The Silent Places (22 page)

“After this is done,” Hastings said, his voice tense. “You going to help me or not?”

“Don’t get mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“All I’m saying is, it’s okay to feel like that. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t. And, George, it’s not going to go away just because you concentrate on work. That might make it worse, actually.”

Hastings said, “I respect what you’re saying, Eff. But it’s going to have to wait for a while. Okay?”

“Okay, George. I’ll be in touch.”

The lady behind the desk asked if he would be staying through the Thanksgiving weekend. Reese thought it would be suspicious to say he wasn’t. So he said he was.

The lady said that was good and was surprised when he paid for the room in cash. She said, “You don’t have to do that. You can pay when you check out.”

Reese said, “I prefer to do it this way.”

“Okay,” the lady said, a little uncertainty in her tone. She took the money and said, “I’ll show you to your room.”

The woman’s name was Molly Mangan and she was the owner and manager of the Chestnut Inn Bed and Breakfast, located in Webster Groves, Missouri. She was forty-one years old, divorced, and the mother of a fifteen-year-old boy. The boy’s name was Connor. His bedroom was on the third floor.

The house was a large Colonial that had been built in the 1920s. It had been owned by a prominent attorney who had ten children. He died in the 1970s and the house passed through a succession of owners, the most recent being Jeff and Molly Mangan, who bought it in 2003. Jeff and Molly had been college sweethearts at Santa Clara University. They married two months after college graduation and Jeff began a career in Silicon Valley. Jeff made a lot of money in the silicon-chip business and by his late thirties was ready for a change in career and lifestyle. He and Molly and their son decided to move to the Midwest and open up a bed-and-breakfast. They were attracted to the St. Louis area because of the trees. They preferred the landscapes to the brown-and-yellow hues of California. They grew to like the St. Louis seasons as well, even the stifling humid summers. The bed-and-breakfast turned out to be harder work than they had seen on
Newhart
. For the first two years, they did not make a profit. Jeff was philosophical about this, saying they had the money now, so what was the point of going back to Silicon Valley and being miserable? Things would pick up. And things did pick up. The next year, they broke even. That same year, Jeff died of a heart attack.

It happened while he was working in the garden. Molly heard him call out her name, and by the time she got to him, he was gone. He had never smoked and had been of normal weight. He was from a long line of men with bad hearts. He died at thirty-nine.

Molly decided to stay in St. Louis. She had no close relations in California and she feared that Jeff’s family would attempt to take too much control in bringing up her son. She stayed and ran the business and she kept her grief to herself. She did not date or even entertain the idea of becoming involved with another man. Jeff had been the only one. The only one she had ever been to bed with, the only one she had ever loved.

She did not wear much makeup and her clothes were not flashy. Her figure was buxom, though not plump, and some people thought she looked like she worked in a bank. She thought of herself as plain.

Now she said to the guest, “This is your room. As I said before, there’s no television. But there’s one in the sunroom downstairs and we have DVDs and videotapes. Breakfast will be served in the dining room at eight o’clock. Tomorrow will be French toast and sausage. Thursday is Thanksgiving and there will be just a continental breakfast, if that’s okay.”

“That’ll be fine,” Reese said.

“Sorry, but we don’t expect many guests for breakfast on Thanksgiving. The other guests are here to visit family for the holidays. Do you have family in St. Louis?”

“No,” Reese said. “Just passing through.”

“Is it your first time here?”

“Yes.”

Molly Mangan was not worldly. But she could pick up social cues, and now she thought the man did not want to chat.

She said, “Well, we won’t be serving dinner this evening. But you’re about twenty minutes’ drive from some lovely restaurants in the city and I’ll be glad to recommend one if you like. There are coffee and refreshments in the parlor and some magazines and books. Oh, one more thing: This is a nonsmoking inn and we don’t allow smoking anywhere on the property. I’m sorry if that’s a problem.”

“It’s not.”

“Well then, I’ll leave you to your room. I hope you have a pleasant stay, Mr. Bryan.”

“Thank you, Ms.—”

“Mrs. Mangan,” she said. “You can call me Molly.”

Reese watched her briefly as she walked down the hall. He closed the door before she reached the stairs. He felt guilty looking at her backside. Okay, she had a good figure, even though she did nothing to show it off. But she was a nice lady, treated him decently. Guileless and inexperienced. A mousy nerd. Probably got straight
A
’s in school. But she didn’t know what he was. She was the sort that probably thought the best of people. She made him feel sad, for some reason. He told himself to forget about it.

Reese locked the door and drew the shades. He began unloading his bags. From a golf bag, he removed the Lee-Enfield rifle. For the next thirty minutes, he went over it, cleaning it, examining it, breaking it down and putting it back together. He had fired an Enfield before, but never at a human target. He liked the weapon and he liked its sight. But he still wanted a scope for it. He had done a quick scan in the neo-Nazi’s basement but hadn’t seen anything he liked. He would need to find a scope, bring it back here, and mount it on the rifle. The Nazi had already put in the drill mounts, but Reese couldn’t tell yet if they would line up well with a scope and remain true. He would have to see when he got the scope. If it worked out, it would take at least an hour to secure it properly. He could do the work here so long as he didn’t need to do any additional drilling.

He had no reason to believe the police knew his identity as Paul Bryan. Still, he thought it was best not to stay in one place too long. Especially after taking a shot at a cop. That’s why he’d checked out of the Hampton Inn. Too commercial, too open. Better to be in a bed-and-breakfast.

Reese thought of the cop now. The man who had come after him in the park. Coming alone at first, armed only with a pistol. Dumb. Reese wanted to believe the cop was in over his head. But instinct told him not to count the policeman out. The way the cop had kept his cool and not panicked, the shots he had fired into the air to let the other cops know where he was … Probably the cop was stupid and unsuited to chasing soldiers and should stick to busting intoxicated wife-beaters and street-corner drug dealers. But to believe that was to violate the cardinal rule of never underestimating your enemy. The cop was doing his job, protecting Senator Shitpoke Liar, but if the cop got in his way, Reese would not hesitate to put him down, too.

Klosterman came in to Hastings’s office with a file on Kyle Anders and Ghosthawk. They talked for a while.

Klosterman said, “He’s basically the Howard Hughes of contract security work.”

Hastings said, “You mean mercenaries.”

“He doesn’t like the word
mercenaries
, ” Klosterman said. “In fact, if you work for his company, you’re not supposed to call yourself that. He’s a funny guy.”

“He didn’t seem funny when I met him.”

“I mean funny—unusual. Since the Iraq War, Anders has made tons of money. He’s got contracts in Iraq, Afghanistan, some in Central America. These contracts, they’re worth millions and millions of dollars. You know, when I looked him up and saw Ghosthawk, I remembered the name. We got a couple of cops working there.”

“Really?”

“Not anyone in homicide, but, yeah, a few patrol officers quit the department and took jobs as bodyguards there. But it’s not like you can just get hired there. You have to go to this training facility he’s got in Tennessee and audition, so to speak. They don’t take too many cops, though. They might take one for every fifteen ex-military guys. You know what they call cops?”

“What?”

“Zipperheads.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I don’t, either. I can see why a young patrol cop would be interested in doing it, though. You get like a hundred thousand a year, minimum, for being over there, and it’s tax-free. And apparently it’s not like the work is that hard, either. You’re basically a guard. Escorting dignitaries, protecting contractors, and so forth.”

“Sure,” Hastings said, “but you’re in a war zone. Car bombs, ambushes.”

“Yeah, there’s that,” Klosterman said. “But these young cops, they want action, a rush. You remember how it was.”

“Yeah, I remember. I don’t miss it, though.”

“Besides,” Klosterman said, “they get to see the world.” Klosterman smiled, being sarcastic.

“They get to see Iraq and Afghanistan,” Hastings said. “And that ain’t much.”

“You never considered the military?”

“Never. I guess I was never that curious. You?”

“Ah, I thought about it when I was younger. But I was going with Anne and I didn’t want to leave her. Howard was in the navy; they paid for his college. He told me he joined because
he
wanted to see the world and he didn’t have any money for college.”

“He told me he wasn’t that crazy about it,” Hastings said.

“Yeah, he told me that, too. He saw more of Norfolk, Virginia, than anyplace else and he said it sucked. They slated him for aircraft mechanics and he thought he’d die of boredom. So he got out when his tour was up. Good thing, I guess. But you know Howard’s real serious about that serving your country stuff, even if it’s just for a while. He thinks we should still have the draft. I kind of agree with him, too.”

Hastings did not, but he kept that thought to himself. He said, “So I guess Mr. Anders is something of a war profiteer.”

Klosterman said, “Yeah, you could put it that way. If you want to be cynical about it.”

Hastings smiled. “How would you put it?”

“I don’t know,” Klosterman said. “He’s just a businessman, probably no worse than most.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Hastings said. “Do you think Senator Preston has a role in awarding these government contracts?”

“It’s possible. Do you want me to look into it?”

“Yeah.”

Murph appeared in the doorway.

“What’s up?” Hastings said.

Murph said, “How you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“Should you be at work?”

“Doctor said it was okay,” Hastings said. Which was a lie, and they both knew it. But he didn’t want to have this conversation again. Hastings said, “You got something for me?”

Murph said, “You wanted an update on Preston’s appearances. I’ve got it.”

“Any changes?”

“Yeah,” Murph said. “He’s speaking before the Veterans of Foreign Wars the day after Thanksgiving.”

“Oh God. Where?”

“The Soldier’s Memorial. It’ll be outside.”

Reese was having a cup of coffee in the dining room, reading the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
. That was how he found out Senator Preston would be giving a speech downtown. It made him think. The speech had not been posted on the senator’s Web site. Why would he do that? Why would he take such a risk? Preston was not a courageous man. He had to know. Why would he put himself in the open?

Giving a speech to veterans, no less. Reese snorted to himself. Preston had never been in the service. Men like him didn’t do that.

During his time in prison, Reese had kept tabs on Preston’s career. Had read about him being elected to the U.S. Senate, read about his avid support of the war in Iraq. It never changes, Reese thought.

Now he heard a commotion coming from the other room. Reese ignored it for a little while, but it didn’t stop. Reese walked out of the dining room and into the lobby. The newspaper was folded in his hand.

In the lobby, a tall, well-dressed man was standing at the front desk. Behind the desk was the proprietor’s teenage son. The tall man was holding a couple of papers in his hand. His tone was ugly and threatening. Reese imagined he was around forty. A bully who had probably not been in a physical fight since he was twelve.

The boy was saying, “I’m sorry. But the policy is to put faxes in your box.”

“This arrived over five hours ago. You should have contacted me
immediately
. ”

The boy said, “I understand, but—”

“What is the matter with this place? Can’t you do something as simple as that? Or is that something beyond your intelligence?”

Reese moved closer to the desk. He said, “Excuse me.”

The tall man stopped and looked over.

Reese said, “Is there a problem?”

“It’s none of your concern,” the man said.

“It’s all right,” the boy said.

Reese continued to stare at the man. He said, “If you have a complaint, why don’t you discuss it with the manager? He’s just a kid.”

“I’m a guest here and I’m discussing an issue with an employee. Why don’t you mind your own business?”

“Or would you like to discuss it with me?” Reese said, and stepped just a little closer to the man.

Reese had sized the tall man up correctly. Unsurprisingly, the man stepped back a bit. The man said, “What?”

Reese did not answer him. He just stood there for a moment. Then he leaned against the desk, as if he would stand there as long as he liked. The whole time, he continued looking passively at the tall man. The man moved back another step, his fear showing now. Reese continued looking at his face and said nothing. The man looked at Reese and then at the boy. Then the he made some sort of sigh that was supposed to register impatience and insult but didn’t, trying to save face. The tall man walked away.

Reese opened up his newspaper and began to read it.

The boy said, “Thank you.”

Reese said, “Forget it. Who was that guy?”

“He’s a guest here. He’s a lawyer.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“He got a fax from his office. I guess he wanted us to tell him as soon as it got here.”