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

some of her boxed items, there had been a strange feeling of the grotesque to the place. His grandfather had lived there. And, in the bed in the back, he had died. The halls, the doorways, the recliner in the living room, the dining room table all carried his image. There was the feeling of emptiness, the chill of an autumn day with an incongruously sunny sky.

And now Jonah’s very own apartment had this feeling. Amber had lived here for two wonderful weeks.

She’d been his wife.

He found himself moving toward the television, the door closing behind him. The tape went into the VCR. A few mechanical whirs from inside the machine as it accepted the tape. Jonah dropped onto the sofa, not bothering to turn on a light. He grabbed the two remote controls from the coffee table. Elbows on his knees. He pressed a button. The TV flashed on. Another button on the second remote. The VCR came alive, more whirs from its insides.

Jonah looked at the remote in his hand. His thumb hovered over the PLAY button.

And hovered.

And hovered…

He sucked his lower lip between his teeth. Bit down. Released.

Pressed the button.

Cloth, filling the screen. A T-shirt. Light green. Green was her favorite color. The VCR displayed PLAY in the upper left-hand corner, an empty timecode field in the right. The blurry green cloth shuffled in front of the lens as she fidgeted with the video camera.

She stepped away. The camera auto-focused, bringing the back of the shirt into clarity, blonde hair, the curves of a feminine figure stepping away toward a metal folding chair, limping slightly, left foot shuffling on the floor.

She sat.

Faced the camera.

And smiled.

Amber.

Jonah gasped.

“Shit!”

He pressed PAUSE on the remote, threw it onto the cushion beside him, looked away from the screen, to the ceiling, his eyes welling.

He couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t watch it.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Silence struggled to see, to think. His usual chaotic brain space was further muddled by the beating he’d just received.

But the flashes of recent memory, the bits and pieces of Carlton Stokes’ words, told him that Stokes was on his way to complete his task.

Nitroglycerin in a briefcase.

Destroy the records and maybe some innocent lives, too.

Get off scot-free.

It was a macabre bit of clairvoyance.

But the future was always changeable. With enough will.

Silence’s eyes wanted to stay shut, but he forced them open and looked toward the building.

Stokes was about a quarter of the way across the parking lot.

Silence brought his hand to his jacket, to his shoulder holster. Empty.

That’s right. He’d lost the Beretta.

He glanced to the side.

There it was. A couple feet away.

Carlton was another row farther into the parking lot, another row closer to the building.

Silence moved his hips toward the gun, put a little pressure to the ground, grimaced, and drug his torso closer, his shoulder scraping the concrete.

His fingers touched metal.

Carlton was halfway through the parking lot.

Silence got his fingers around the Beretta. Lifted it. Heavy. It shook in his hand.

With another surge of reserve strength and a groan that sent pain roiling through his throat, he rolled onto his stomach.

He lined the sights on Stokes’ back. A difficult shot. But he had it.

He would need to fire several rounds. Doing so could send several errant bullets at the building.

And there was no guarantee the rounds would bring Stokes down. If he was hit but managed to stay on his feet, he could change his trajectory, get out of Silence’s line of sight, and slip into the building.

With the nitroglycerin.

Better idea.

Silence pulled the Beretta slightly down and to the left.

The sights landed on the briefcase.

One well-placed round was all it would take.

Stokes was closer now, only a couple rows away from the building.

A scuffling sound from the concrete beside him. Getting closer. Kim had recovered and crawled to him.

“Are you … Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

Silence closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Felt the breath at his core, the center of his being, sensed the cool, humid air on his cheeks, the bit of heat and disruption inches beside his arm that was Kim, felt his touch points, where his body was touching the earth, bumpy blacktop poking through his pants, his jacket, placing pressure on his thighs, elbows, and forearms.

A two-second meditation.

He opened his eyes.

And now his hands were still, the sights aligned steadily on the briefcase.

He squeezed the trigger.

BAM!

A blinding flash. A twenty-foot fireball.

A fraction of a second later, a wave of power and heat rushed over him.

Kim yelled out, put her hand on his back.

The heat passed. Silence’s eyes had closed again, not in meditation this time but from instinctive protection.

He opened them. And saw, through the flames, people running out of the building, gawking at the fire. Screams, yelling.

Stokes had been correct. A small amount of nitroglycerin did make one hell of a boom.

“Come on!” Kim screamed.

Silence tried to stand. Couldn’t. Kim hooked him beneath the armpits, helped him off the ground. He threw an arm over her shoulder.

She hobble-walked him, as quickly as they could, to the back of the parking lot, to the Accord. She opened the passenger door, shoved him in.

And a moment later she was behind the wheel. She fired up the engine, threw the gear selector into drive, and peeled around the closest exit, onto the street.

Chapter Forty-Nine

As Gavin turned the page, his heart sank.

He’d reached the final few paragraphs. A single, centered, three-letter word looked at him from halfway down the page.

END

The end of the book.

He didn’t want it to end.

Reading The Secret of Summerford Point had somehow reconnected him to Amber. Not only had it shown him how she had conducted her investigation into C11, but it had also projected him back to the younger years, a blanketed Amber curled up against his side on the orange couch in Carlton’s old house, warm against his arm, her smooth hair brushing his neck as she rested her cheek on his shoulder, the occasional questions.

How would Kara know he was going to be