The Silenced Page 5

  “Maine.”

  Petra had told Kolya to drive straight to the airport. After leaving the car in one of the long-term lots, they grabbed a free shuttle to the terminals, taking seats in the back as far from the handful of other passengers as possible. The bus was nearing Terminal 1 when her phone began to ring. She didn’t need to look at the display. Only Mikhail and Kolya had the number.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she asked. She’d been trying to reach him for the last half hour with no luck.

  “Busy,” he said.

  Petra frowned. “We’re at the airport. Did you get us a flight or not?”

  “Winters?” he asked.

  “Dead.”

  Mikhail paused for a moment, then, “Continental Airlines 634. You leave at eleven-thirty.”

  “Okay,” Petra said. “Have a car meet us when we arrive. We’ll see you at the hotel.”

  “You’re not flying to New York.”

  That caused her a moment’s pause. “You’ve found him?”

  “I’ve narrowed it down,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “You switch planes in Cleveland, Ohio, then fly on to Boston. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “You’d better be.”

  THE PRIVATE JET COULD HAVE EASILY FIT TWENTY passengers, but besides the two pilots up front and a single attendant, Nate and Quinn had the plane to themselves.

  As soon as they were in the air, Quinn announced that he was going to get some sleep.

  Nate knew this was more than just information; it was a suggestion that he do the same. With seats that reclined to a fully horizontal position, and the eyeshades and earplugs that had been on the seat cushions when they came aboard, sleep should have been easy.

  Nate removed the prosthetic that served as his lower right leg, tilted his own seat back, and tried to get comfortable. But an ache in his missing ankle kept sleep from finding him. Phantom memories, the physical therapist had explained. “You’ll have them the rest of your life.”

  Great.

  Like he often did, he began to wonder why he could remember his leg, but couldn’t remember the moment it had been crushed. It had happened in Singapore outside a hawker center. Arriving at the center with Quinn and Orlando—yes, he remembered that. Racing into position to back up his boss, that too. But the moment the car had intentionally rammed into him? Nothing.

  When he woke up a day later in a private hospital, his right leg had already been amputated below the knee. Doctors and nurses had come in and out in no apparent pattern, some looking at his stump, some checking his charts, but few talking to him. The ones who did told him he would be fine. That artificial limbs had come a long way from the plastic and metal boat anchors they’d once been.

  At the time Nate had barely listened. Part of it was the shock, but mostly it was the almost-certain knowledge that his career as a cleaner was over. What awaited him was a return to normal life, to a life devoid of the challenges and the excitement and the sense of truly being alive that he’d had as Quinn’s apprentice. When he realized this, he almost wished the car had killed him, because he knew the boredom he was facing surely would.

  But then, two nights after the accident, Orlando came to see him. It was her second visit of the day. Earlier she’d come with Quinn, who’d hardly been able to say anything.

  Pity, that’s what Nate thought his boss was feeling. It had been enough to drive Nate deeper into depression.

  As soon as Orlando walked back in, Nate looked to the door expecting Quinn to follow.

  “I’m alone,” she said as she approached his bed. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

  Nate nodded, the look on his face neutral. “Okay.”

  On the table that hovered above his waist was his untouched dinner. He picked up the fork and pushed some of the rice around.

  “I need to get back to Garrett,” she said. Her son was still living in Vietnam at that point.

  “Sure, I get it.” He squeezed his eyes closed as pain spiked up his leg into his torso.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I could get the nurse. Get you some painkillers.”

  “I’m fine!” His voice leaped from his throat, harsh and loud.

  Neither of them said anything for several seconds.

  “Sorry,” Nate said. “I just … I …”

  “You should eat,” she said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “What are you talking about? This looks great.”

  “You can eat it, then.”

  She picked up the spoon from the tray and scooped up some vegetables, a piece of chicken, and some rice, then held them in the air. “You sure?”

  “Be my guest.”

  She slipped the food into her mouth, then smiled. “This isn’t bad.” She sat on the edge of his bed.

  “I thought you were leaving?” he said.

  “In a few minutes.”

  He shrugged.

  She filled up the spoon again, but this time held it out to him.

  “I’m not hungry,” he told her.

  “Just try it.”

  “No.”

  She moved the spoon to his lips. “Come on.”

  “I said I’m not hu—”

  She slipped the spoon into his mouth.

  Having no choice, he started chewing the food. “I wouldn’t even let my mother do that.”

  She filled the spoon again and held it back up.

  “I can feed myself,” he said.

  “Yeah, but will you?”

  He scowled at her for a moment, then picked up the fork and stabbed a piece of chicken.

  Smiling, Orlando redirected the spoon into her own mouth. “Could use a little spice. But this is a hospital, so I guess bland makes sense.”

  They both chewed in silence for a moment.

  Finally Nate said, “Where’s Quinn?”

  “Back at the hotel.”

  Probably either sleeping or having a beer in the bar, Nate thought. Moving on, no doubt. Maybe even thinking about getting a new apprentice.

  “He’s trying to arrange appointments for you back in California,” Orlando said, like she was reading his mind.

  “Appointments?”

  She helped herself to another spoonful. “Doctors. Physical therapy. Prosthesis fittings.”

  “Oh. Great,” Nate said with no enthusiasm.

  “Are you going to take another forkful, or am I going to have to feed you again?”

  Reluctantly, he got some more food and put it in his mouth.

  Orlando watched him eat for a moment. “Look. You can just take this, go home, and live out your life thinking what could have been, or—”

  “Or?” Nate said. “Seems to me there’s no ‘or.’ ”

  “You’re still in shock. Your system is full of drugs.” She paused. “You lost your leg, for God’s sake. Of course that’s all you can see.” She worked a piece of broccoli away from everything else, then picked it up and popped it between her teeth. “But it’s not the only choice.”

  “What then? I’m done being a cleaner.”

  “Why? Because you don’t want it anymore?”

  “No! I want it. I want it more than anything.”

  “So what’s the problem?” she asked.

  “I lost part of my leg. Or hadn’t you noticed?” he said. “Being a cleaner is a physical job. How the hell am I going to be able to keep up?”

  “You’re good, Nate. You have the skills. You know that. Quinn knows that, too.”

  “Quinn thinks I’m done. I could see it in his face when you guys were here earlier. He could barely look at me. He was like one of those people in the movies standing around the bed of someone dying. Great knowing you, good luck on the other side.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “He does think you’re done. But he’s not feeling sorry for you.”

  “What then? He’s already written me off?”

  “Guilt,” she said. “He’s
the one who had to make the decision to amputate your leg. And don’t forget, he’s the reason we’re here in Singapore in the first place. This wasn’t a job. This was a personal mission for him. And now he feels responsible.”

  Nate looked away. “Well, you can tell him I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t have been here if I hadn’t wanted to be. That should get rid of his guilt.”

  Orlando scooped up some more food and held it in the air between them. “You or me?”

  Nate picked up his fork again. As he shoved it under the vegetables, he knocked a piece of chicken off the plate and onto the tray.

  Orlando smiled. “It’s good that you’re angry.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I mean it. You can use that.”

  He put the food in his mouth, chewed it, then said, “Use it for what?”

  “For your rehab. So that when you come back to work, you’ll be even better than before.”

  “As a cleaner? I already told you I physically couldn’t do it anymore.”

  “There’s no way you can know that. Prosthetic devices are pretty amazing these days.”

  “So the doctors have told me,” Nate said.

  “I was reading on the Internet today about a guy from South Africa who’s missing parts of both of his legs. But because of the prostheses he has, a couple years ago he almost made the Olympic team.”

  “As what? A mascot?”

  “Track and field. He’s a runner.”

  That made him pause. “A runner?”

  She nodded. “How much do you want this?”

  “It’s all I want.”

  “Then make it happen,” she said. “Work your ass off. Use the time to study and learn everything you can. Throw yourself into your rehab and your training.”

  He wanted to believe her, but then he thought about his mentor. “Quinn won’t go for it.”

  “He might think you won’t be able to do it, but he’ll give you the chance to prove him wrong.” She smiled. “And I might have a little influence over him.”

  She stood up. “Are you going to finish eating everything?”

  He smiled a little.

  “Oh, progress,” she said.

  “Have I told you to go to hell yet?”

  “So are you going to finish?”

  “I’m going to finish.”

  She took a step toward the door, then turned back. “I’m not just talking about the food.”

  “I know.”

  A whole year had passed since his injury, and he had used the time well. He had done exactly as Orlando had suggested. He’d studied the subjects he was going to need for the job: learning how to fly a plane, perfecting the French he’d taken in high school, expanding his knowledge of chemistry, memorizing the makes and particulars of over a hundred types of trucks and cars, getting a start on Spanish and dozens of other topics large and small. He’d also pushed himself hard in his rehab, surprising his physical therapist and even himself.

  Quinn had paid for everything, even purchasing a whole set of prosthetics that could be used under various conditions. First Nate relearned to walk, then to run. By the time Orlando had talked Quinn into taking him out on a job again, Nate was running several miles a day and hiking a couple of times a week in the hills that ran through the middle of Los Angeles.

  Quinn’s skepticism had soon disappeared. And Nate’s own belief that he would one day become a full-fledged cleaner had returned.

  “I told you you could do it,” Orlando said to him a few months earlier.

  “Did you?” he said. “I don’t remember that.”

  She eyed him critically. “You know, you’re still Quinn’s apprentice. I could make sure you get some pretty lousy assignments.”

  “You really think you have that much influence over him?”

  She huffed. “Excuse me?”

  Nate smiled.

  “Excuse me. Sir, excuse me.” The voice was female, both distant and close at the same time.

  Nate pushed the eyeshades up. The flight attendant was leaning down next to him, haloed by sunlight seeping in through the windows.

  Morning, he thought. He’d fallen asleep after all.

  He pulled the earplugs from his ears. “Yes?”

  “Your friend thought you might like to have some breakfast before we land,” she said. “But you’ll have to eat fast. We’ll be on the ground in forty minutes.”

  Nate glanced over to where Quinn had been sleeping. His mentor was now sitting upright, a plate of food on a table in front of him, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “I’ll have a cup of that. Black.” Nate paused. “Better make it two.”

  THERE WAS A BLUE TOYOTA CAMRY WAITING FOR them at the airport. Quinn climbed behind the wheel and popped the trunk so Nate could throw their bags in back, then he reached under the seat. There he found a thin manila envelope.

  Inside were three sheets of paper and a hotel keycard. He glanced through the papers. Two of the sheets were maps. The first covered an area that included Portland, Maine, in the east and a small town called Gorham about ten miles to the west. Someone had marked the map with one blue X in the vicinity of Gorham, and a smaller black X closer to Portland, just north of the airport. The second map was a detailed close-up of Gorham showing a couple of dozen streets—a single blue X on this one corresponding to the blue one on the wider map.

  The third page was an info sheet.

  BLACK—Holiday Inn Timothy Garner, Room 211

  BLUE—23 Main Street, Gorham 1:30 p.m.

  The passenger door opened, and Nate climbed in.

  “What do we got?” he asked.

  Quinn handed him the papers, then started the engine.

  The black X indicated the location of the hotel they would use as their base. They had already been checked in to room 211 under the name Timothy Garner. The key card would allow them to avoid contact with the hotel office. The blue X was the meeting site. Where the actual job was to take place had not been indicated.

  “Not giving us a lot of time to relax and see the sights,” Nate said.

  Per the info sheet, they would need to be at 23 Main Street in a little less than five hours to meet with a man named Donovan.

  “We’re not here on vacation,” Quinn said.

  “Speak for yourself. First time I’ve ever been to Maine. Isn’t this where they’re supposed to have the good lobster?”

  Quinn rolled his eyes, then pulled out his phone and tossed it to Nate.

  “Check in with Orlando.”

  It was always smart to have a point person who knew what they were up to, especially when the location was an unfamiliar one. Quinn’s go-to in these situations was always Orlando. It was more at her insistence than his request, but he wasn’t complaining.

  “No, it’s Nate,” Nate said into the phone. “We’re here.” He listened for a moment. “No. All smooth.” A pause, then he looked at the papers Quinn had given him. “The Holiday Inn on … um … Riverside Street. West side of Portland.” Again he listened, then looked back at the papers. “The rendezvous is in the town of Gorham. Twenty-three Main Street. We’re expected to arrive by one-thirty.… Yeah, this afternoon … He’s driving.… Okay, I will.”

  He hung up.

  “I’m supposed to give you a kiss,” Nate said.

  “You come near me and I’ll cut off your other leg.”

  A moment of stunned silence, then Nate laughed. “Look at you making a joke about my leg. I think that’s a first.”

  “Shut up and look at the map.” Quinn gave his apprentice a rare smile.

  Quinn took a shower, then checked the kit that had been waiting for them in the room.

  It was a dark blue backpack containing two 9mm guns—a Glock for Nate and the preferred SIG for Quinn—a box of fifty rounds and suppressors and two extra mags for each weapon. There was also a box of disposable rubber gloves and a small first aid kit that included sutures, gauze, and antibiotics. Tucked into a compartment at the back of the bag we
re copies of the papers that had been waiting for them in the car, and an additional map that showed a more detailed layout of the pertinent part of Main Street in Gorham.

  Quinn spent twenty minutes memorizing the map before allowing himself to relax on one of the beds. Nate had turned on the TV and found an old movie on TCM. The Bad and the Beautiful with Kirk Douglas.

  “A classic,” Nate said. “One of the best movies about Hollywood ever.”

  Quinn had grunted noncommittally. Movies were Nate’s thing.

  He had to admit, though, Nate wasn’t wrong about the movie. It was definitely absorbing and helped to pass the time. Once the film was over, they left the Holiday Inn and headed to Gorham.

  Back home in Los Angeles it still felt like summer, but here in Maine, not so much.

  The state had fully embraced the two-week-old fall with cooler temperatures, browning ground cover, and leaves that had turned beautiful shades of yellow and orange and red.

  They came at Gorham from the east on State Route 25. At some arbitrary point Route 25 became Main Street, and before long they were entering the outer regions of Gorham. Homes here were separated by acres, not feet. Most were set back from the road, many down long driveways and hidden by trees and brush.

  As they drew nearer to the center of the small town, the homes began to cozy up to one another and draw closer to the road. Still, compared with a big city, the lot sizes were huge. The predominant house color was white, and the common theme seemed to be colonial clapboard. But these weren’t emulating a popular style. These were actual colonial homes, many a couple hundred years old.

  As they passed a Burger King on their right, Nate began reading off the addresses, then nodded ahead. “Should be right up there.”

  Twenty-three Main Street turned out to be an empty store in one half of a two-story-tall brick building on the south side of the street. The windows were covered on the inside by white butcher paper on which someone had written in large letters:

  ALISON’S BOUTIQUE COMING SOON!

  The other half was occupied by a café.

  Quinn turned right on Cross Street and parked behind a small office building.

  “Security cameras?” Quinn asked.