The Suppressor

the continental U.S., so he kept his air conditioning cranked.
He headed for the kitchen, which lay right beyond the living room area, in the house’s long, shotgun-style layout. The house was built in 1955, and some aspects showed their age, like the floorboards squeaking beneath his feet, but the Watchers had renovated the interior shortly before they moved him in two weeks ago. While Silence had been surprised that they’d been able to locate such a perfect location for him, what really amazed him were the renovations. They’d gone to great lengths to consider Silence’s personal tastes—the palette was all black and grays and whites, and the design touches were modern and chic.
He caught a whiff of fresh rubber and plastics as he opened the refrigerator, a glossy black, state-of-the-art model, so new that it still felt unnaturally clean. The other kitchen appliances were also updated and also black, all the same brand. For whatever reason, the Watchers hadn’t taken down the old cabinetry, but they’d still continued with their policy of utilizing his tastes and covered the cabinets with dark gray paint. He found this detail charming.
A nice notion, yes, but he would replace the cabinets soon enough.
He took the six-pack from the plastic sack, placed it on the top shelf. Heineken. Six green bottles in a green cardboard carrier, a splash of color in the glowing white, nearly empty environment. The only other item on the shelves was a white, five-by-five styrofoam to-go box. A bottle of ketchup was on the door.
A cold breeze wafted from the fridge, across his sore knuckles, and he stared at the beers. Wanted one. He could quickly drain a bottle, but Mrs. Enfield could—and would—smell it on his breath.
A feeling swept from nowhere, rushed over him. Self-loathing. Disgust. So pathetic, so worthless, this need for alcohol.
Just like the old man.
He closed the door, noticed again the blood on his fingers. It had to go. Mrs. Enfield would inspect his hands, part of what had become standard protocol this second week of his two-week stay in this home.
The bottle of hand soap at the stainless steel kitchen sink had been there when he first moved in, another of the Watchers’ efforts to make the house livable. It was from Bath & Body Works and had little scrubbing beads inside, which Silence thought might do the trick on the blood.
They didn’t.
He retrieved his bar of Lava brand pumice soap from beneath the sink and scrubbed away. The blood loosened, pink water swirling the drain, and the mystery was solved—the blood was Glover’s, not his. He had no open wounds on his tender knuckles.
As he rubbed suds and water through his fingers, his mind went back to what Glover had said, the critical intel that Silence had gotten moments before chasing Glover into the warehouse and executing him.
I don’t know the location, Glover had said, his voice shaking. I swear I don’t. All I know is the time: eight o’clock.
Silence dried off and hovered a hand above the stainless steel fruit basket that was under the cabinets, next to the fridge.
Peaches, pears, apples.
He chose a nice pear. Mrs. Enfield liked pears. This one was perfectly ripe. Nice scent. Nice color, too, not that the appearance would matter much to a blind lady.
He opened the cabinet doors in front of him, those above the fruit basket. The lower two shelves held dishes—something the Watchers hadn’t provided, something he picked up last week, matte-finish, charcoal gray, little flecks in the glaze—and the top shelf was full of miniature cans of cat food. The brand was ’Malkin Meats, a company that produced 100%-meat cat foods. C.C. had once told him that many dog and cat foods contained a lot of fillers.
His hand hovered over the cans, as it had at the fruit basket, deciding.
Chicken.
He grabbed one.
A few moments later he stepped around the shrubs and onto the porch of Mrs. Enfield’s house, a turn-of-the century home, one of many such in Pensacola. The siding was green, the trim a darker green, and the gabled roof was metal with a dormer window. The porch wasn’t as deep as Silence’s, though it was wider, naturally, as the house itself was wider. To the right of the door was a rocking chair. On the opposite side was another, matching rocking chair and a porch swing.
She sat at the far end of the swing, her designated spot, smiling at him, legs crossed at the ankles, toes barely reaching the floorboards, rocking the swing gently, hands stacked on her lap. She was black, and her hair was as white as her eyes. Her dress was a dark blue floral-print with frill around the collar.
She patted the open area of seat cushion next to her.
He sat down.
Mew. A little noise from the floor.
Baxter was curled up beneath the small table in the porch’s corner, looking up at Silence, eyes squinted with contentment, his little cat motor rumbling away.
He was an orange tabby. And big. Not the most gigantic cat Silence had ever seen—he weighed about fifteen pounds—but he carried his weight on a decently sized frame. His square head, lion nose, and Jay Leno chin made him look not so much a masculine cat than an actual, human man. He looked like he shouldn’t spend his days lumbering on Mrs. Enfield’s sofa but instead be out there somewhere in the workforce, a fuzzy personal injury attorney, a four-legged retail manager.
And he drooled.
Not a little spittle now and then. Not a few bubbles with indigestion. An ever-present line of drool leaking from whichever corner of his mouth was lower. Currently, as he looked contentedly up at Silence, the drool escaped the left corner of his mouth, a thin trail glistening in the muted, early-evening sunlight that filtered out of the gray sky.
Silence reached down and grabbed the small saucer beside Baxter’s left paw, examined it. Flawlessly clean. Mrs. Enfield was good about keeping it washed.
He set it down, pulled the ring on the can of