Why the shit was Kim Hurley here? And why was she talking to Jonah Lund and his mystery companion, this large and evidently violent man?
Finley would need to contact his employer about these developments. He couldn’t put it off any longer.
But more pressing was the fact that it had appeared as though the big guy had, during his conversation with Kim, pointed out the window at Finley, at the Accord which Finley had parked covertly, expertly among other vehicles.
Surely not…
Surely Finley hadn’t been spotted. After all, Finley was good. The best. He wouldn’t be found out.
Finley’s exacting perfection was one of necessity. He wouldn’t jeopardize this job, this opportunity, this second chance. He had a new life, a great life, and it would not be taken from him.
Kim reached the bottom of the stairwell and exited. She gave a furtive glance to her surroundings and hurried down the road.
Finley brought the binoculars back up, looking to the top of the garage, where he could just see the roof of the Fiero over the parapet. Lund and the big man stood by the car, talking. A few last words, and they separated, Lund getting into the driver’s side and the big man walking around the backside of the vehicle.
The man opened the passenger door. And stopped. Looked over the edge of the roof. Right at Finley.
Shit.
Yes, Finley had been discovered.
This guy was good, whoever he was. Finley was going to have to up his game.
But first he had to get the hell out of there.
He put the Accord into gear and pulled away.
Chapter Eleven
A row of stately, brand-new townhouses. Their proximity to the quiet street in front varied, giving them a staggered appearance. Their designs, too, were varied—some with front porches, some without; some with a single dormer window, some with two—as were the colors, types, and materials of their siding. Their cute charm gave a bit of a New England seaside vibe while their stacked, row-house layout gave hints of Brooklyn, right in the middle of Florida. The landscaping was brand new—saplings held by support wires, mounds of pine straw mulch, palm trees with freshly pruned fronds.
Across the street was an equally new shopping area with pleasant, clean, upscale establishments—a coffee shop, two restaurants, a toy store. A small crowd was gathered around the monitors at an outdoor seating area.
It wasn’t the sort of neighborhood Silence would have expected to find a heroin addict.
He and Jonah took a sidewalk to the front porch of the brightest of the townhouses on the block—the siding on the bottom floor was yellow and that on the top floor was wood shingles.
Jonah huffed again. The third time he’d done so since they exited the Fiero. His hands were clenched, fingers pulsing. Silence took his shoulder, stopped him in his tracks, looked at him. They’d spent enough time together already that Jonah was picking up on his non-verbal clues, and with this one, Silence said, You okay?
Jonah took a deep breath, looked at the townhouse then to Silence. “Back at the mission. The guy said that Beasley hurts women. This guy helped raise her … when she was a little, vulnerable girl.” He gave Silence a dark, prompting look. “And I found his name by her phone the night she disappeared.”
“Hearsay,” Silence said.
“I know it’s hearsay, but…” He trailed off, took another long look at the townhouse. “Let’s go.”
He took off. Silence followed.
The doorbell had a shiny brass casing, and when Silence pushed the button, there was a pleasant series of melodic rings from within the house, muffled by the walls and door. Footsteps. And a man opened the door, only a few inches.
Black, fifties, white hair. Thick forearms on a mostly in-shape physique. Big face, full cheeks, a bit of a second chin. Polo shirt, khakis.
Aside from the height, he didn’t match the description given at the homeless mission, and aside from the telltale bloodshot eyes, he looked about as much like a heroin addict as his neighborhood looked like that of a heroin addict.
The man squinted at them. “Yes?”
“Ray Beasley?” Silence said.
A pause. Beasley’s reaction skipped right over the standard surprise at Silence’s growly voice and went into instant panic, eyes going wide. “How did you find me?”
“I know people.”
Ray Beasley had been unlisted in the Orlando phone book, but a quick call to a Specialist had resolved the issue. In the process, Silence had learned that Beasley had changed his name years earlier.
Silence didn’t understand all the Watchers’ methods—indeed, he was meant not to—but he knew members were embedded in all levels of the government. Given their technicians, called Specialists, had access to the highest levels of classified intelligence, basic biographical information was small potatoes—things like current and past addresses, birth and death certificates, death records, and name changes.
Beasley looked to Jonah, standing just behind Silence. “You’re Amber’s husband. What is this?”
Jonah stepped closer to the door. “We just want to talk to you.”
Beasley’s arm quivered. His hand went around the corner of the doorframe. His shoulder dropped slightly. Going for something.
Silence bashed into the door. Beasley backpedaled, shoes squeaking on the tile of the entryway. Silence’s hand wrapped around the barrel of the shotgun. Cold metal on his fingers.
He took advantage of Beasley’s momentum, using the weapon clenched between them as a yoke, swinging him to the side and into a wall, hard. Nearby picture frames rattled. He jerked the gun to the side, freed it, and shoved the barrel laterally into Beasley’s throat. The man gagged.
Jonah was behind him.
“Shut door,” Silence said without taking his eyes off Beasley.
The squeal of hinges and the thunk of the door closing.
He lessened the pressure on the shotgun.
Beasley sucked in a breath. “How the hell did you find me? I told you years ago, I wouldn’t say anything else. That I was done with it all. You’re here because of Amber, aren’t you? I know nothing. I …
