Tess Gerritsen - The Silent Girl

Jane turned from the window and suddenly stopped, her gaze on the curtain. The fabric was a polyester blend that never wrinkles, a print of beige bamboo stalks against a forest of green. On that multicolored background, the silvery streak was almost invisible. Only at that angle, with the room light glancing across the fabric’s surface, did Jane see the strand clinging to the fabric.

She pulled an evidence bag out of her pocket. Afraid to even breathe, she delicately plucked the strand from the curtain and slipped it into the bag. Holding the bag up to the light, she stared through plastic at the single hair. Then she looked at the window, and at the fire escape just beyond it.

It was here. The creature was in this room .

THE HUNTER SELDOM REALIZES WHEN HE IS THE ONE BEING hunted. He walks in the woods, rifle in hand, eyes alert for his quarry’s prints on snow-dusted ground. He searches for spoor or sits perched in his tree blind, waiting for the bear to lumber into view. It never occurs to him that his prey might be watching him , biding its time until he makes a mistake.

The hunter who stalks me now would see little to fear. I appear to be merely a middle-aged woman, my hair streaked with gray, my gait slowed by weariness and the weight of the bags I carry, bulging with my weekly supply of groceries. I walk the same route I always walk on Tuesday evening. After shopping at the Chinese market on Beach Street, I turn right onto Tyler and head south, toward my quiet neighborhood of Tai Tung Village. I keep my head down, my shoulders drooped, so that anyone who sees me will think: Here is a victim . Not a woman who will fight back. Not a woman you need to fear.

But by now my opponent knows he should be wary, just as I am wary of him. So far we have sparred only in the shadows but have never actually connected, except through his surrogates. We are two hunters still circling each other, and he must make the next move. Only then, when he emerges into the light, will I know his face.

So I walk down Tyler Street as I have so many times before, wondering if this is the night. I have never felt so vulnerable, and I know the next act is about to begin. The bright lights of Beach and Kneeland streets fade behind me. I move through shadows now, past dark doorways and unlit alleys, the plastic grocery sacks rustling as I walk. Just a tired widow minding her own business. But I am aware of everything around me, from the mist on my face to the scent of cilantro and onions wafting from my bags. No one escorts me. No guardian stands watch. Tonight I am alone, a target waiting for the first arrow to come flying.

As I draw near my home, I see the light over the porch is dark. Deliberate sabotage or merely a burned-out bulb? My nerves hum with alarm and my heart accelerates, rushing blood to muscles that are already tensing for battle. Then I spot the parked car and see the man who steps out to greet me, and my breath rushes out in a sigh of both relief and exasperation.

“Mrs. Fang?” says Detective Frost. “I need to speak with you.”

I pause beside my front stoop, arms weighed down by groceries, and stare at him without smiling. “I’m tired tonight. And I have nothing more to say.”

“At least let me help you with those,” he offers and before I can protest, he snatches the grocery sacks from my hands and carries them up the steps to my porch. There he waits for me to open the door. He looks so earnest that I don’t have the heart to reject his offer.

I unlock the door and let him in.

As I turn on lights, he carries the sacks into the kitchen and sets them on the counter. He stands with his hands in his pockets and he watches as I put pungent herbs and crisp vegetables in the refrigerator, as I stock pantry cabinets with cooking oil and paper towels and cans of chicken broth.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says. “And to explain.”

“Explain?” I ask, sounding as if I really don’t care what he has to say.

“The sword, and why we took it. In a murder investigation, we have to explore all avenues. Follow every line of inquiry. The weapon we’ve been looking for is a very old sword, and I knew you owned one.”

I shut the pantry cabinet and turn to him. “By now you must have realized the mistake you made.”

He nodded. “The sword will be returned to you.”

“And when will Bella be released?”

“That’s more complicated. We’re still looking into her background. Something I was hoping you could help us with, since you know her.”

I shake my head. “The last time we spoke, Detective, I ended up being considered a suspect, and my family heirloom was confiscated.”

“I didn’t want that to happen.”

“But you’re a policeman, first and foremost.”

“What else would you expect me to be?”

“I don’t know. A friend?”

That makes him pause. He stands beneath the harsh kitchen lights, which make him look older than he is. Even so, he is a young man, young enough to be my son. I don’t want to think about how those unflattering fluorescent lights must age my face.

“I would be your friend, Iris,” he says. “If only…”

“If only I weren’t a suspect.”

“I don’t consider you one.”

“Then you aren’t doing your job. I could be that killer you’re searching for. Can’t you picture it, Detective? This middle-aged woman swinging a sword, leaping around on rooftops and cutting down enemies?” I laugh in his face and he flushes, as if I’ve slapped him. “Maybe you should search my house. There could be another sword hidden here somewhere, a weapon you don’t even know I have.”

“Iris, please.”

“Maybe you’ll report back to your colleagues that the suspect has turned hostile. That she’s not going to be charmed into giving away any more information.”

“That’s not why I’m here! The night we had dinner, I wasn’t trying to interrogate you.”

“What were you trying to do?”

“Understand you, that’s all. Who you are, what you think.”

“Why?”

“Because you and I-because…” He gives a heavy sigh. “I felt like we both needed a friend, that’s all. I know I do.”

I regard him for a moment. He is not looking at me; his gaze is focused somewhere beyond me, as if he can’t bring himself to look me in the eye. Not because he’s untruthful, but because he’s vulnerable. He may be a policeman, but he’s afraid of my opinion of him. There’s nothing I can offer him now, not comfort or friendship or even a touch on the arm.

“You need a friend your own age, Detective Frost,” I say quietly. “Not someone like me.”

“I don’t even see your age.”

“I do. I feel it, too,” I add, massaging an imaginary kink in my neck. “And my illness.”

“I see a woman who’ll never get old.”

“Tell me that in twenty years.”

He smiles. “Maybe I will.”

The moment trembles with unsaid words, with feelings that make us both uncomfortable. He is a good man; I see that in his eyes. But it’s absurd to think we could ever be more than mere acquaintances. Not because I am nearly two decades older than he is, although that alone is a barrier. No, it’s because of the secrets that I can never share with him, secrets that place us on opposite sides of a chasm.

As I walk him to the door, he says: “Tomorrow I’ll bring the sword back to you.”

“And Bella?”

“There’s a chance she’ll be released in the morning. We can’t hold her indefinitely, not without evidence.”