Silence didn’t respond. He took his wallet from his pocket, removed the card, handed it to her.
It was a plastic business card, the size, shape, and thickness of a credit card, no magstripe. Frosted, semi-transparent. Dark blue, raised lettering explained his purpose:
She read over the card, the fear in her face morphing slightly into a concerned strain of bewilderment. “Is this real?”
Silence didn’t respond. He held his hand out. After a moment of confusion, she took his meaning and returned the card. He pointed through the crack of the door, as though asking permission to enter.
“Oh, um … Of course.”
The door closed slightly, a chain rattled, then she opened it fully and stepped inside. Silence followed.
The woman switched on another lamp. Now he saw all of her. She was in her forties, maybe late thirties. Far from thin, but she was the type who carried extra weight exquisitely with a pleasant shape and proportions. She wore a uniform, a housekeeper’s dress, bluish gray.
The house’s interior was at odds with the exterior. She’d made the most of her current station, transforming the shack into a home. Plenty of decorations, some of them chic, some of them homey. A loveseat and an armchair, both well worn but also well loved. Cozy area rugs covered portions of the matted, filthy carpeting. There was a terribly loud ticking of a clock. Distractingly loud.
Silence gestured toward the loveseat as he sat in the armchair, inviting her to sit across from him. She hesitated, taken aback by a stranger asking her to have a seat in her own home. But she did so, squaring herself to face him.
Silence pointed toward the front of the house, indicating the dead men he’d left outside in the trees.
“Talk,” he said as kindly as his voice allowed.
A slight pain in his throat, like the tiny movement of a knife permanently lodged in there. The explanation he’d given her with the plastic card—the message he shared with all those he helped—was no exaggeration. Speaking was painful for him. That’s why he spoke as little as possible, counting his syllables and editing his speech before any sounds left his lips.
The woman jerked back in the loveseat, a hand going to her chest. When a person first heard his voice, there was almost always a powerful reaction, even if the person tried to mask it politely.
Because aside from being painful, his voice was also incredibly harsh, the sound of two volcanic stones being slowly pressed against each other, all the popping, deep rumbles, cracking.
The woman watched him for a long moment, her lips parting once in a failed attempt before finally responding.
“They were Lowry’s men. Rupert Lowry. You know, the guy in the news, the one who’s been burning people’s houses down.”
She grabbed a folded newspaper from a small table besided the loveseat, which held an antique lamp, a framed photo, and a small, crystal clock, the source of the obscene ticking. She handed it to him.
The top headline read:
ANOTHER SARASOTA FIRE, ANOTHER TIE TO LOWRY
Below the headline, two images—a building engulfed in flames and Rupert Lowry, wearing a leather jacket and jeans, surrounded by a crowd of reporters, head hunched, a manila folder in one hand, trying to shield his face, a suited man behind him, hand on his shoulder, clearly his lawyer.
Another prominently featured article was beneath the main one about Lowry, “below the fold” on the bottom half of the paper.
Hardin to Bury Hatchet with Mayor Sizemore
Silence read the opening sentence.
Though Commissioner Matthew Hardin continues his harsh criticism of Mayor Ken Sizemore’s leadership during these tumultuous times, he has announced that he will join the mayor in a show of unity at tonight’s candlelight vigil at Bayfront Park honoring those lost in the continuing chaos.
As with the top article, there were two photos beneath this story’s headline, side by side. The left image showed a man in shirtsleeves, rolled to his elbows, loosened tie, standing behind a microphone giving a fiery speech. His mouth was open mid-sentence, eyes squinted with strain, fist in the air. Caucasian, maybe late thirties, athletic build, short beard. Commissioner Hardin.
In the other photo, Mayor Sizemore descended a set of governmentally appropriate stairs, hands in the pockets of his overcoat, looking to the ground. He was in his sixties, white hair, tired face, cleft chin, dark eyebrows.
Silence looked up from the paper as he pointed to Lowry’s image. “Why I’m here.” He paused for a half moment to lubricate his throat. “We’re watching Lowry.”
The woman’s eyes drifted away from him, over his shoulder, to the window behind him, a few feet from the trees where the dead lay.
“You killed those men.”
Silence nodded.
The woman threw her hands up, penetrated him with her eyes, wanting further explanation.
When he didn’t reply, she said, “There are three bodies outside my front door!”
“Will be taken care of.”
Her expression changed. She crossed her legs, folded her hands over her top knee, and leaned back in the loveseat, as though to put a few more inches between them.
“You’re an assassin…”
Silence nodded.
“Dios mío. So you’re with the government?”
“No.”
He wasn’t at all with the government. Rather, his organization, the Watchers, was embedded within the U.S. government. They were a network of well-meaning individuals who surreptitiously administered justice to horrendous people who had eluded the balance of law and order.
The woman opened her mouth as though to reply. But didn’t. She furrowed her brow then slouched over, burying her face in her hands.
“Name,” Silence said.
She looked back up, keeping her chin in her hands, elbows on her knees. “Adriana Ramirez. And you are?”
Silence considered giving an alias. That was typically how he handled a situation like this, though sometimes not.
“A friend,” he said after a moment of thought. He swallowed. “Lowry wants you why?”
Adriana took her face from her hands, looked at him for a moment.
“My son. Benito. Benny. We both work at a factory.” She flicked her dress, looked away, toward the little table, embarrassed. “I work custodial. He’s on the floor.
