Deadly Silence (Silence Jones Action Thrillers Series) by Erik Carter (the best books to read TXT) 📕

are on the inside.” Her hands returned to his face, poked about his jawline. “You feel thin, though. Are you eating?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Could eat more.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

She took her hands back and faced the street, her milky eyes blinking. Quiet sounds from the neighborhood—a single car listing by a few blocks over, laughter from a cookout, a pair of birds twittering their appreciation of the returning sunlight.

Their street was in East Hill, a nice area of the city, a desired location. People smiled when they declared, I live in East Hill. Sentiments like these weren’t pomposity, though, because while there were certainly plenty of expensive homes in East Hill—one very expensive one was right across the street from Silence’s—there were also plenty of lesser expensive ones.

East Hill was a way of life, an eclectic mix of the expensive and the expressive and eccentric, all of it peaceful and beautiful. Old oak trees and pristine landscaping dotted comfortable sidewalks. Kids on bicycles. Palm trees. Friendly neighbors. Lawnmowers. The smell of charcoal grills. The smell of propane grills.

And, as Silence lived in the southwest corner of East Hill—right by Old East Hill—he was only blocks from downtown. The Watchers had done a wonderful job when they found this location for him. He literally couldn’t have done better if he tried.

A sound broke the quiet. Rumbling bass. And tires crunching asphalt.

It was the El Camino again. Light blue, dull paint. A long crack in the windshield. Rust had taken nibbles from the door, big mouthfuls of the rear quarter panel.

And inside were the same two punks.

The white guy was behind the steering wheel as the car slowly crept by. His left arm dangled outside, smacking loudly against the door in rhythm with the bass. Tattoos on his skinny shoulder and on his even skinnier forearm. Goatee. White tank top. Fedora. Sunglasses.

In the passenger seat was the black guy. Several years younger, late teens. Light-skinned. Lean, not in the same way as his companion, but in a not-yet-fully-grown way. Dark blue long-sleeve shirt. Beanie cap.

They both looked right toward the porch—the white guy sneering, the black guy trying to match his partner’s bravado, but with a hesitancy in the eyes that couldn’t be completely masked.

The driver removed his hand from the steering wheel, looked away, reached toward the dash. The music quickly faded off.

When he faced the porch again, he sang to the tune of “Three Blind Mice.”

“One blind mouse. One blind mouse. She’s all alone. She’s all alone.” He snickered. “Nice house, Granny! Real nice. We know you be livin’ all alone, Granny. Who’s this? Your boyfriend?”

The white guy snickered again. It was only after he turned to the passenger seat that the other guy joined him in laughing.

Silence had heard enough.

He jumped from his seat, bounded down the steps, down the short sidewalk.

The El Camino’s engine roared, and it bolted off.

It was a futile effort on Silence’s part. No chance at catching them. Just pure hubris, pure rage.

He stopped in the middle of the street as the vehicle shrank in the distance. The driver’s laughter faded away. The El Camino did a rolling stop at the next corner, squealed to the left, and disappeared.

Dammit.

Silence returned to the porch, sat on the swing.

“Same guys,” he said.

“That’s three times now,” Mrs. Enfield said. She rolled the pear between her hands, fingers shaking.

“How find?” Silence said.

Mrs. Enfield’s white eyes looked at him, confused. More and more, Silence was discovering that his new abbreviated way of speaking wasn’t the clearest form of communication.

“How did they find me?” she asked, clarifying.

On instinct, Silence nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see and said, “Mmm-hmm.”

“Mrs. Cooper told me they’re from one of the rough neighborhoods on the other side of downtown. Must have heard about the little blind lady alone in East Hill.”

Anger rumbled through Silence’s chest. He exhaled, his frustration crackling in his destroyed throat.

“Not alone now,” he said.

She smiled, reached for his knee, found it, squeezed. “That was very brave of you, chasing after them like that. Thank you.”

Silence grunted.

“You just hopped right out of your seat, right into danger,” Mrs. Enfield said. She tsked. “Yes, son, I’m quite certain I don’t need to know what line of work you’re in. But may I ask—you seem edgier than usual tonight; why?”

“Have problem to solve,” Silence said. He swallowed, lubricating his throat for more syllables. “By tonight.” Another swallow. “Or consequences.”

Consequences was a big word with a lot of syllables, a painful word. But if Silence’s throat wasn’t faulty, he would have clarified it adjectively.

Major consequences.

Life-or-death consequences.

National security consequences.

Glover had told Silence how consequential Burton’s actions tonight would be.

But Glover hadn’t been able to provide a location.

Just the time, 8 p.m.

Silence glanced at his watch.

Only three more hours.

And Silence had nothing to help him figure out what was going to happen. No additional intel. No contacts to reach out to. No stacks of research materials. The only tool available to Silence that evening was his own mind.

Mrs. Enfield had gone quiet again. Finally she said, “Why don’t you talk?”

“You know.”

“Because of the pain. Yes, I know why you say so few words. What I’m asking is why don’t you talk? You say so little with those few words you speak. This ... event you mentioned, the thing that happened to you—why not share it with someone, maybe an old, blind widow with no kids, no family, not much longer for this world. You’ll feel better. Come, now, share with me.”

Cecilia. 

C.C. 

A pool of blood filled with long, dark hair. 

Body still warm, getting colder.

“It was … very bad,” Silence said.

Mrs. Enfield smiled painfully. “On your time, son. On your time.” She held up the pear. “Did you rinse it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Enfield nodded and took a bite, then used the pear to make a sweeping gesture at the neighborhood before them. “How did you end up here, Silence?”

Silence looked beyond the porch. Directly across from them was a house he’d learned was built in the ’20s, though the average person wouldn’t know