Guilt By Silence. Taylor Smith

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      1

      Mariah circled the block three times. There were plenty of open spaces in the parking lot, but she wasn’t ready to face him yet. Shouldn’t this get easier at some point? she wondered. She should have begun adjusting by now. So why couldn’t she accept that this was the way things had to be?

      Just once more around, she promised herself, passing the entrance. One more time, and then she would do it again—go in and pretend. Pretend that nothing had really changed—that they were still a family. That they could cope. Pretend that his being in here was just a minor inconvenience. Pretend that it didn’t matter that he would never hold her in his arms or make love to her again. Pretend that Lindsay didn’t miss his stupid jokes or his hockey lessons or the giggling conspiracies the two of them used to mount whenever Mariah tried to reprimand them about junk food and the rules about bedtime.

      David was in there waiting, she knew—he had nothing to do but wait for her and Lindsay.

      It was ten months since the accident in Vienna; six since she had brought him back home to Virginia. In the first weeks they were back, friends and family had come to visit wearing carefully crafted, upbeat smiles that never wavered. But their eyes, when they saw him, were shocked and frightened, even though Mariah had tried to prepare them for the devastating changes the accident had wrought. They would pat his arm bravely at first, but then Mariah would see them subtly withdraw, their fingers recoiling from his atrophied muscles and the bone-thinness of the flesh under his shirt. After that, they almost never touched him again, except perhaps for a quick squeeze of his gnarled hand as they left.

      They would ramble on one-sidedly to him about things David probably wouldn’t have cared about even if he could have responded—and they knew it. But what else did you say to a genius whose mind, or what was left of it, was revealed only through an occasional flicker in his dark eyes?

      The visitors would glance anxiously at Mariah, wondering whether David knew who they were and what they were talking about, but even she had no way of knowing for sure what registered with him and what didn’t. Sometimes he seemed to be taking in everything, his eyes reflecting something like amusement or interest, or narrowing, as if he was pondering some problem. But other times, he seemed lost in an inner world that she couldn’t reach. The eyes would fix momentarily on a face, then drift away, distracted by a curtain blowing at a window or a speck of dust dancing in a sunbeam.

      These days, very few people came to see him anymore.

      Finally pulling into a parking space, Mariah tilted the rearview mirror and gave her sandy hair a poke or two to fluff it up a little. The cut was soft but short—practical, hair for a woman with no time to fuss. She wore almost no makeup, except for a little mascara to darken her fair lashes. She ran her fingers absently under her eyes to erase the end-of-day smudges that turned her gray eyes smoky. Then she paused. The eyes watching her from the mirror were critical, asking her for the thousandth time if she couldn’t have arranged things differently. She had posed the same question every day since it became clear that David wasn’t going to recover from his injuries.

      A runaway truck had plowed head-on into his car as he waited to pull into the driveway of the American International School in Vienna, climbing over the hood and crushing the passenger compartment. Everyone said it was a miracle that Mariah’s husband and daughter hadn’t been killed outright, but it was a qualified miracle at best: David’s skull had been fractured like an eggshell; Lindsay had come frighteningly close to losing her left leg.

      But despite the reproachful gaze of the eyes staring back from the mirror, Mariah knew that she had had no choice. She couldn’t give him at home the extensive care he needed, especially with their daughter’s recovery to worry about, too, and a demanding job that provided the income and insurance to cover staggering medical bills—a State Department job, she always told people, the lie second nature by now.

      She sighed and turned the mirror away. Grabbing a paper bag off the front seat and slinging her purse over her shoulder, she climbed out of the car.

      Across the parking lot, another pair of eyes—a mismatched pair, one green, one ice blue—watched her lock the Volvo’s doors and start toward the building’s entrance.

      Rollie Burton gnawed thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek while in his hand, a six-inch blade appeared and disappeared in a steady rhythm. The knife was one he had picked up years ago in Hong Kong—a beauty, with superior balance and a blade of fine Sheffield steel. Its intricately carved ivory handle depicted a Manchu dynasty garden of roses and ivy. There were rust-colored stains in the handle’s deep crevices, as if the roses themselves had bled as they were carved.

      He flicked the catch on the ivory handle and the blade snapped open again, glinting under the parking-lot lights. Pushing the point against his gloved left hand, he retracted it, only to snap it open on the next heartbeat. Snap, retract. Snap, retract. Over and over.

      He had her picture in the leather case on the seat beside him, as well as the down payment on the job—ten thousand dollars in small, used bills. There was also a loaded Sig-Sauer automatic and an extra clip of ammunition. But he preferred the blade—silent and swift, especially in his skilled hands.

      She was prettier in person than in her picture, he thought. The overhead lights in the parking lot emphasized high cheekbones and a full mouth. He would have guessed her to be in her early thirties, but the voice on the phone had said she was thirty-nine. She was small but she moved fluidly, with a grace usually reserved for cats and dancers. Although it was impossible to make out her shape under the flowing trench coat she wore, he knew that a body had to be in superb condition to move that well. He wondered idly who would want to waste her—not that he cared, as long as he was paid for his work.

      When the phone call had come the previous day, the voice had said they wanted it to look like a random act—one of the dozens of muggings that happen every day in the greater Washington area. The voice had had an eerie quality: flat, tinny. Burton was used to job offers from odd quarters, but there was something really creepy about that voice. Still, it wasn’t as if it had asked him to do anything unusual. Things were a little slow these days, but in his prime, Burton had handled dozens of wet jobs, most of them in tricky foreign environments. This one looked to be a piece of cake.

      When he’d agreed to take on the job, the caller had directed him to a Dumpster behind Bloomingdale’s at Tyson’s Corner. There he had found the case of cash and the photo, as well as information on his target’s regular movements. Sure enough, Burton had picked her up just where he’d been informed she could usually be found each Wednesday evening—at the Montgomery Convalescent Care Home in McLean, Virginia.

      There was no fixed deadline—just do it soon, the voice had said. The sooner the better, Burton thought, glancing around the quiet parking lot. He had expected to track her for a few days before making his move, but twenty-five years in the business had taught him that you don’t pass up a prime opportunity when it’s handed to you on a silver platter. No point in dragging these things out.

      He had his hand on the door handle, ready to slip out of the car. She was almost halfway across the parking lot, but Burton knew he could be on her in a few quick strides. He was still wiry and fast when he shifted into high gear.

      Waiting for precisely the right time to move, he considered his options. With a bigger target, he’d aim for the space between the second and third ribs—a neat slash to the heart, then out. If there was a struggle, an upward slice in the gut was effective but messy, and the target took longer to die. In this case, however, the best bet was the throat. Rollie Burton was a bantamweight, but she was smaller. It would be easy enough to grab her by the hair for the split second it would take to do the job. СКАЧАТЬ