The Suppressor by Erik Carter (best free novels .txt) 📗

of footsteps squeaking in the sand. The towers were still far off in the distance.

After a few moments of this, Jake felt C.C. looking his direction. He turned, found her with a little smile on her face. “Well, how did you like it, being silent for a few moments?”

Jake pointed at the Gulf. “It wasn’t silent at all. There was the sound of the waves. Duh.”

C.C. scowl-smiled at him. “Quiet your mind, love. You think way too much. Be present. In the moment.”

She let loose of his hand and stepped into the waves. Her sarong soaked instantly, to her knees. The cloth floated, tossing with the motion of the waterline, rising and lowering on her legs. She smiled, beckoned for him.

He stepped in, sloshed toward her. “Damn, the water’s so warm tonight. Feels like bathwater. It’s been so hot lately. And humid. In a couple months, it’ll be—”

C.C. put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Quiet. Be here. With me. In this moment. Right now. This moment. Silence.”

She kissed him.

Jake looked at the tape player. His hand shook. He pressed the REWIND button. The tape screeched for just a moment as it rewound the brief bit of the message he’d already played.

Then he pressed PLAY.

“Hey, it’s me.”

C.C. stopped abruptly, her breaths audible over the hum of the recording. A moment passed. And when she spoke again, her voice was angry, something Jake had rarely heard, something that sounded wrong coming from Cecilia Farone.

“I saw Charlie Marsh a few minutes ago. He told me you called him. He said you’re going tonight.”

Another pause.

“You promised me you wouldn’t go. You promised me! Now you’ve lied to me. And you know…”

Another pause, momentary.

“You know how important honesty is to me.” Her voice cracked. “But I guess if I’m having my quirky intuitions, my hippie feelings, you don’t need to be honest with me, huh?” She was clearly crying now. “And now I’m scared out of my mind about you. I know something’s going to happen tonight, something horrible. I know it.”

Another pause.

“Asshole!”

A loud clank as she slammed the phone.

A beep indicated the message had ended.

Jake pressed STOP, folded his arms across the top of the steering wheel, and put his head on his forearm.

He cried.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The woman calling herself Christie Mosley stared through her binoculars at the black Pontiac Grand Prix, a block away.

She’d seen Rowe lay out over the steering wheel, and she’d begun to settle back into her seat, assuming that he’d fallen asleep.

But now she saw swift movements from his back, rising and lowering. Shaking.

He wasn’t sleeping at all.

He was crying.

Her cellular phone rang.

“Yes?” she said, propping it against her shoulder, not taking the binoculars from her face.

“Straight from the Pensacola Police dispatch,” Falcon said. “Farone family brutally murdered—brother and sister.”

“Oh … my god.”

That’s why Rowe was weeping.

“Your boyfriend,” Falcon said with a heavy, sarcastic emphasis on boyfriend, “must be making his power moves. You can’t follow Jake Rowe all night. If Burton’s plan is going into full swing, you gotta get back to him.” A pause. “What’s the current status on Rowe?”

She watched as Rowe continued to shake on the steering wheel. Suddenly he slammed a fist against the car’s dash. The weeping continued.

And somehow she felt compelled to maintain his privacy.

“He’s … he’s regrouping in his car.”

“Give it another hour,” Falcon said. “Then we need you back with Burton.”

“Roger that.”

The call ended. She placed the phone in the cupholder.

For a moment longer, she watched as the figure in the distance wept, head now directly on the steering wheel, arms draped.

She lowered the binoculars. And exhaled.

A half hour later and a few miles away, she parked her Cutlass Supreme and watched as Rowe’s Grand Prix rolled to a stop outside a ho-hum apartment complex of two-story, motel-style buildings. The ground-level units had a small porch; the second-floor units had balconies with thin black handrails. Copious palm trees. A pool area in the center of the parking lot. It must have been a nice place at one point, but neglect had stolen most of its luster.

Her cellular was at her shoulder again. “All right, we’re at Shallowbrook Apartments now. I’ve been here before. This is Odom’s place. Burton had him stash some coke here a few weeks ago.”

The Grand Prix’s driver-side door opened.

“Rowe’s walking up to one of the buildings,” she said. “He just stashed a Glock 19 under his belt. Shit, he’s lost his damn mind. He’s gonna whack Odom. You know that, right?”

“Obviously,” Falcon said. “Don’t interfere.”

Chapter Thirty

Glover tried to contain himself, tried not to snicker.

He was in the Farone library with Burton, and standing before them was the old butler, Saunders, looking flustered, sweaty. At their feet was Cecilia Farone’s destroyed body, lying in the puddle of blood where he and Burton and the others had left her.

“It was inconceivable,” Saunders said, running a hand over his forehead. “You just wouldn’t believe it.”

“Pete Hudson? Are you sure?” Burton said, shaking his head. He looked at Cecilia’s body again, quickly turned away, shuddering.

Again, Glover stifled a snicker. Burton was good at putting on an act. Too good. Chilling.

“As I live,” Saunders said. “He was laying here with her in the blood. Like something out of a horror movie. Those are his.”

Saunders pointed at a line of bloody footprints leaving the pool surrounding Cecilia, going out the doorway. They were large, as were Pete Hudson’s feet, and the spacing was broad—he’d been at a run.

Burton nodded, sighed, and looked down at Cecilia again.

“Well, I did see her and Pete having an angry conversation after the meeting.” He pointed to the Mossberg, leaning against the wall. “Where’s the body?”

Saunders raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“Hudson. Where’d you dump his body?”

Saunders shook his head. “There is no body. He got away.”

Burton’s mouth opened. He turned on Glover.

Glover had contained his snickering, but now he couldn’t hide his shock. Like Burton, his mouth went wide. He heard himself gasp.

Pete Hudson was alive. Out there somewhere. On the loose.

Anger