by Erik Carter
Gavin looked from Jonah to Silence, back to Jonah.
“She’s alive.”
He stepped back to the Grand Cherokee, climbed inside, and slammed the door.
Chapter Nine
Jonah followed Brett up the stairs, back to the third floor where they’d grabbed one of the last remaining spots to park his Fiero.
When they’d first arrived, Jonah had noted that the parking garage was on the nicer side. Not a big, squarish, gray thing like so many of them. This one had rounded corners, contrasting brick and concrete, green accents—a dark, bluish, copper-patina type of green.
The builders hadn’t skimped on the stairwell. Its outfacing side was covered in similar green glass, giving the outside views a surreal quality. The concrete was smooth and clean. And there were trash cans and large concrete planters with a few spiky plants at the ground floor and on each landing.
By the time they’d finished the conversation with Gavin, the crowd had disappeared, and so they were the only ones in the stairwell, their footsteps echoing.
She’s alive, Gavin had said.
He’d been so demonstrative. Such fire in his eyes. But he hadn’t been certain. His words had come out with the ferocity of deep determination, sadly biased denial.
Jonah was being more pragmatic. As much of a goof-off as people thought him to be, he still knew that when push came to shove, logic, not emotion, was what got a person through life. And logic told him that Amber was dead. Jonah’s preemptive grieving had been an act of pragmatism.
And yet, every time he heard someone like Gavin say, with such passion, such clarity, that Amber was alive, something sparked inside Jonah.
Maybe…
One notion that hadn’t wavered in his mind, however, was that Amber hadn’t run off to “find herself,” as Carlton and so many others had said. She and Jonah had made great strides with Dr. Nogulich, and by the time they left, handing each other the VHS tapes, Jonah knew things were going to be all right. He’d seen it. In her perfect blue eyes. He knew.
Amber wasn’t the most intelligent of individuals—as her father was always so quick to point out—but she was very wise and more than self-aware enough to realize her naïveté made her a an easy target in the harsh wide world. No, she wasn’t out there somewhere off the grid. She wasn’t living in a tent in the middle of a national park. She hadn’t skipped the country to sip ayahuasca and meditate with a shaman somewhere in South America.
Something had happened to her.
District C11.
An old grudge. A gang leader who hadn’t received a promised favor twenty years ago. A recently released ex-con who felt he should have been slid under the table like so many others.
Amber was gone because of something connected to those bastards. Jonah was certain of it.
It must have been this certainty that had led Jonah here, to this stairwell, following this tall man with the Frankenstein voice who refused to give his proper name.
Jonah watched the man as he ascended the stairs. The small muscles in the back of Brett’s neck twitched with his steps. It wasn’t a massive neck, nothing about him screamed bodybuilder, but everything was just … strong. His power exuded from him, and he tamed it with a layer of classy-chic clothing.
Brett looked back, over his shoulder, not making eye contact with Jonah, rather looking behind them, down the steps. He’d been like this all morning—always a watchful eye, careful monitoring of his surroundings.
They reached the landing between the second and third floors, pivoted. And as they continued up to the final landing, Brett slowed slightly, looked over his shoulder again, eyes squinted, as though listening.
At the third-floor landing, he quickly, silently pulled to the side, along the edge of the wall. He held a finger to his mouth in a shushing motion, and swiped his other hand to the side, telling Jonah to join him.
“What—”
Brett clamped his hand over Jonah’s mouth hard. Damn hard. His thick, rough fingers pressed Jonah’s lips into his teeth, nearly making his eyes water.
As quietly as he could with his gravelly voice, Brett whispered, “Being followed.”
He pointed at the stairs.
Jonah’s forehead was instantly cool, wet—panic sweat.
His mind flashed on District C11 again.
All the trouble the district was involved in, all the inconclusive investigations. Informants murdered by gangland toughs. Missing persons.
Goddamn bastards.
And now someone was following him and Brett…
Footsteps.
Quiet, slow, deliberate footsteps coming from the stairs, pausing occasionally, as though the person was stopping to listen. Each footstep louder, drawing nearer.
Jonah’s imagination flittered. Some drug lord who had a vendetta against Carlton. Or a cheap but efficient hitman. Someone involved with Amber’s disappearance.
The footsteps continued. Almost to the landing. Right around the corner.
Then a figure appeared. Dressed fully in black. Pants, shirt, toboggan hat. Jonah saw the man for only a moment, got just the vaguest view of the man’s shape, his short height, small size—before Brett grabbed him.
A flash, a rustle of clothing, and the man was in the air, lifted off his feet by the throat. Brett slammed him into the concrete wall.
BOOM!
Brett got into the man’s face, an inch away.
“Talk!”
Thrashing limbs. Hands clawing at Brett’s forearms. Feet flailing six inches off the floor. Gurgles from the man’s throat.
Brett pulled the man away from the wall and slammed him back into it.
BOOM!
The impact shook the walls, its sound screaming down the stairwell.
“Talk!”
Louder gurgling from the man’s throat.
Commotion from the garage beyond, on the other side of the steel door. An additional set of footsteps. Someone was approaching.
With one hand pinning the man against the wall, Brett reached out and grabbed the concrete planter that sat in the corner, fingers plunging into the soil, dragged it across the floor—the crunch of concrete against concrete—and brought it to rest against the metal door with a clang, another sound that boomed up and down the stairwell.
Shit, that thing must have weighted a hundred pounds, and he’d moved it like it was aluminum.
Brett straightened back up, face to face with the flailing, pinned man.
It was then that Jonah got his first good glimpse of the other guy.
And saw curly dark hair poking from the bottom of the hat. Pale, soft skin. Slender arms and hands.
It wasn’t a guy at all. It was a young woman.
And Jonah recognized her.
“Wait!!” He grabbed Brett’s forearm. “Wait, I know her!”
Brett’s snarling face turned to him, slackened.
“Put her down!”
Someone on the other side of the door tried to enter. The door clanked into the planter.
Brett brought the woman to her feet, took his hand from her throat.
It was Kim Hurley, Amber’s friend, someone Jonah had known for years.
She bent over, hands on her knees, coughing.
Tapping at the door. The touch bar rattled violently. A man’s voice. “What’s going on in there?”
Kim coughed louder, hacking. Quivering hands cupped her knees. Drool fell from her mouth, puddled between her black, chunky-heeled boots.
“You could have killed her!” Jonah said.
Brett looked at him. “Who is?”
“Kim Hurley. Amber’s best friend. She’s clean, man. She was our maid of honor two months ago, for God’s sake.”
Kim straightened up, gasping but no longer coughing. She rubbed her throat.
Brett approached her. “Why following?”
“I’m … I’m not. Well, I mean, I am, but…”
She stopped. Grimaced. A sudden wave of pain. She rubbed her throat harder.
>
The tapping on the door grew louder, changed to pounding. “What the hell is going on in there?”
Brett growled, swooped across the landing, yanked the planter aside, and threw open the door. “Go away.”
A thin man in glasses and a green flannel did exactly as Brett commanded, scurrying off into the garage.
Brett slid the planter back into place, looked at Kim.
“I’ve been keeping tabs on Jonah,” she said, a finger pointed at him, “since he’s the one keeping Amber’s story alive. I just … want to know, want to believe she’s still alive.”
“Bullshit,” Brett snarled. He swallowed. “You’re on a team.”
“A … a team?”
Brett pointed through the green glass. “Accord. Who’s your friend?”
Jonah looked to where Brett was pointing. Across the street, a silver Honda Accord was parked beneath the I-4 overpass. A silhouette behind the driver’s seat was just visible.
Kim shook her head. “What??”
Brett got closer to her. He didn’t say “Talk” again, just stared into her, hard, enough to make her tremble, cower away, look out the window at the car.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know who that is, and … there! There’s a cop right there. I’ll scream. He’ll see me with Jonah.”
Jonah looked over her shoulder. Outside, between the headquarters and the interstate, was a squad car with blue lights flashing, an officer standing beside it, a lingering crowd control officer.
“She’s right,” he said to Brett. “Please. Let her be. She’s Amber’s friend, man!”
Brett glared at him, then at her. Then he stepped back, giving her space.
She looked at Jonah, eyes wet, chest heaving.
“Kim…” Jonah said.
Her hands shook, fluttered. Her eyes darted between Jonah and Brett.
And then she pivoted, sprinted down the stairs, her palm screeching on the handrail, the thunder of her footsteps echoing harshly.
“Kim, wait!” Jonah called after her.
He turned to Brett.
Who was already dragging the planter back into place.
Brett pulled the door open and exited into the garage.
Chapter Ten
In the shade beneath the overpass, Finley looked through a pair of 10x25 binoculars, through the Accord’s windshield, to the top panel of dark green glass of the stairwell that ran up the center of the three-story garage.
Though the glass was tinted, it was perfectly clear, and Finley had seen everything that had happened, the full confrontation, in shades of emerald, a bit of drama playing out in a wine bottle. For a while there, it looked like the guy was going to kill her, snuff her our right there against the stairwell wall, but after he’d released her and there had been a few moments of conversation, he’d let the woman go.
“Kim, you dumb bitch,” Finley uttered, his binoculars tracing her movement as she turned around the final mid-level landing and headed for the ground floor.
Why the shit was Kim Hurley here? And why was she talking to Jonah Lund and his mystery companion, this large and evidently violent man?
Finley would need to contact his employer about these developments. He couldn’t put it off any longer.
But more pressing was the fact that it had appeared as though the big guy had, during his conversation with Kim, pointed out the window at Finley, at the Accord which Finley had parked covertly, expertly among other vehicles.
Surely not…
Surely Finley hadn’t been spotted. After all, Finley was good. The best. He wouldn’t be found out.
Finley’s exacting perfection was one of necessity. He wouldn’t jeopardize this job, this opportunity, this second chance. He had a new life, a great life, and it would not be taken from him.
Kim reached the bottom of the stairwell and exited. She gave a furtive glance to her surroundings and hurried down the road.
Finley brought the binoculars back up, looking to the top of the garage, where he could just see the roof of the Fiero over the parapet. Lund and the big man stood by the car, talking. A few last words, and they separated, Lund getting into the driver’s side and the big man walking around the backside of the vehicle.
The man opened the passenger door. And stopped. Looked over the edge of the roof. Right at Finley.
Shit.
Yes, Finley had been discovered.
This guy was good, whoever he was. Finley was going to have to up his game.
But first he had to get the hell out of there.
He put the Accord into gear and pulled away.
Chapter Eleven
A row of stately, brand-new townhouses. Their proximity to the quiet street in front varied, giving them a staggered appearance. Their designs, too, were varied—some with front porches, some without; some with a single dormer window, some with two—as were the colors, types, and materials of their siding. Their cute charm gave a bit of a New England seaside vibe while their stacked, row-house layout gave hints of Brooklyn, right in the middle of Florida. The landscaping was brand new—saplings held by support wires, mounds of pine straw mulch, palm trees with freshly pruned fronds.
Across the street was an equally new shopping area with pleasant, clean, upscale establishments—a coffee shop, two restaurants, a toy store. A small crowd was gathered around the monitors at an outdoor seating area.
It wasn’t the sort of neighborhood Silence would have expected to find a heroin addict.
He and Jonah took a sidewalk to the front porch of the brightest of the townhouses on the block—the siding on the bottom floor was yellow and that on the top floor was wood shingles.
Jonah huffed again. The third time he’d done so since they exited the Fiero. His hands were clenched, fingers pulsing. Silence took his shoulder, stopped him in his tracks, looked at him. They’d spent enough time together already that Jonah was picking up on his non-verbal clues, and with this one, Silence said, You okay?
Jonah took a deep breath, looked at the townhouse then to Silence. “Back at the mission. The guy said that Beasley hurts women. This guy helped raise her … when she was a little, vulnerable girl.” He gave Silence a dark, prompting look. “And I found his name by her phone the night she disappeared.”
“Hearsay,” Silence said.
“I know it’s hearsay, but…” He trailed off, took another long look at the townhouse. “Let’s go.”
He took off. Silence followed.
The doorbell had a shiny brass casing, and when Silence pushed the button, there was a pleasant series of melodic rings from within the house, muffled by the walls and door. Footsteps. And a man opened the door, only a few inches.
Black, fifties, white hair. Thick forearms on a mostly in-shape physique. Big face, full cheeks, a bit of a second chin. Polo shirt, khakis.
Aside from the height, he didn’t match the description given at the homeless mission, and aside from the telltale bloodshot eyes, he looked about as much like a heroin addict as his neighborhood looked like that of a heroin addict.
The man squinted at them. “Yes?”
“Ray Beasley?” Silence said.
A pause. Beasley’s reaction skipped right over the standard surprise at Silence’s growly voice and went into instant panic, eyes going wide. “How did you find me?”
“I know people.”
Ray Beasley had been unlisted in the Orlando phone book, but a quick call to a Specialist had resolved the issue. In the process, Silence had learned that Beasley had changed his name years earlier.
Silence didn’t understand all the Watchers’ methods—indeed, he was meant not to—but he knew members were embedded in all levels of the government. Given their technicians, called Specialists, had access to the highest levels of classified intelligence, basic biographical information was small potatoes—things like current and past addresses, birth and death certificates, death records, and name changes.
Beasley looked to Jonah, standing just behind Silence. “Y
ou’re Amber’s husband. What is this?”
Jonah stepped closer to the door. “We just want to talk to you.”
Beasley’s arm quivered. His hand went around the corner of the doorframe. His shoulder dropped slightly. Going for something.
Silence bashed into the door. Beasley backpedaled, shoes squeaking on the tile of the entryway. Silence’s hand wrapped around the barrel of the shotgun. Cold metal on his fingers.
He took advantage of Beasley’s momentum, using the weapon clenched between them as a yoke, swinging him to the side and into a wall, hard. Nearby picture frames rattled. He jerked the gun to the side, freed it, and shoved the barrel laterally into Beasley’s throat. The man gagged.
Jonah was behind him.
“Shut door,” Silence said without taking his eyes off Beasley.
The squeal of hinges and the thunk of the door closing.
He lessened the pressure on the shotgun.
Beasley sucked in a breath. “How the hell did you find me? I told you years ago, I wouldn’t say anything else. That I was done with it all. You’re here because of Amber, aren’t you? I know nothing. I … I…”
Jonah approached. “You think we’re connected to C11.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No,” Silence said. He lowered the shotgun a bit more, then took out the baggie with Amber’s sticky note, held it in front of Beasley’s face. “Talk.”
Beasley squinted. “That’s the address of the Morrison Mission. Who wrote this?”
“Amber. Explain.”
“I … I have no idea.”
Jonah stepped beside Silence, rested a hand on the shotgun’s stock. “Can we put this away?” His tone was mediating, soft.
Silence considered it. He lowered the gun, broke it open, popped the shells out, dropped them in his pocket, then put the gun back by the door frame.
“The note was by her phone,” Jonah said. “The night she disappeared.”
“I haven’t talked to Amber in … God, it must be six or seven years. Not since, you know, I got kicked out. Heroin.”
Silence held the note up again, right in Beasley’s face, an inch away, tapped where Amber had written his pseudonym.
