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

The door smacked into the interior wall.

“Holy shit,” Jonah uttered.

Inside, down the long central hallway to Beasley’s body in the foyer. Silence went to the console table that ran along the staircase, pointed at Beasley.

“Check him.”

“For what? Dude’s dead.”

“Cellular phone.”

And when Jonah hesitated, Silence added, “Do it.”

Silence would leave that task to Jonah. There was a more daunting one for Silence to consider.

The console table had a phone, a little glass lamp, a small drawer. But no notepad, no sticky notes, no paper of any sort.

He went down the hall, his footfalls pounding against the hardwood floor, the wail of the sirens insistent between each footstep.

The sirens were louder, closer.

And Jonah had heard them. “They’re gonna be here any minute!” he called from the other end of the hall.

Silence threw open one of the white panel doors. A little bathroom. Reeked of potpourri and cleaner.

Next door. This was it, what he was looking for. The office—stately wooden desk, bookshelves, a filing cabinet.

He fell into the overstuffed leather chair.

The sirens rang in his ears.

Nothing on the surface of the desk, which was covered by a sheet of glass.

Jonah walked up behind him, hands empty, no cellular phone. “Hurry up, man!”

Top drawer. Pens, pencils. Two pads of sticky notes. He thumbed through both of them. Blank. Letters addressed to Beasley—electric and water bills.

He opened a side drawer. Tape. Stamps. A box of envelopes.

The sirens screamed down the hall.

Right outside.

Jonah bounced on his feet beside him.

Another drawer. A small notebook. Silence flipped it open. A couple pages of handwriting, numbers, some simple math, possibly figuring out his bills. A grocery list.

He flipped the page. And saw something.

Something so significant it made his fingers fan wide in response.

Beasley had written:

- come alone

- be ready to tell all

- 941 Falconer Street

- Carlton will be there

Carlton…

So, Beasley had recently contacted Carlton Stokes.

And yet he’d been out of touch with Carlton and the rest of C11 for years, even changed his name.

Why were they talking now?

Jonah smacked his back. “Come on!”

The sirens wailed outside.

And stopped.

Shouting. Footsteps. The cops were charging into the house.

Silence grabbed the notepad.

They sprinted from the room, down the hall, and through the back door, which squealed on its ravaged hinges.

As he ran down the steps to the Fiero, Silence heard more shouting from the house as the cops found Beasley.

“Sir! Sir, can you hear us!??”

No, folks, Silence thought, he certainly can’t hear you.

Into the Fiero. Silence threw the stick into first, and they pulled off.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Damn, Finley hated this place.

The shantytown at the overpass on Falconer Street at Blair. The place literally smelled like shit, and the bums that inhabited it reminded Finley of the life from which he’d worked so hard to break free. Yet to escape these people’s fate, he had to spend a considerable amount of time around them, given how often he had to come to the unassuming old building that served as the Well’s headquarters.

He wasn’t sure if that was irony, but whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

Traversing through this disgusting trashcan of human existence was something he had to do to maintain this second chance he’d been given. Finley was a very fortunate man. He reminded himself regularly. It got him through the times he had to visit this shithole.

He had Kim by the arm, and since they’d gotten out of the car, her whining had intensified. She was also turning a lot of the bums’ heads. They leered at her, wicked smiles full of rotten teeth. There were catcalls. And some vulgarities.

Finley had to admit that Kim’s trim figure, nicely curved hips, pleasant breasts, and pouty lips weren’t bad on the eyes. She was attractive in a mopey, my-parents-didn’t-give-me-everything-I-wanted-so-I’m-gonna-get-back-at-them-by-being-a-literal-whore sort of way.

Ahead, Shaw was at his station, leaning against the column closest to the building, and as Finley and Kim drew nearer, he pushed off the column, held his head up professionally, straightened his bright green sweatshirt as one would a suit jacket. Pathetic. Like all the other low-level workers in the Well. Finley was proud of how quickly he’d climbed the ranks, but the competition wasn’t exactly stiff.

Finley knew more about Shaw than Shaw would have wanted him to, more than he probably even thought possible. Finley knew Shaw had been in and out of prison for most of his twenties. B&Es. Grand larceny. Forged credit cards. Finley also knew that Shaw was apprehended after a murder in District C11, and while the police report stated that Shaw was simply in the area, Finley knew the reality—that Shaw had been seen hovering over the body with a bloody knife. Shaw was never tried, never even arrested, and now he was muscle for the Well, like Finley, except at a much lower station.

Shaw was a piece of shit. Fat and hairy. Smelly. The kind of guy you imagine watching TV all day, eating Cheetos and ice cream and getting high in three different ways. Finley wagered he was a pervert, one with a small, sweaty dick.

A disgusting waste of humanity.

Shaw gave another tug to his oil-stained green sweatshirt and waddled up to Finley. “We got trouble.”

Finley didn’t respond, just brought Kim to a halt and looked at Shaw, waited for him to continue. He wasn’t wasting any breath on a man like Shaw.

“This guy came here,” Shaw continued, “looking for some refined.” He held up his walkie-talkie. “They just phoned me, told me to watch the door.” He looked over his shoulder. “Something’s going down. They think the guy’s a private detective.”

Finley glanced at the building.

“Shit.”

People didn’t come directly to the Well’s office looking for refined. Something was going down.

It couldn’t be the big guy or Jonah Lund. Finley had come here directly from Beasley’s neighborhood; they couldn’t have beaten him here. And anyway, how would they know about this place?

But this had to somehow be related to them…

Or Kim.

He turned to her—the bitch who’d been following Jonah Lund and his associate, the bitch who’d contacted them twice.

He pointed to the building. “Who is