The Shut Mouth Society

by James D. Best

  “Lewis Hayden was an escaped slave, and he and his wife harbored runaways on their way to Canada. That house is a famous Underground Railroad station. Come on. I’ll show you where Abe Douglass’s ancestor preached.”

  After a few minutes she stopped in front of another large brick structure. “This is the African Meeting House, the oldest black church in America. Frederick Douglass spoke here many times.”

  Evarts stared at the building. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I’m not sure, but Abe Douglass visited here many times and helped finance the restoration.” Baldwin turned and looked at Evarts. “You keep saying that the three big events at the time of the formation of the Shut Mouth Society were the end of the war, the assassination, and the impeachment. You forgot the Thirteenth Amendment.”

  “The amendment that abolished slavery?”

  “Yes. In 1865 … after Lincoln’s assassination.”

  “Damn, you’re right. Abe Douglass may have misled us. The Shut Mouth Society might be black.”

  “Or a secret society that works against blacks. Like the Ku Klux Klan.”

  “My mind’s reeling. Let’s drop these books off at the apartment and get some dinner.”

  They brought in pizza again and continued their research. They worked until they both felt exhausted. Evarts went over to the couch and fell fast asleep before eleven o’clock.

  Buzz!

  At first Evarts felt disoriented, but in a flash he realized that someone had breached the outer door and had tried to turn off the staircase lights. He threw off the blanket and scrambled to the laptop on the small table near the entry. What he saw on the camera display made him gasp. Two men stood at the bottom of the stairs. Each held a gun.

  Chapter 27

  Baldwin rushed into the front room. “What was that god-awful noise?”

  Evarts put his finger over his lips to signal Baldwin to hush. Damn. He should’ve spent more money on the damn buzzer. It was so shrill and loud, they must have heard it. He glanced back at the screen, and what he saw indicated they had. The men single-filed carefully up the stairs, staying to the side with guns aimed at the door at the top of the narrow confine. How secure was the top door? How much time did he have to prepare for their entry? From the cameras, he could see no threat out the back in the alley, but he couldn’t believe they would leave it unguarded.

  Looking over his shoulder, Baldwin saw the screen and struggled for breath. Evarts turned and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Go throw some things in a bag. Hurry,” he whispered.

  She bolted for the bedroom and Evarts went to the rear window. When he threw it open, he felt a sharp pain above his left eye. Jerking his head back, he swiped his face and saw blood on his fingers. Silencer. He had heard nothing. He made another quick inspection of his face and decided that only a wood splinter had nicked him. Damn. How had they found them?

  By the time he had gotten back to the computer screen, the first man had reached the upper door. When they had moved their stuff into the loft, he had staged his shotgun against the front doorframe. Now he reached for it while keeping an eye on the computer screen. By the time he swung the shotgun into his arms, the first man had reached up and used the barrel of his automatic pistol to break the camera. They had lost their view of the outside world. Damn. Damn. Damn.

  Evarts snapped the lid of the computer shut and jerked out the USB cables that connected the cameras. He took a quick look at the door handle and made a decision. He raced to the bedroom doorway and stage-whispered, “Dress. Fast.” When he saw acknowledgment of what he had said in her eyes, he whipped around and threw on his own clothes, all the while keeping an eye on the doorknob for any movement that would indicate they had succeeded in picking the lock. After he pulled up his pants and buckled his belt, he tucked his SIG in his back waistband and dropped some extra shotgun shells into his pocket.

  Evarts had just switched from tying his left shoe to his right, when Baldwin came bounding out from the bedroom fully dressed, carrying her purse and the same Tumi overnight bag she had brought with her from Westwood. He started to ask if she had any of his things but decided that was ridiculously inconsequential.

  This time he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and leaned into her ear. “Trish, I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to shoot our way out.”

  She gave him a worried look. “Greg, you’re bleeding.”

  “Just a nick. It’s how I found out they’re covering the fire escape.”

  She wiped the blood away from his eye and seemed satisfied that the wound wouldn’t kill him. “I want my computer,” she whispered. Without waiting for his reply, she grabbed the laptop and power cord and jammed it into her matching Tumi computer case. With bag straps slung over both shoulders, she reached into her purse and pulled out the .45. She pointed the automatic straight up and extended her finger along the barrel. With more composure than he felt, he heard her ask, “How do we do it?”

  “Put the gun away a sec. I need you to help me push this chest against the door.” He pointed at a low chest that sat against the opposite wall.

  She gave him a brief questioning look, but she put the .45 back in her purse. They raced over to the chest and carried it over to the entrance. Evarts was surprised how heavy it was, but then he remembered that he had inspected it on arrival and found it full of books.

  Whoever picked this apartment knew the closed-in staircase provided a good defensive obstacle. It was so narrow, assailants would need to climb single file, and the tiny landing in front of the door had enough space for only one person.

  Evarts explained in a low voice, “They’ll have the door lock picked soon, and they know we’re ready. If they’re as professional as I think, they’ll snap the door open and throw in a percussion grenade.”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly. We want the door to open, but only an inch or two. Enough for this.” Evarts held up the shotgun by the barrel. After Baldwin nodded, she helped him position the chest close, but not tight, against the door.

  “What do I do?” Her voice broke a little, and Evarts actually felt relieved to see her show a little anxiety.

  Evarts whispered even lower. “Sit with your back against the chest. That will add additional resistance.”

  She took out her gun and pointed it straight up in both hands.

  “And don’t shoot me,” he added.

  “Where will you be?”

  “Right here.” He lay on his back along the baseboard and pointed the shotgun over his shoulder so it was positioned to shove through the crack in the door when it opened. He wanted to be low and out of the first line of sight.

  She sat behind the chest and looked around its edge to catch his eye. “This’ll never hold the door.”

  He whispered, “I don’t want the door jammed tight. I want it to give an inch or so, with just enough resistance that the bastard’s instinct will be to throw his shoulder against it. I need that split second before he tosses in a flash grenade or starts shooting.”

  She suddenly looked scared. “This might not work.”

  Evarts put his finger in front of his mouth to signal quiet.

  “Greg, I’m scared.”

  “Me too. Just don’t panic.” He made another quiet gesture with his finger and then whispered low, “We’ll get through this.”

  In another thirty seconds, Evarts saw the doorknob move ever so slightly. He pointed the shotgun almost straight up over his right shoulder. The door banged open against the chest, and Evarts instantly shoved the shotgun through the crack pointed at about where the assailant’s chest ought to be if he threw his shoulder against the door.

  He pulled the trigger. Bang!

  He cycled the pump action, adjusted the aim, and fired again. Bang!

  He rolled over onto his knees against the wall and blindly pointed the shotgun around the now open door and pulled the trigger again. Bang!

  After he cycled the gun, he peered around the corner and saw both men
tumbling down the stairs. He jumped up and ran after them. When the one toward the bottom bounced clear of his partner, Evarts pulled the trigger with the barrel aimed at the middle of his chest.

  Bang! That one was no longer a concern.

  Evarts raised the shotgun to his shoulder and aimed at the second tumbling body. He almost shot again, but in the last instant he saw that the man’s face had been blasted into a bloody mash. He continued down the stairs, making high steps like a football player running through tires until he got past the bodies. When he got to the lower door, he dropped to one knee and threw it open, swinging the shotgun left to right.

  He heard a shot slam into something close by, but he couldn’t see where it came from. Reflexively, he snapped back into the stairwell with his back against the wall. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out two 00 buckshot shells and rammed them into the gun. Suddenly he became aware of Baldwin beside him. No time to waste. The stairwell was a trap. It had been a trap for the two men he shot and now it trapped them. He had to get out, and the only chance for escape depended on a startling and savage attack. He leaped out the door.

  Evarts bounced his shoulder against a parked car and whipped his head left and right. Where were they? Then he heard someone on the other side of the very car he had taken shelter behind. He stepped back, keeping low, and holding the shotgun at his waist. He pulled the trigger, shooting through the front side windows, spraying glass everywhere. Someone yelled and he dropped to a knee just in time to see a head appear briefly above the doorframe on the other side of the car. Bang! The way the head recoiled told Evarts that he no longer had to worry about that particular threat.

  He cycled the shotgun and stood up hoping the assassination team had only four members. Evarts figured the guy in the alley probably had orders to stay put.

  Just as he started to swivel around, Evarts felt a gun barrel punched into the back of his neck. “Drop the fucking gun, asshole. Now!”

  Chapter 28

  “Don’t shoot! He knows the combination.”

  “What? What combination?” The man holding the gun to his neck seemed startled to hear a voice behind him. Evarts felt the greatest fear of his life when he realized the voice belonged to Baldwin.

  “Why the hell do you think you were sent here?” she screamed.

  Evarts felt the slightest release of pressure from the pistol barrel, and then he heard an unbelievably loud roar as a gun went off near his ear. It seemed like an eternity before he realized his skull hadn’t been blown apart, but probably no more than one or two seconds had really gone by before he reached for the SIG in his back waistband. When he turned around, he felt the greatest joy of his life: Patricia Baldwin stood behind him, seemingly in one piece. Despite being unharmed, her appearance startled him. She wore a fierce expression and she held her .45 aimed at about head height. Evarts felt more than saw a body sliding down against the car beside him. She had shot the guy in the head while he held a gun on him. Shit.

  Evarts looked around but saw no one, not even an innocent neighbor. Good. He took Baldwin by the elbow and urged her to run. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  She pulled her arm free. “What about your prints on the shotgun?”

  He regrabbed her elbow. “We gotta get outta here. Now!” When she started moving he added, “Besides, we left our prints all over the place.”

  “But that’s the murder weapon.”

  She trotted beside him now. “My prints are on those shell casings anyway.” They had reached the corner of Charles Street, and he automatically turned them away from the alley behind the apartment. At this hour, nobody clogged the usually busy sidewalk, and he could spot no one awakened by the gunfire. Then he heard what sounded like a woman’s scream about a block behind them. They didn’t have much more time to make a getaway.

  “Where are we going?” Baldwin asked.

  “Away from here.”

  “Is the car safe?”

  Evarts thought a moment. He felt sure that they hadn’t found them by tracing the car, because they had separated themselves from it so early. He also doubted that it had been reported stolen already. He had driven well out of the normal route to steal the SUV, and he had parked his own van in a different condominium complex. Even if the Explorer had been reported stolen, it seemed a stretch that the theft would already be connected to him. He kept up their rapid walking pace and said, “The car should still be safe, but we need a taxi to get to it.”

  They had reached Beacon Street and she pointed to the park across the street. “That way,” she said.

  Once they had entered the quiet park, Evarts asked, “Where are you leading us?”

  “To the Ritz Carlton.” She pointed. “Just on the other side of the Public Gardens. It’s the closest cab stand.”

  Evarts gasped for air, while she panted only slightly. He needed to do more aerobics or get back to his jogging routine. He checked his watch. Eleven thirty. Evidently few people wandered the Gardens at this hour, and they found themselves alone as they hustled along on a diagonal path through the park.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “I almost got you killed,” she said with a quivering voice.

  “No, you saved my life.”

  “I didn’t think … I couldn’t think.”

  “Thinking gets you killed in a situation like that. You did great.”

  When they reached the Ritz Carlton, Evarts saw a lone cab at the stand. They jumped in, but before he could say anything, Baldwin leaned toward the opening in the Plexiglas divider and said, “South Station, please.”

  Evarts started to ask a question, but she pinched his thigh in a way that told him to keep his mouth shut. After they paid for the short ride, she led him down some stairs to the subway. When they stood on the nearly empty platform waiting for the next car, she said, “This may not have been such a bright idea. We have to take the Red Line two stops, switch to the Green Line, and then switch again at Government Center to the Blue Line.”

  “The Blue Line takes us to the airport?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” She stood staring straight ahead with an ex­hausted expression. “Then we’ll need to catch the shuttle to off-site parking.”

  “Perfect.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek and felt pleased she didn’t recoil.

  “I … I thought cops could trace a taxi.” She continued to look straight ahead.

  “They can … and at this hour, they’d probably get a tag on it before we even made it to that long-term parking lot. Smart girl. Smart and brave.”

  “Right now, I just want to get to the car so I can have a nervous breakdown.”

  Just as she spoke, a subway car rattled into the station. A transit cop emerged from an office at the end of the platform, but he didn’t look alert. They stepped into the car, and Evarts directed them to a seat on the opposite side so he could keep an eye on the cop. Evarts looked at his watch, startled that only ten minutes had passed since they had sprinted across the Public Gardens.

  When the car doors closed with no sign of interest from the cop, Evarts felt himself exhale deeply. In less than three minutes, they were at the second stop. Baldwin grabbed his arm and said, “Hurry. That’s the car we want and they’re few and far between at this hour.”

  They raced across platforms and jumped on the Green Line just before a monotone voice announced that the doors were about to close. After they had taken seats, a rough-looking vagrant walked over and grabbed the pole above their heads to steady himself. With a shit-eating grin aimed at Baldwin, he said, “Hey buddy, can you spare ten dollars?”

  Evarts immediately went on high alert. A bum asks for a dollar. Only a petty criminal who thought they looked vulnerable would ask for ten dollars. He wanted to hurt the guy. In fact, he badly wanted to hurt the guy badly. Despite his need to release some tension, Evarts didn’t want to draw attention. “We’re cops, asshole, and you’re going to blow our cover. Go find someone else.”

  He looked dubious. “You ai
n’t cops.”

  “Karen, darling, shoot this son of a bitch, please.”

  Without missing a beat, Baldwin opened her purse and half extracted her .45. “With pleasure.”

  The perpetrator jumped back and went to the furthest seat away from them. In a few minutes they were at Government Station. This time their luck wasn’t as good. They had to wait on the platform for nearly ten minutes for a Blue Line car. The ride to the airport seemed to take forever, but his watch said it took only a little over eight minutes. When they found the shuttle area outside the terminal, Evarts smiled as he saw a minibus painted with the long-term parking logo. His relief evaporated, however, after they boarded the van, and the driver showed no inclination to leave the terminal.

  “When do we leave?” Evarts asked.

  “Few minutes. You’re the first to arrive.”

  “First? What are you talking about?”

  He caught Evarts’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Didn’t you just arrive on flight 617?”

  Evarts first impulse was to offer him twenty dollars to go now, but he realized that would make him memorable. “Yeah. First class, no luggage, so we made it out quick. I guess you need to wait for the rest.”

  “Yup. Only bus at this hour.” He turned and gave them a questioning look. “Why no luggage?”

  Evidently flight 617 didn’t just fly in from New York or some other short commuter route. “Lost at an international connection. Pissed me off, but what can you do?” Evarts put on a tired face. It wasn’t hard. “This was our last leg. We had three connections, and we’ve been traveling for almost twenty-four hours. Now we just want to get home.”

  The driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror showed that he had absolutely no interest in listening to another traveler’s tale of woe. Evarts felt relief when he saw people exit the terminal. “Here they come.” He closed his eyes. “Wake us at the lot.”

  “Sure thing, bud.” Evarts heard him leap out of the bus to help people with their baggage. Good. That conversation had gone deeper than he wanted.