The Silent Places by James Patrick Hunt Page A

window. He hadn’t seen anything.
    Except he had. The woman standing in front of the window had been talking to someone he couldn’t see. Probably her husband. Hastings couldn’t hear what she was saying, but her facial expression had told him she was pissed off.
    Like most detectives, Hastings liked to observe people. Generally, it wasn’t something he needed binoculars to do. He could see people in restaurants, in lines at movie theaters, at sporting events, church socials, et cetera. On his first date with Carol, he informed her that a man sitting at another table with a woman was gay but pretending to be straight and that the woman was looking for a rich husband. That was an easy one. Hastings had never met either one of them. But he looked at them and read body language, which is almost always more truthful than speech. He was showing off for Carol, doing something any reasonably good, experienced detective could do. Carol had snorted at his lowbrow determination and teased him about it, but she had been impressed in spite of herself. She had liked him back then. She’d thought he was interesting and intriguing and kind. And he’d been new to her.
    He no longer was. Now they knew each other pretty well, and it was a problem. She still hadn’t returned the call he’d made to her at the beginning of his shift.
    Klosterman said, “What’s up?”
    Hastings said, “It looks like they’ve gone to bed.”

SEVENTEEN
    Reese took a seat at the bar.
    The bartender, a cute woman in her thirties, said, “We’re closed.”
    Reese held up a twenty-dollar bill, putting it under the small bar lamp so the barmaid could see it.
    “Whiskey,” Reese said.
    “We’re closed.”
    Reese lowered his hand. Raised it again. This time, there were two twenties.
    “Whiskey,” he said again.
    The bartender sighed and said, “All right. Just one. Then I want to get home.”
    Reese nodded and told her Johnnie Walker Black doubled would be fine.
    She brought it to him and Reese noticed that she was very pretty in an earthy way. She took one of the twenty-dollar bills and went to make change.
    “No,” Reese said. “We made a deal.”
    “It’s okay,” she said.
    “No, take it.”
    The bartender gave him a look and said, “I’m not like that. I don’t feel comfortable—”
    “I don’t expect anything,” Reese said. “Just a drink.”
    He was at the bar in his hotel. Earlier, he had fallen asleep in his room with the television on, then awoke from a nightmare.
    It had started out nice. In the dream, Sara was not well. But they were together. She was pale and weak, but she was in the passenger seat next to him in his car. They were driving to the top of a mountain in Colorado. The day was cool and sunny but not cold. Reese had opened the sunroof and the wind was blowing across her face. She was so beautiful. Even with her head scarf on and her eyebrows fading. The cancer was spreading and now they knew it would take her life, but they would have this day together. She looked over at him and smiled, and he smiled back. He was happy, so happy, that she had come into his life and given it meaning and purpose. He had grown empty and soulless, a shell, and then he’d met Sara and was reborn. She took his hand and said, “I’m getting better, you know.” And John said that, yes, she was.
    The road twisted and curved and banked and then they were at the top. Reese intended to open her door for her, but when he got out of the car, she was already out, too, walking over to him, extending her hand. He took her hand and together they walked to the parapet, which would give them a glorious view of the valley below.
    He got to the edge and looked over and saw … nothing. No yellow and brown and green. Just cold mist and emptiness. He turned to his wife. She was gone.
    “Sara,” he said.
    Nowhere to be seen.
    “Sara!”
    He turned and looked at empty faces. Other tourists or demons. He asked them, “Where is she? Where’s