Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,18

guy and all, but we need to get to the nitty-gritty here. I have to be somewhere at one o’clock.”

Clarence nodded. “I have something . . .” He started to stand and reach for his right cargo pocket at the same time when two hands landed on his shoulders, stopping him.

“Not so fast, buddy,” said a voice behind us.

I looked up, not surprised, but very happy to see who it was. “Colt! You came.”

“Colt?” Clarence shouted, jumping so hard that he broke free of Colt’s grip and fell onto the graveled path, nearly tripping another passing jogger. After a second, he righted himself and stood, panting heavily. He looked like a guilty child terrified that he might get a spanking for breaking his dad’s new Blu-ray player.

I rose carefully from the bench, trying not to startle him. “Clarence,” I said. “This is my friend, Colt. He’s okay. You can trust him.”

“Colt?” Clarence repeated, the fearful look on his face growing.

“Dude,” Colt added, spreading his hands out to show he didn’t have any weapons, “everything’s cool so long as you keep your hands out of your pockets.”

Poor Clarence just wasn’t calming down. He paced in tiny steps and mumbled incoherently causing passers-by to take notice and eye the three of us with suspicion.

“Listen,” I continued, talking in soothing tones like I do to my kitties when rounding them up for their monthly flea treatment. “I just want to help my friend, Frankie, and you said you had information—”

“Deal over!” Clarence shouted. The terror on his face was replaced with anger. “I thought I was ready, but I’m not!” He tore off across the grass and through the trees.

I slapped Colt about a hundred times. “Look what you did!”

“You’re the one who asked me to come!”

“He wanted to show me something. He was just pulling it from his pocket.”

“What if he wanted to show you a knife or a gun?”

“I thought you had a date with Meeeeeee-gan.” I exaggerated the ee. I couldn’t help myself. The name simply begged for exaggeration.

We argued like an old married couple for a few more minutes until I realized I was now running up against the clock for my meeting with Guy Mertz. I told Colt about it, and he insisted on coming along despite my argument that he’d already scared off one informant. He promised to be discreet, so we marched off down the path toward the White House.

Twice along the way, we caught a glimpse of Clarence tailing us. Evidently Colt hadn’t scared him as badly as we thought. His attempts to be covert were weak: each time we turned around, he ducked behind a tree. He wasn’t very stealthy, to say the least.

Twenty hot, soggy minutes later we stood exhausted on the corner of 17th and Constitution looking across the street at the hot dog stand where I had agreed to meet Guy. A man wearing Guy’s signature fedora and holding an umbrella stood nearby.

“Must . . . have . . . water . . .” Colt groaned. We’d long since drained the bottle I’d bought earlier.

“I’ll bring a couple of bottles back. I think that’s Guy over there now. You stay here.”

“Make it quick. I feel seconds away from total dehydration.”

The light at the intersection turned green and the pedestrian crossing signal told me to go. I started to step off the curb, but the sound of a car’s revving engine and squealing tires stopped me dead in my tracks. The next thing I knew, Colt was shouting, “Curly!” and tackling me to the ground. Gunfire sounded around us. Screams mingled with the deafening pops that seemed to go on and on and on while Colt held my head down, shielding me with his own body. Moments after the gunfire stopped, the shrill sound of a thousand sirens filled the air. We were one block from the White House—I nearly expected an Air Force fighter to swoop by.

When I was finally able to lift my head, I realized that my Jackie O sunglasses had been crushed, my face was covered in tears and I was trembling uncontrollably.

Certain that we had just witnessed a terrorist attack firsthand, I gasped when my eyes finally landed on the hot dog stand where I had been headed. The mobile van was full of holes. The vendor inside was sprawled facedown over the counter and two bodies lay lifeless on the sidewalk. One of them, I was pretty sure, was Guy Mertz.

And when I turned my head