Hush Hush by Erik Carter (best short novels of all time .TXT) 📗

Finley chuckled and snapped the gun back together with a clack that sounded off the tile, off the chandelier to the peak of the vaulted ceiling. He placed the gun where he’d found it and stepped closer to Beasley.

“Please…” Beasley said, his voice a whisper.

“Don’t worry, old man. I’m not here to kill you. Can’t go killing you now that you’ve been chatting with someone in the spotlight. Jonah Lund.”

He let the name linger in the air. All its weight and implications. Waiting for Beasley to take the cue and give an explanation.

But again, the old pervert didn’t speak.

“You’ve been out of the organization for years now,” Finley said. “Because you were a goddamn rat. And you disappeared. Changed your name. But for some reason, you contacted us again. About Amber Lund. And then after the girl’s found dead, suddenly the husband visits you, the guy who’s keeping Amber’s story in the news.”

Beasley’s lips shook harder, tried to form words, finally did. “She’d reached out to me. Wanted to meet up. Said she had questions only I could answer. But I … I’ve never met Jonah Lund before. I’d never even heard of him before I saw him in the news.”

Finley chuckled, sighed. “Really? And he just showed up at your doorstep today? He somehow found you, even after you changed your name, started a new life. We haven’t found you all these years, but a coffee shop owner did.” He paused. “Who was the guy with him, the tall guy with dark hair? Private detective?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never—”

“You’ve never seen him before either. Yes, yes.”

Finley tsked, turned to the side, and when he looked back to Beasley, he brought his right hand swinging across his chest, backhanding Beasley hard enough to make him scream out, bend over, stumble to the side.

He grabbed the old bastard’s shirt, pulled him back up, threw him against the wall. The bi-fold closet doors rattled. He got within inches of his face. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing! I swear it!”

Finley swung a knee up, catching Beasley in the midsection. The old man folded in half, and Finley got his shin behind his knees, using his weight and momentum against him, sending him to the floor. His head snapped back, the crown striking the tile hard enough to send another sound bouncing off the walls to the peak of the vaulted ceiling. So damn hard that Finley felt it.

Beasley groaned, one of those terrible, guttural sounds a person makes when they’ve been truly wounded. In a boxing match, the announcer would be shouting, He’s hurt! He’s hurt!

Finley stepped over him, looking down with the smuggest grin he could muster. Beasley’s eyes were barely open as they looked back at him, just pained slits.

“I may have been a screwup,” Beasley said in a ghost of voice. “I may have been a rat. But I took down slimy little shits like you on a daily basis.”

Finley sneered. “Look out, we got a tough guy here! Lying on his floor. A washed-up tough guy.”

Finley kicked him in the side. The thick front edge of his Doc Martens landed squarely against his ribs.

Beasley screamed.

He kicked again, harder, the same spot. His teeth ground together, lips curled back.

Another kick. And another, rearing back like a soccer player.

And then the sound he’d been waiting for.

Snap!

Broken rib.

Beasley howled. Sobbed.

Finley breathed in. Released the tension in his face. Cleared his throat. And watched the twisting, weeping, pathetic form below him.

A disgraced cop. A druggie. A pervert. A goddamn rat. And now a beaten, worthless mound crying on the designer tile of the little life he’d tried to rebuild for himself.

Finley patted the sweat from his brow, felt a tingling sensation in his hand. Looked.

The top middle knuckle on his right hand was contused, a tight, pulsing blue knot swelling beneath the skin. He must have hit it just right when he backhanded Beasley. These things happen. He rubbed the knuckle gently, watched Beasley for another moment, then crouched beside him.

“Did you say anything that would compromise us, rat?”

“What could I say? I know nothing. I’ve been out for decades!”

“Then why the hell was Lund here?”

“I don’t know!”

Beasley’s eyes turned to him, still little more than slits. His left eye was swollen, nearly closed. All of that dig-deep bravado from his good-old-days speech moments earlier was gone. Just fear again.

Finley maintained eye contact for a long moment before speaking. “You know, I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon—if Ray Beasley went to the trouble of changing his name, why didn’t he leave town? It’s for those kids of yours, isn’t it? That family you had. The wife who left you and took the two little girls.”

Beasley didn’t respond. His breathing grew louder.

“How old would they be now? Late teens? Twenties? That’s a good age. It really is.”

He gave Beasley a lopsided, dark grin. Then stood up.

“Don’t you goddamn leave this townhouse. I’ll be watching.”

Chapter Twenty

Silence and Jonah moved briskly down the sidewalk. Jonah had been pissy with him since they bolted out of the Internet café.

“Man, so what if Beasley’s in danger?” Jonah said. “He’s a junkie, and he hurts women.”

Silence didn’t respond.

Perhaps there was something within Silence that wanted to help Beasley, more flickers of the deep compassion he’d had in his prior life. But if he was being honest with himself, Silence cared little more than Jonah did about the man’s safety.

Rather, Silence wanted to find out what happened to Amber Lund, and he wanted to go home. And Ray Beasley was the key.

“I thought you’re here to help find out what happened to Amber.”

“I am.”

“Then why the hell are we back at Beasley’s?” He was shouting now. “This is a dead end!”

Silence came to a stop. Jonah continued a couple steps ahead of him before he followed suit, his shoes scuffling on the concrete.

Silence shook his head. “No. Just the opposite.” He swallowed. “He’s the key.”

Jonah’s eyebrows unknitted. His lips parted. He looked at