by James Hunt
The downtown buildings were bathed in red and blue as Grant tried Samantha on his phone. Three times it went to voicemail.
“The door’s locked, and she’s not answering,” Mocks said, phone glued to her ear as she spoke with the officer on scene.
“Get the bomb squad,” Grant said.
Downtown faded, and the cruiser slowed outside Grant’s apartment building. He was out of the car before it came to a stop.
The bomb squad was coming out, the sergeant leading them removing his helmet. “Door’s clear, but we don’t know what else might be inside—”
“No devices?” Grant asked.
“No, but—"
Grant darted past him, reaching into his pocket and removing his keys as he hurried up the staircase, forgoing the slow elevator that sometimes refused to work.
A few officers had stayed behind on the third floor, and Grant spotted them outside of his door. None of them stopped him when he passed them and struggled to put the key into the lock.
Grant missed twice, finally landing the third try, and turned it quickly, shoving the door open and rushing inside. His mind was moving so quickly that he was blinded by adrenaline, and it took him a second before he saw Sam lying on the floor.
“I need a medic!” Grant shouted back toward the door on his way to the floor as he scooped Sam into his arms. “Sam? Oh, God.” He checked her pulse, his own heart racing, but his fumbling fingers were unable to feel hers. He shut his eyes and tried to calm himself. He pressed his fingers to the soft section of her flesh, and this time he felt a pulse.
Grant exhaled, relief flooding through his veins as the paramedics rushed inside, followed by Mocks. But while the medical team wanted to try and get their hands on Sam, Grant wouldn’t let go.
Ignoring the medic’s requests to take his fiancée, it was Mocks who had to peel his hands off her.
“She’s alive,” Mocks said. “They just need to check the rest of her vitals.”
Grant remained on the floor while the medics loaded her onto the stretcher, and then wheeled her out of the room and down the hall.
Grant wanted to stand up, but he couldn’t.
Mocks knelt in front of him, her eyes open wide and round, looking at him the way she used to do during their first year as partners together. It was a lifetime ago, but Grant remembered. He always remembered.
“Grant, I—” Mocks’s phone rang, and she silenced it. When it rang again, she answered with a hasty hello and stepped back.
Grant lingered on the floor, staring at his hands. Hands that had just held his lifeless partner. Hands that had also killed an innocent woman. Hands that had done so much good and enough bad to make sleep hard to come by.
Now Grant would have to return to a life he’d left behind. Because there was one last man for him to stop. And Dennis was about to discover why Chase Grant was the most storied detective in the history of Seattle PD.
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The Silent Ones Book 2
1
Clouds blanketed the night sky, blocking the moonlight and casting the northwest mountain landscape of Washington State into darkness.
The houses nestled in the woods were scarce and only accessible by dirt roads, the paths too treacherous for anything but a vehicle with a four-wheel drive, not that the inhabitants wanted visitors. The few people who lived in the area sought the solitude of nature.
Douglas Chambers, four months shy of his seventy-fifth birthday, had purchased the house and land upon his retirement nine years ago. It was here he sat, in the same leather upholstered chair where he had spent every night leaned back, feet up, holding three fingers of bourbon in a crystal glass, reading the latest Stephen King novel on his Kindle.
It was the only piece of technology in the house he used aside from the cell phone that his son had given him for emergencies. He didn’t care for television, though he had one collecting dust in the basement that he hadn’t turned on since the last presidential election.
There wasn’t anything worth watching these days, and whatever horrors, atrocities, drama, and suspense that those Hollywood writers could come up with paled in comparison to the reality he witnessed during his forty-one-year career as a criminal defense attorney. Horrors that the bourbon helped him forget.
Douglas sipped from the crystal, eyes glued to the Kindle, engrossed with the tale so stacked with twists and turns that he found himself having to flick back to previous chapters to remind himself what happened.
Time and age had dulled his once-sharp mind. But it didn’t bother him. There were no more cases to read, no more evidence to manipulate or juries to sway. It was just him, his chair, the books loaded on his Kindle, and the quiet of another mountain night.
And his bourbon.
The yellow bulb in the lamp hovering next to the chair burned bright and hot, and just when Douglas was about to reach the end of the chapter, the bulb went out, along with the power in the rest of the house. He grumbled and set both the bourbon and Kindle on the small table beside him.
“Damn fuses.” Douglas wiggled his ass back and forth, building up the needed momentum to get out of the chair, and glad no one was there to watch the ridiculous ceremony. He imagined that the prosecutors he went up against in his day would have paid top dollar to see him in such frailty.
Douglas stood, knees popping as he straightened and grabbed his cane, still grumbling. At his age, he didn’t have time to waste on such inconveniences. It distracted him from what little peace he had tried to capture in the golden hour of his life.
He had come out here in the middle of nowhere to retire to find some semblance of peace. But the sins of his past still kept him up at night, and he feared the day when the devil would finally come to collect.
Douglas passed through the kitchen, making a note on the large yellow legal pad he kept on the kitchen table to call the electrician to come up and fix the wiring. It was the third time this month he’d had to wander outside to the fuse box. He was just thankful that the grip of winter hadn’t gotten hold of the air yet, but he knew that it was just around the corner. God willing, he’d stay warm enough to see spring.
Balancing the flashlight in one hand and the cane in the other, Douglas struggled to stay upright along the rocky terrain.
“There you are,” Douglas said, catching his breath as the light shimmered on the metallic box that cased the fusing. It wasn’t up to code to keep the box outside, but the contractor who’d built the house had cut him a good deal on it, so he didn’t mind coming out to flick them back on after a surge. He felt different during the winter.
Douglas placed the cane aside and leaned his weight against the big breaker until it finally gave way and he heard the thrum of the air conditioner kick back on. “Whew.” He wiped the sweat from his brow, and then grabbed his cane and hobbled back inside the house.
When he reached the kitchen, he flicked on the light to ensure everything was in working order, and then grunted in affirmation as he flicked it off.
With his head down, exhausted from the journey outside, Douglas didn’t see the man standing in the den until he
had already returned to his leather chair.
“Hello, Douglas,” he said.
The former defense attorney clutched his chest with one hand and grabbed the back of the chair with the other. He drew in a sharp breath that he held and smacked his lips a few times before he finally sputtered out a sentence. “W-who are you?”
The man smiled. He was taller than Douglas, but just as thin. He was also young, and even in the dim lighting of the den, Douglas could tell that he was pale, his complexion sickly. But there were no signs of weakness that Douglas saw that accompanied an illness. He would have known, he’d already fought off two rounds of pneumonia since his retirement. He wasn’t sure he’d survive a third.
“Come a little closer, Douglas,” he said, his voice feigning the warmth of invitation. “It’s been a long time.” He glanced down at his attire. “And admittedly, I was in something much more orange the last time you saw me.”
Douglas frowned. The voice had a familiar tone to it, and while the intruder’s face remained in shadow, Douglas began to fill in the blanks. The dark eyes, the dirty blond hair, the smooth and hairless face of a man that seemed to have skipped puberty. Douglas shook his head. “You’re in prison.”
Dennis Pullman stepped from the darkness, a rifle slung over his shoulder. “I’m glad to see you don’t watch the news.” He glanced around to the books on the shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. “You did always like to read. I remember that about you.” He grimaced as he gestured to the Kindle by the chair. “But I’m disappointed you traded all of these wonderful editions for a hunk of plastic and metal.”
Douglas’s eyes watered from staring at Dennis and he blinked, triggering a tear to roll down his left cheek, and suddenly he remembered the shotgun that he kept tucked away by the front door, hidden amongst the umbrellas. He sidestepped toward the front door, keeping his eyes on Dennis. “Why are you here?”
“Douglas,” Dennis said, laughing between words. “You know exactly why I’m here.” He walked toward the old man, cutting off the path toward the door and placing a firm hand on Douglas’s frail shoulder. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”
Douglas was helpless as Dennis circled the chair and pushed Douglas down into his seat, knocking the cane away, which was as good as tying the man up with rope and duct tape.
Facing Douglas once more, Dennis lazily aimed his rifle between Douglas’s eyes.
“I-I represented you the best I could,” Douglas said. “You had already confessed. The best-case scenario was to keep you off death row. I did that for you. I kept you alive.”
Dennis made a sad, frowny face and tilted his head to the side. “Douglas. I’m not mad at you. Of course you did the best you could. It’s what you’ve always done. All of those murderers and rapists you got off through technicalities.” He drew little circles with the tip of the barrel. “The drug dealers and crackheads. Oh, and the wife beaters. Can’t forget them.”
Douglas looked away. “Stop it.”
“What?” Dennis asked, surprised. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten squeamish in your old age. Wait—” He cut himself off and glanced around. “Is that why you’re all the way out here? In the middle of nowhere? You’ve exiled yourself?”
Douglas could see the front door from his chair. He saw the lumps of shadows that comprised the umbrellas and the hidden shotgun nestled inside.
“You have!” Dennis exclaimed, hunching forward, a burst of uncontrollable laughter spilling from his lips. “The man with the iron stomach finally had enough. Never thought I’d see the day.”
The tears forming in Douglas’s eyes were now no longer from dryness. He lowered his head, wallowing in his own shame.
“What did it, old man?” Dennis asked. “What made you turn tail and hide from the world?”
Douglas lifted his gaze to Dennis, pressed his palms into the cracked leather of the armrests, and pushed. His arms trembled, but he forced himself upright, straightening in defiance of the monster he’d once represented. “You.”
Dennis flashed a toothy grin. “I’m flattered, Counselor. Really, I am.” He stepped closer, and the barrel of the rifle pressed against the soft mush that was Douglas’s stomach. “But I’m in need of your services again.”
“I’m retired,” Douglas said.
Dennis retreated a few steps to the desk that held one of the few pictures that Douglas kept in the cabin and picked it up. “You know, during my time behind bars, I had a lot of time to think about what I would do when I finally got out. But I never doubted my escape. Do you know why?”
Douglas eyed the front door again, which seemed farther than it was before. “No.”
“It’s because I saw it in my head,” Dennis said, staring at the photo. “Every last detail, every single outcome, and all of the trappings that could have befallen me.” He aimed the rifle at Douglas once more. “The shotgun isn’t there anymore. I moved it.”
Douglas swallowed, shutting his eyes as he turned back to Dennis. Of course the man had moved it. He was the smartest client he’d ever represented. Dennis probably never even needed a lawyer, but he knew that if he didn’t have one, he wouldn’t be granted a mistrial if the need should arise.
“It’s a beautiful night.” Dennis used the rifle to motion toward the back door where the old man had just come through. “Let’s take a walk.”
With no cane, Douglas grabbed hold of walls, furniture, counter space, anything that would help keep him upright as Dennis pushed him outside.
Insects buzzed, and Dennis drew ragged breaths as he stumbled over the small clearing of what was considered his backyard, which was just a collection of rocks and dirt. He stood frozen, staring at trees and untamed wilderness beyond.
Night had made everything more menacing. And Douglas knew what would happen next. He’d read the case files of what Dennis had done. He was a predator, a psychopath, the deadliest serial killer in the history of Washington State.
“Go on, Counselor,” Dennis said.
Douglas trembled, crying, barely able to hold himself upright. He had never been a brave man, never really tried to be. No one would ever have described him as having courage. But he forced himself to step forward, his kneels buckling with fear as he swayed left and right.
Blinded in the dark, Douglas smacked a root and tumbled face first into the dirt. Blood erupted from his nose and a tooth broke loose upon impact with the ground. He groaned, slowly lifting his head from the earth, dirt glued to his lips, making the metallic taste of his own blood gritty against his tongue.
Dennis laughed, moving closer to Douglas and then pressing his foot against the old man’s back, keeping him pinned into the dirt. “You’re not even worth the hunt, Counselor. Far past your prime.” He clucked his tongue. “It’s a shame what ten years can do to a man.”
“Please.” Douglas spit blood and dirt. “Don’t do this. I helped you.” He sobbed, his voice cracking from his physical duress. “I helped you.”
“And now you’re going to help me again,” Dennis said. “Aren’t you, Counselor?”
Douglas nodded and choked for breath. “Yes! I’ll help you! I’ll do it!”
Dennis smiled, taking his foot off the old man’s back, and chuckled to himself. “Old habits die hard, don’t they?” He squatted low and brought his face within inches of the old man’s nose. “You’re going to help me find some old friends. And we’re going to turn Seattle into my own personal playground.” He patted the counselor on his back. “Get back in the house.”
Douglas did as he was told, returning to the old leather chair.
“So, this is what we’re going to do, Douglas,” Dennis said. “I’m going to have you sit down in that chair, and then I’m going to tell you what to say into this phone.” He retrieved the phone that Douglas had been given for emergencies by his son. The same son that was in the photo that Dennis had plucked from the desk. A son who had always had a strained relationship with his father because of the type of peop
le Douglas represented.
“He won’t do whatever you have me ask,” Douglas said, knowing all too well what Dennis had in mind. “We’re barely on speaking terms with one another.”
“Oh, but that’s not true,” Dennis said. “Ever since your retirement, the two of you have taken a few trips together and found common ground after you gave up a life centered around the defense of society’s terrible scoundrels.”
Douglas collapsed back into the chair, the tears flowing freely from him now. “Don’t bring him into this.” He shook his head, sniffling, tasting the snot that rolled over his upper lip from his nose. It was salty, and cold.
“I’m afraid that’s non-negotiable, Counselor,” Dennis said, stepping slowly toward him in a cadence that contained a sinister rhythm.
The past few years, Douglas had truly believed that he might make it out of this world without having to pay the piper. Things had been going well with his son, the only living family that remained to him. And despite a lifetime of smokes and booze, he’d retained moderately good health.
But the devil had come to collect when Douglas was at his weakest. When he couldn’t fight any longer, and when he had the most to lose. And the devil was more terrifying than he could have imagined.
2
The Next Morning
The door was kept open, the intermittent soundtrack of the hospital drifting into the room, along with the stench of bleach that covered up the human misery on every floor. But as much as the sounds and smell of a hospital contributed to the public’s general distaste for visiting such a place, it was the glaring white, or rather the overwhelming lack of color, that made it so repulsive.
Color was life and, in a place dedicated to ensuring its patients survived, Seattle General was in dire need of a new paint job. Something to brighten the mood and liven the spirits, to remind those locked inside of the world beyond these walls and what they had to look forward to upon their release.
