The Silent Places (28 page)

She lay nestled against him, her back to his front, his arm around her stomach. She turned to him.

“You were hurt before,” she said, “weren’t you? Before you fell down the stairs.”

“…Yes.”

She said, “Can you tell me what happened?”

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t care.”

“But you should. You should care.”

“Why?”

“Because you have a son. And you don’t need someone like me in your life.”

“Maybe I do need you. Maybe you need someone like me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What?”

“Don’t say ‘someone like me.’ You’re not just a warm body I found. You’re a good lady.”

She almost laughed at his seriousness. She said, “I mean something to you?”

“You know what I meant.”

“I’m not even sure what to call you. Paul?”

“Call me John.”

“John?”

“Maybe I’ll explain it to you sometime.”

“John.” She said, “Are you in trouble?”

“Kind of.”

“Well, whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a good man.”

“I’m not a good man.”

“Seducing a lonely woman,” Molly said. “Is that how you see this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, don’t. You didn’t seduce me. I may not be the most experienced woman, but I’m not stupid, either.”

“I know you’re not.”

“I know what I’m doing. And I’m not sorry, either.”

Reese said nothing, looked up at the ceiling.

Molly said, “I didn’t plan this. It happened, and I think it’s good that it happened. We can’t plan everything, can we?”

“No.”

“But sometimes it can be good, too, the unplanned.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I said before that I knew you weren’t going to stay. And I wasn’t lying to you when I said it. But I want you to think about staying. Because this might be something. Will you think about it?”

“I have thought about it,” Reese said. “Am thinking about it. But I’m fifty years old. It may be too late for me to…”

“It’s not too late,” Molly said. “We’ll have no more talk of it now. Will you stay with me through the night?”

“Yes.”

Charlie Day used his pen to point out on the schematic where tact team officers would be placed. He said there would be uniformed officers working the streets and some plainclothesmen. Hastings would be one of the latter. There would be patrols of the Soldier’s Memorial and surrounding areas throughout the night in case John Reese tried to set up early.

Also present at the briefing were Ronnie Wulf, Chief Grassino, Howard Rhodes, Tim Murphy, Joe Klosterman, and Capt. Dan Anthony. There were also officers from the county PD who had offered to assist.

Charlie Day took questions, and when those were addressed, he added, “Remember, this man is not a minor leaguer. He was a sniper for the military as well as an intelligence agent. He is extremely dangerous. If you see him, do not try to take him alone unless absolutely necessary. George? Do you have anything to add?”

“No, Charlie,” Hastings said.

“Chief?”

“No.”

“Then I guess we’re adjourned.”

As the meeting broke up, Hastings approached Captain Anthony.

“Dan?”

“Yes, George.”

“Can I speak to you privately?” Hastings feigned a submissive tone. Anthony would think he wanted a favor.

When they were alone, Hastings said in a different voice, “Did you tell Dexter Troy where Reese was the other night?”

Dan Anthony’s face tightened. “What?” he said, his tone tense. “Where do you get—”

Hastings said, “Did you?”

“Who the hell do you think you are, asking me that?”

“Did you, Dan?”

“George, I’m on your side.”

“I know that. But I want you to answer my question.”

“I don’t think I care to.”

“Look, Dan, I don’t much care if you did. If you did, it may have been innocent.”

“Innocent? What makes you think I told them?”

“I asked Troy about it myself. I asked him how his men knew where Reese had wrecked his car. He said something about hearing it on a police radio. Now that’s possible, but it’s not likely. It’s just not likely they picked up something that specific on a police radio or scanner.”

“You think I told them.”

Hastings sighed. “I’m sorry, Dan, but I do. I don’t know who else it could have been.”

Then fear was in Anthony’s eyes. In a tone just above a whisper, he said, “Who else have you told about this?”

And that confirmed it for Hastings. He was actually disappointed to learn he had been right. He had never disliked Anthony.

“I haven’t told anyone,” Hastings said. “But I’m not going to lie for you if I’m asked. Do you understand me?”

“George, I didn’t think it was wrong. I didn’t.”

“I believe you. But you can’t help these guys anymore. I don’t care how nice they are to you.”

“They’re not bad guys, George.”

“Well, I think they might be. In fact, I think they’re planning to kill John Reese. Don’t ask me why I think that or if I have proof of it. Just trust me. Now there’s a line between protecting Senator Preston and straightforward contract killing. So as a friend, I’m telling you, don’t get close to these people. Whatever they’ve offered you, it’s not worth it.”

“It’s not like that. I swear—”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“George, I—”

Klosterman walked up to them.

Hastings said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dan.”

Klosterman waited until Dan Anthony left. Then he said, “You asked if there was any sort of connection between Anders and the senator.”

“Yeah.”

Klosterman said, “I might have something.”

It was around eleven o’clock when Hastings got home. He turned on the television and watched the ESPN tally of the day’s football games, all of which he had missed. He watched a highlight of a Manning pass caught in the end zone. Then he went to his bedroom closet and took down his Winchester model 52 rifle.

He loaded it in the living room, in front of the television set. While he did that, he remembered Dan Anthony’s pained expression as Anthony tried to explain himself, but Hastings had cut him off, saying he’d see him tomorrow. Hastings hadn’t wanted to look at Anthony at that moment. He wondered if he would have felt better about it if Anthony hadn’t been ashamed. Hadn’t shown a human weakness. Sometimes it was easier to deal with the Alan Prestons of the world who didn’t seem to feel ashamed about anything.

The hell with it. Dan Anthony was not his problem. Not now. He pushed him out of his mind and concentrated on the rifle.

At 2:45 in the morning, John Reese climbed out of Molly Mangan’s bed and got dressed. He looked at Molly for a moment. She really was beautiful. He had wanted her and she had wanted him. But lust fades and is replaced by commitment and tenderness. Things he had not expected to feel again. He did not feel he had betrayed Sara. In a way, he wondered if he had done something for her. If Sara were here—here in some ethereal way—he could ask her what he should do and Sara would say,
Stay
. But he would not ask her and he knew it.

He had not slept well through the night. Whether this was due to having slept a lot during the day or anxiety, he did not know. He did know that for a few short, sweet hours he had entertained the idea of marrying Molly Mangan and beginning a new life with her and her son. But as the night wore on, he knew this was not possible. It was too late for him, as he had tried to tell her. And they deserved something better.

He had given her his first name: John. He had told her because he didn’t want to lie to her about his name. But he had lied to her all the same by keeping silent about his past, about who he was. Today, she would find out who he was. Whether he was dead or alive, she would know. Probably it would be on the evening news. Then she would know who she had shared her bed with and she would be stuck with the memory. She would, justifiably, feel betrayed. Reese knew this and it sickened him. He had done this to her. And it made him feel worse to know that he would have probably done it anyway, because he had needed her so badly. Probably more than she needed him. He thought all that time in prison had made him stronger. But he was wrong. This sin was his alone, not Preston’s.

He held his breath as he left her room. His ankle was still in pain. He found that he could not avoid limping.

Five minutes later, he left the house.

He parked the Mazda about a mile and a half from the target. He checked his watch and saw it was about ten minutes after three. The sun would rise at 7:06
A.M.
He would have liked more time, but he should have enough. He looked around the neighborhood. He didn’t see anyone. Houses and cars, but everyone was asleep. He applied black, green, and brown grease-paint to his face and hands. Then he got out of the car, taking the long-stemmed dark green tote bag with him. He slung the bag over his back. This would be his departure point.

He had bought the tote bag at a hardware store. It was intended to store a folded-up summer chair. Now it contained the Enfield rifle.

Under cover of darkness, he slipped from the car into some trees. Then he climbed down into a gully. The gully was bordered by trees and brush and it snaked through the neighborhood that straddled the border between Clayton and the city limits of St. Louis. It would take him within three hundred yards of Senator Preston’s house. It’s better than being in a field, he thought. In tall grass, you had to slow every movement. You had to move by inches. It could take an hour to cover fifteen yards. There had been a job in South America that required him to go through grass. He’d had to lie still, not even breathe, as men on foot conducted their morning patrols.

But he’d had two good feet then. Now he had a bum leg and the pain was increasing. At one point, he put the bad foot wrong on a stone and it twisted it even further. He swallowed his cry as the pain shot up his leg and into his eyes. He stopped and allowed himself a few hard breaths. He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, tears came and rolled down his cheeks.

He kept moving. And as he moved, he thought of Preston coming out of his house, walking to his car. He would have that space of time, that opportunity. Plenty of time. Plenty. He thought of Molly Mangan and then pushed her out of his mind and thought of Sara, the other woman he had let down. The woman who had died alone while he was in prison for a crime he had not committed. Some people just have to die, Reese thought.

Yes, die. But my, the water was cold, even though it was only around his ankles. Now he started to shiver and he had to stop again.

Christ. The fever was returning. He thought he had broken it back at Molly’s, but it had come back. He had not given himself sufficient time to heal. Any lance corporal would have told him he had to let his body heal. You ain’t a kid anymore, son. You’re an old man.

But it had to be done. There would be no more opportunities. And if he survived it, he could heal his body later. He couldn’t allow this injustice to pass. He could not resist the sordid, empty promise of vengeance.

At 4:18, he came out of the gully. From then on, he crawled. And though it hurt his knees, he was relieved, because there was no longer any weight pressing down on his ankle. He believed now he would make it.

Approximately 270 yards from the Preston house, Reese took his field glasses from his coat pocket. He examined the front door and the semicircle driveway. He repositioned himself to the west. Then he dug a shallow ditch for himself and covered it with leaves and brush. He set his rifle on a wet mound of dirt, finding a point where the dirt would no longer give. Then he removed a washcloth from his coat. He folded the washcloth and put it between the muzzle of the rifle and the dirt. This would prevent dirt from spitting up when he made a shot and decrease the chance of his being seen.

Reese checked his watch. It was 4:40
A.M.

Now he would wait.

At 6:45, he heard voices. Then he heard footsteps. He withdrew his rifle into his cover and held it close to his chest. He would not risk making the noise required to close the hole. The only way it would be seen was if someone crouched right down in front of it. He made his body still and then he stopped breathing.

The voices drew closer.

Men. Two of them. Talking.

Chops, he thought. You don’t talk on a foot patrol. Not if you’re looking for an assassin. You can’t sneak up on anyone if you’re making noise. Amateurs not using the weapon of silence.

The voices stopped and now the two men were near him. Reese continued to hold his breath.

He heard the flick of a cigarette lighter. A Zippo.

A man said, “The per diem in Afghanistan is good. But the duty is shit now. Used to be a good pull. Now it’s even more dangerous than Iraq.”

The other man said, “The best duty is Qatar. They got some good discos and the food is outstanding.”

Reese felt the stock of the rifle, then the muzzle. The muzzle was bare and dry.

Christ!
He had left the washcloth out on the mound of dirt.

If they saw it, they would examine it. And then they would find him. He could kill one and maybe the other, but there was no silencer on the rifle and he would be blown. It’s still dark, he thought. They won’t see it if it’s still dark.

Another pull on the cigarette.

Then: “Well, at least it’s stopped raining.”

“Let’s go,” the other said.

They left and Reese waited another thirty seconds before he let himself breathe. Slowly at first, then taking bigger gulps of air.

Reese let ten minutes pass. Then he took the rifle from his side and poked it, inch by inch, back out on the mound. The washcloth was still there. He put the rifle back in its place.

The sun came up a few minutes later. Forty minutes after that, Reese brought his shoulders and head farther out of his pile. His entire body ached and his fever was still with him. He knew he should be patient, but he had been on his belly for hours and it was getting to him. He wanted the senator to come out of his house. He wanted it to be done. He was ready.