, returning to his unit, leaving Grant to face the wrath of Mocks alone.

  “Well, that was fucking stupid.” Mocks growled, keeping her lips tight. She stared him down. “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” Grant answered, and made sure to hide the tremor in his hand.

  “I don’t like improvising,” Hofster said. “But I can’t argue with the results.” He looked back toward the cluster of vehicles. “Press will want to know what’s going on. And I want to keep you two as far away from the cameras as possible. Head back to the precinct, see what else they’ve got with those letters.” Hofster walked away.

  Mocks punched Grant’s arm. “You almost gave me a heart attack, you know that?”

  Grant glanced back to the house and the officers crawling around it. “I never wanted to come back here again.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Holding Kelly’s hand in there. I thought… It was like holding Ellen’s hand again.” He looked back toward Mocks. “That’s why I couldn’t leave.”

  The harsh scorn that Mocks had displayed vanished, replaced with contempt. “Dennis is a real sicko, isn’t he?”

  Grant nodded. “He wants to make me feel it.”

  “Feel what?” Mocks answered.

  “Pain.”

  10

  Mary awoke with another throbbing headache and a sore lower lip. Her wrists and ankles were still restrained, and she was now restricted to a chair. She glanced down at her torn blouse, where blood had dripped from her lip and dried on her breasts. But sweat had caused the crimson to shine beneath a harsh fluorescent light.

  Disoriented, Mary blinked away the fatigue and realized that she was no longer in a house. She took a minute to take in her surroundings and saw that she was in some kind of utility closet.

  Old metal shelves lined the wall, and the light source came from a lamp in the corner of the room. There was a door, but she was sure it was locked, not that she could move to test it in the first place.

  Alone, sweating, tired, and afraid, Mary broke down, her mind racing with too many questions that she didn’t have the answers to.

  Why had she been taken? Where were her children? Was this some kind of a ransom? Was it because of something that she’d done to the man that had taken her?

  Mary shut her eyes and bowed her head in exhaustion. She was working herself into a frenzy and if she kept it up, she was afraid that she might pass out again, and then she’d lose what precious time she might have left.

  She counted to sixty and then opened her eyes. Starting over, Mary took another look at the closet, this time finding a few things she hadn’t noticed before.

  There was a camera set up nearby, aimed right at her, the little red light signaling that it was recording. Wires were sticking out of the side of the camera and were fed into a small boxy television with a blank screen.

  Mary looked down between her feet and saw more wires protruding from beneath the chair, but it wasn’t until she checked behind her that she screamed in panic.

  A digital time display ticked backward, counting down, and attached to the timer were gray bricks, the kind she had seen in movies that depicted them as C-4.

  Mary started to rock back and forth, but then thought better of it. She didn’t need to cause anything to go haywire, and if she moved too much, then she might set off the explosives.

  Instead, she dropped her chin into her chest and cried. The sobs rolled out of her quietly at first, and then grew into wheezy gasps. The gag choked her twice, but she just couldn’t stop the fear from pouring out of her.

  She couldn’t see how much time was left on the device, but she knew what would happen when it reached zero. Boom. No more Mary.

  Suddenly, her daughter’s dance recital flooded her memory. She had promised Charlotte that she would come. She imagined how disappointed her youngest would be when she looked out into the crowd to find her mother absent.

  And then there was the promise she made to Evan. She had told him that his father would play catch with him, that he would take time out of his busy work schedule to spend time with his only son.

  Tears splashed to the ground, and even after they dried, the hyperventilated sobs continued. It was hopeless. She would never see her family again.

  A high-pitched signal echoed to her right, drawing Mary’s attention to the television which had suddenly turned on.

  The screen had transformed from a black to a dull gray, but there was still no picture on it. She squinted at it, thinking maybe it was just her eyesight, but then the screen wiggled with horizontal lines in black and white and static rushed through the speakers.

  Mary winced, turning away from the sound until it disappeared. Slowly, Mary faced the television again, and when her brain finally caught up with the images her eyes were being fed from the screen, another scream crawled out from the pit of her soul.

  The television showed her two children and her husband sitting in their living room, holding onto one another, speaking to a police officer.

  Mary quickly looked from the television to the camera. Could they see her like she could see them? The longer she stared at the screen the more she realized that, no, they couldn’t. She was alone.

  Mary sat in silence, just staring at her children, and her heart nearly broke in half as she watched her oldest place his arm around his younger sister, their heads touching as her husband continued to speak to the officer.

  There was still so much that she wanted to tell them, so much that she wanted to teach them, but now she’d never get that chance. She’d never get the opportunity to talk to Charlotte about boys and help her navigate through the difficulties of growing into a woman, to guide her in the same way her own mother had done. She wouldn’t be able to embarrass Evan in front of his friends when he got older and he was too bashful for hugs and kisses, and then be thankful for them as he grew out of that teenage angst.

  Sitting in that chair, she traveled down all of the roads that she wouldn’t get to travel with them as they grew up. She’d miss so much. But she was thankful to see their faces one last time.

  Mary slouched forward, whispering I love you to both her children and her husband. She spoke the words aloud, because even though they couldn’t hear her, it provided her the strength needed to survive however much time she had left.

  11

  Grant kept to himself on the ride back to the precinct, thankful that both Hofster and Mocks were too busy with phone calls to question him. He stared at the watch’s timer. Seven hours had passed. Only five to go.

  But while the time continued to tick away, Grant noticed that his hand refused to keep still. He made a fist, held it for a few seconds, then relaxed. He repeated the motion until the hand steadied and then took a breath.

  Mocks lowered the phone, yelling up to Hofster. “The Forensics team just finished their sweep of Chet Denning’s house. They found enough household cleaner, wiring, and timer devices to construct two dozen explosive devices like the one that was used on Kelly Sears.”

  “Shit.” Hofster smacked the dash with his palm. He grimaced like he tasted something sour
, then wiped his palm down his mouth to rid himself of the taste. “So what I’m hearing is that it’s possible our two other victims could have timed devices strapped to their chests.” He glanced toward Mocks. “Am I right, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then we need to figure out who else is involved.”

  Mocks cleared her throat. “Detective Lane combed through the letters sent between Dennis and Chet to see if we can identify a pattern to use to identify other associates. We will have an update when we get back to the precinct.”

  Hofster’s phone rang and he answered with a very gruff hello, then lowered the phone. “Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker.” He hit a button on the touch screen. “Okay, Williams, go ahead.”

  “My team is about a quarter of the way through those personnel files for the jail officers, but so far we don’t have anything flagged. A few minor violations, but no behavioral trends that would account for someone to assist an inmate like Dennis Pullman with something like this.”

  “Try branching out to see if there are any administrative personnel that have come into contact with him,” Grant said. “Nurses. Doctors. Psychologists.”

  “He does have a medical procedure once a week,” Williams said. “But we’ve already interviewed the medical staff, and they don’t spend more than a few minutes a day with him.”

  Grant leaned forward. “What medical condition?”

  “He has Type 2 diabetes. He gets a daily insulin shot, but it’s always administered in the health wing.”

  “I don’t care if he has brain surgery scheduled,” Hofster said. “I don’t want him to leave that room. The nurse comes to him.”

  “Already arranged,” Williams said. “Any luck with suspects?”

  “We got one,” Mocks answered. “Trying to nail down the other two.”

  “We’ll keep you updated. Thanks, Jason.” Hofster hung up just as the SUV bucked as they entered the precinct’s parking lot, past the hordes of news vans parked out front. “Take us around back. I don’t need snapping any pictures of our bulletproof friend back there.”