by Erik Carter
“Come on!” Kim screamed.
Silence tried to stand. Couldn’t. Kim hooked him beneath the armpits, helped him off the ground. He threw an arm over her shoulder.
She hobble-walked him, as quickly as they could, to the back of the parking lot, to the Accord. She opened the passenger door, shoved him in.
And a moment later she was behind the wheel. She fired up the engine, threw the gear selector into drive, and peeled around the closest exit, onto the street.
Chapter Forty-Nine
As Gavin turned the page, his heart sank.
He’d reached the final few paragraphs. A single, centered, three-letter word looked at him from halfway down the page.
END
The end of the book.
He didn’t want it to end.
Reading The Secret of Summerford Point had somehow reconnected him to Amber. Not only had it shown him how she had conducted her investigation into C11, but it had also projected him back to the younger years, a blanketed Amber curled up against his side on the orange couch in Carlton’s old house, warm against his arm, her smooth hair brushing his neck as she rested her cheek on his shoulder, the occasional questions.
How would Kara know he was going to be there?
What does “ascertain” mean?
Do you think O’Malley will make it?
He sighed.
The story had steamrolled to an exciting end. With O’Malley captured and with the new understanding that Police Chief Warren was the one behind the evildoings in Summerford, Kara had struggled to find her courage.
She had a choice before her: summon her bravery, disobey an adult’s command, take a risk; or play it safe, follow the rules, and leave her new friend to his peril.
For a while, fearful paralysis ensnared Kara, her decision-making teetering between action and inaction, tossed about by opposing gusts of uncertainty and hesitant resolve.
Then she remembered what Grandmother had told her after they left the play the night before: And what did we learn from that story, Kara? A lady must make a noble decision even when there are more convenient options.
Grandmother’s words emboldened her. She searched the marina outside the port until she found a rowboat among all the sailboats, yachts, and fishing boats. Kara didn’t know how to operate a motor, let alone any of the other components of a powered boat, but Father had taught her how to row, and she was darn good at it, much stronger than she looked, Father had told her.
She stealthily rowed the boat back to the port, approaching from the quiet side, unnoticed by O’Malley and his men, who were still unloading the crates from Whitehead Incorporated. With some experimentation, she figured out how to use O’Malley’s fancy camera and used it to take a series of photos that, when developed, would reveal weapons being pulled out of Whitehead crates with Summerford officers and Chief Warren supervising.
After taking the photos, she slipped into the building, found O’Malley, created a diversion to distract the men guarding him, and in the few brief moments of relative safety, she untied him from the chair to which he was bound. While he was disappointed in her for disobeying him, he was also very grateful.
And impressed.
The next morning, Kim was back at Carlito’s Café with Grandmother. But it wasn’t just the two of them this time. O’Malley was there too—cleaned up, fake scar removed from his face, and being very gentlemanly to Grandmother. On the black wrought-iron table was the copy of the Summerford Herald newspaper they’d all been reading together a few moments earlier. The shocking top headline read, Anonymous Photos Lead to Arrest of Police Chief and Six Officers.
They’d finished their pastries, and their coffee mugs were running low. Brunch had almost reached an end.
And for Gavin, there were only a few paragraphs left in the book.
O’Malley took another sip from his mug, peeked inside and gave an almost disappointed look before putting it on the table next to the empty saucer that had held his cruller. He put his arms behind his head and looked out over the street, smiling his casual, effortless grin, the sun playing off the edges of his dark sunglasses.
“Cute town. Real cute. I’ll have to come back again someday.” He turned to Grandmother. “I want you to know that the Bureau would never have been able to crack this case without your granddaughter. You have quite the little sleuth on your hands.”
They both turned to Kara then. Her cheeks warmed. She glanced down, twisting her cloth napkin between her hands.
“Don’t be bashful, darling,” Grandmother said.
It wasn’t bashfulness, necessarily, that made Kara look away. She simply didn’t enjoy being in the limelight, even if only two sets of eyes powered that light. She didn’t do her detective work for recognition; she did it because it was the right thing to do.
O’Malley crossed his forearms on the table and leaned closer to her. “Kara, I want to ask you: what made you decide to keep going with your investigation? There were so many opportunities for you to give up, so many dangerous situations. What kept you moving forward?”
Kara untwisted the napkin, flattened it over her lap, and pressed the wrinkles away as she considered what he’d asked.
She looked up and smiled. “I’m a detective. What choice did I have?”
O’Malley and Grandmother laughed.
Kara laughed too.
The sun was pleasant. The air tasted of the sea. Her belly was full of fine food. And she was surrounded by friendly faces and warm laughter.
Yes, this was a wonderful visit to Summerford.
END
Gavin closed the little book.
And with one hand, he brought it to his face, rubbed the edge over his cheek, whiskers scratching on the surface.
The EKG beeped.
The Secret of Summerford Point had been one of many Kara, Kid Detective books he’d read to Amber, and while this fresh reading had shown him a storyline not so very different from the rest of the series, the book had clearly stuck in Amber’s mind all these years, so much so that she remembered it when she conducted her investigation.
He couldn’t recall much about the time he’d spent reading this particular title to young Amber, but a memory had arisen moments earlier when he’d read the last words: he remembered when they’d finished the story, leaving Kara, Grandmother, and O’Malley at the café and shutting the little paperback. Amber had asked him if he’d take her to Summerford. He’d told her it wasn’t an actual place; it was fictitious. She’d contended that there were surely real-life Maine towns similar to Summerford. This had made him smile, and he’d agreed that, yes, there surely were. She’d asked if he’d take her to one of these towns. Maybe some day, he’d told her. Maybe some day.
He brought the book to his chest. Pressed it tight. Closed his eyes and tried not to cry.
He said her name.
“Amber.”
And he smiled.
Chapter Fifty
Jonah continued to stare up at the ceiling, its popcorn texture faintly illuminated by orange-ish streetlight sifting in through the closed blinds.
There was one other source of lighting in the otherwise darkened apartment.
The television. A few feet away from him. The light it cast onto his right cheek, his right eye—as he kept his face turned away from it—came from the image he knew it was bearing.
Amber. Sitting on the folding chair. Green T-shirt with white lettering that read, Big Brothers Big Sisters of Central Florida. Smiling. A fake houseplant and a wrinkly, black cloth backdrop behind her—Dr. Nogulich’s permanent setup for her video do-over vows, set up in the back corner of a tiny room in her office-house.
Jonah was a coward.
That’s how he’d screwed things up so much with Amber; that’s how he’d been able to do the awful thing he’d done.
And now he couldn’t even watch her tape.
He couldn’t even look at the frozen image of her on the screen.
No…
No, he could do that much. He could at least look at her.
He took a breath, lowered his chin, and looked at the screen.
There she was. That smile, pure and beaming, a face that was virtuous, kind, had a tendency to giggle, which usually brought a hand to her mouth, some form of unneeded bashfulness, a playful face, a sexy face.
He picked up the remote.
And before he could stop himself, he pressed PLAY.
“Hey, Jonah,” Amber said.
Jonah shuddered. He breathed out, twice, hard and rapidly.
Amber brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I feel a little silly talking to a camera.” She stopped, looked to her right where one of the fake leaves was brushing her arm, giggled, hand to her mouth, scooted the chair away. “Everything I said in our first vows, I still mean it. So let’s cut to brass tacks. You messed up, babe. And … and I don’t know if I can ever truly forgive it. People say they forgive all the time, and it’s wonderful, but how often do they really, one hundred percent mean it? I don’t know if it’s possible with something like this.
“But I tell you this: maybe it’s not one hundred percent, but I do forgive you.” She paused. “Ninety-five percent, let’s say.” A smile. “And for something like this, I don’t even think forgiveness is the most important thing. Trust is. And that I give to you, one hundred percent. I trust you, Jonah. I trust that you’ll never do anything like that again, and I trust that you completely regret it. You’ve shown what you’re made of this weekend with Dr. Nogulich. You’re a good man. And I love you so, so much. Now and always.”
Another smile. And she stood. Her green shirt enveloped the screen again, going blurry. Shuffling noises. A flash of static. And the screen went blue.
Jonah leaned back in the sofa, resting his head on the top of the pillow, facing the ceiling, eyes closed, and a noise came out of him. Something like joyous laughter, something like the confusing rush of overwhelming relief.
Tears dripped off the edge of his jaw.
Chapter Fifty-One
The Accord rolled to a stop. Silence unbuckled his seatbelt, ready to hop out and switch places, but after Kim put the gear selector in park, she placed both hands on top of the steering wheel and exhaled, looking out at the apartment complex.
It was quite the contrast to the one Silence had visited earlier in the day, Jonah’s illustrious—if not corporately bland—setup. This one was a trio of brick buildings—two stories with additional windows along the ground revealing a third layer of semi-basement units—that were arranged in an L-shape around a grassy courtyard area with pine trees in the corners
A slight rain flecked the windshield. Kim had set the wiper speed too high, and they gave a slight screech with each pass. She didn’t seem to notice, just stared out at the closed-down pool area in the center of the courtyard, encircled with yellow caution tape and a procession of sagos in sparse marble chips, a trio of sad-looking fan palms at the far corner.
Silence sensed that she was going to say something. Something deep and profound to close out their brief association. He braced himself.
But all she said was, “Damn rain.”
Silence nodded.
“It’ll pass in a couple minutes. Florida weather, man!” A small, almost forced laugh. She turned her attention away from the windshield and faced him. “You really don’t say much, do you?”
He shook his head.
“Your voice—may I ask? Is it, like, laryngitis or something?”
Silence looked at her. Then he exited the Accord.
He walked around the hood to the driver side where Kim stepped out, shut her door, closed the distance between them.
They stood for a moment in the pestering but unsubstantial rain, looking at the apartment complex—Kim with her arms wrapped around her chest, Silence with his hands in his pockets, the sides of his jacket tucked behind his forearms.
“What should I do?” Kim said finally.
A simple question, but her tone had been severe, heavy. It was the profundity Silence had been expecting.
He raised an eyebrow.
“I mean, you said that your organization will tie up all the loose ends, clear things up in the computers. And I’m appreciative, don’t get me wrong. But … what do I do with myself now? I didn’t know they were gonna kill Amber. You have to believe me about that. But I knew they were gonna rough her up bad. I knew. Shit! And with her palsy. Oh god. I keep thinking about how scared she must have been. She was so sweet. She—”
Kim stopped suddenly, wiped the accruing rain from her forehead, traced the hand along her temple to her cheeks, where the rain was mixed with tears.
“You know, the highway where it happened, US 50, there’s a place called Christmas. Not too far outside Orlando. Kitschy little highway town. It’s got a two-hundred-foot-long building shaped like a gator. ‘The World’s Largest Alligator.’” She chuckled. “Amber and I went there every December, a ritual of ours. We had to go to Christmas every Christmas. She loved little pieces of Americana like that. She loved sangria too.” A smile. “She wasn’t much of a drinker, but she could put the sangria away. She liked it sweet. The sweeter the better.”
Another abrupt stop.
“I’m rambling. I guess what I’m trying to ask you is how do I proceed? How do I continue with life knowing I got my best friend killed?”
As with earlier, when Jonah had asked Silence for advice on whether he should watch the videotape of Amber’s do-over vows, Silence had no advice.
Kim Hurley’s path forward was entirely determined by her own choices, no one else’s.
And, as she has just stated, she’d gotten her best friend killed. Silence wasn’t feeling exceedingly sympathetic.
He stepped past her, opened the driver-side door, one foot in, a hand on the wet roof, ducking inside.
“Wait!” Kim said.
He put a hand on the top of the door, fingers gripping the rubber weatherstripping, and straightened back up to his full height.
She stepped to the door, looked up at him, eyes desperate. “Please! Whatever you are, whoever you work for, you’ve surely seen situations like this before, haven’t you?”
Silence’s former life.
His best friend.
Lying in a puddle of blood. Her face destroyed.
A crimson-and-black crater in the back of her head, circled by dark, wavy hair.
Kim’s lower lip trembled. She shook her head. Slowly. Eyes not leaving his, not blinking. Droplets of rain on her face. “How do I move forward?”
Silence took a deep breath. “Carefully.”
He got in, shut the door, put the gear selector into drive, and took off.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The following night.
A rumbling ball of warmth sat on Silence’s lap, staring up at him with a look of sheer admiration from the inside of what looked like a tiny lampshade.
Baxter’s purring felt soothing against Silence’s legs. The heat was particularly evident from the cat’s stomach, as it was devoid of fur. The veterinarian had indeed “shaved his belly,” as Mrs. Enfield had predicted, leaving just velvety soft, strangely pinkish cat skin with wee cat nipples and a strip of white gauze covering his stitches. He wore a clear plastic cone collar—also known as an “Elizabethan collar” or a “cone of shame”—which kept him from disrupting his fresh wound, but it hadn’t dissuaded his drooling, which continued to collect on the sloped plastic. Periodically, when the puddle grew large enough, gravity took over, at which point the puddle traced down the slope of the cone, off the edge, and onto Silence’s pants, a new favorite pair—five-pocket, medium-dark gray, casual, slightly distressed, dress-’em-up-dress-’em-down, cotton-poly blend, now with an oblong patch of cat saliva.
Drat.
Some things never change, not even with the introduction of a cone of shame.
He sat on the rocking chair on Mrs. Enfield’s porch. She was in the porch swing a few feet to his right. They had been quiet
for a few minutes, watching the gentle evening unfold in front of them—a few neighbors out for nighttime walks with their dogs, a kid on a bicycle, the occasional vehicle. The sounds were faint and subtle and few in number, just a bit of noise carrying over from downtown, cars on distant streets, and Baxter’s enthusiastic purring.
Silence looked down at the cat.
Baxter’s eyes were slitted with contentment, and they looked right back up at Silence. When their gazes met, Baxter’s purring spiked. Silence ran a hand along his back, Baxter’s soft fur soothing against the coarse skin of his palms, the calluses at the base of his fingers.
Baxter was unaffected by the cone and the stitches and the discomfort in his stomach. Nothing fazed this cat.
Silence thought back to the screeching monster under Mrs. Enfield’s guest bed with whom he’d fought an epic battle, trying to get the beast into a pet carrier.
Almost nothing fazed Baxter. Nothing except going to the veterinarian. And a few other select things—lawnmowers, people with a negative aura, robust squirrels.
Mrs. Enfield broke the quiet. “Sit with me, Si.”
He gingerly put his hands beneath Baxter—a blip in his purring as he was lifted—and sat beside Mrs. Enfield on the porch swing. Her ghostly eyes stared across the street, into the warm glow of the streetlights.
“Let me see your face,” she said.
Silence leaned over. Baxter’s adoring eyes followed him.
Mrs. Enfield brought her hands up, slightly off target at first, then found his cheeks. Her tiny, wrinkly, dry palms explored, pressing gently here and there.
“You’re softened, boy,” she said. “Did this business trip see you doing some fighting?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Enfield didn’t know what exactly Silence did for a living, but she was quite intuitive, and shortly after they met, she’d determined that he was involved in something violent. Like Silence, she was a good judge of character, so she’d never assumed that Silence did anything immoral. But despite her kindly-grandmother appearance and demeanor, she was also no idiot—she knew it was in her best interest to be unaware of what Silence actually did. So she’d never asked.
