Page 36 of Hush (The Seaside Saga #25)

IT’S THE TWILIGHT HOUR.

That vague time between sunset and darkness.

The sky still holds on to some light. Shadows grow longer.

Details blur. For Jason, it’s a favorite part of the day.

Everything seems to pause. He is now, too.

After dropping a preliminary design print at his client’s cottage, he gets into his SUV and sets his leather messenger bag on the passenger seat.

His last stop is Kyle’s diner—if he can get there before Kyle closes up.

Jason checks his watch and thinks he should make it in time.

He also pulls his cell phone from his messenger bag and texts Maris.

On my way to the diner , he types, then backs out of his client’s cottage driveway.

When Maris answers back, Okay, babe. See you soon , he drops his phone back in the messenger bag and takes off.

At the trestle, he waves to Nick at the guard shack, then veers beneath the trestle’s stone tunnel.

When he turns onto Shore Road on the other side, traffic is light. He’ll make good time.

So Jason sits back, works a kink out of his shoulder and relaxes while driving.

Roadside trees rise like black silhouettes against the violet sky.

At a nearby marsh, the salt water is dark blue; cascading marsh grasses are black wispy shadows.

And beyond, the horizon out over the Sound fades to a deep red.

It’s a nice night.

After the marsh, the view changes. Coastal-rural gives way to a roadside dotted with residential homes—simple cottage-style houses, shingled bungalows, shanties.

Windows shine golden in the evening. Harvest lights are strung around lampposts.

Pumpkins sit on stoops. And a sea breeze trembles cornstalk tassels.

Jason takes it all in as his tires spin over the dark pavement, as the sun dips below the horizon now.

***

Finally, Kyle’s day is just about over.

One of the last things he does before closing up the Dockside Diner is this: He precisely hangs his scrubbed and shined spatulas, forks, tongs and knives in front of his big stove. Nearby wire racks are already stacked with clean white plates for tomorrow’s early shift.

Next, he heads out to the diner counter.

Straightens a few small pumpkins lining it.

Then he grabs a damp rag to give the counter a second wipe-down.

Every speck is brushed off. Every gritty spot is rubbed clean.

He also picks up a messy newspaper left behind and tosses it in his recycle bin.

Stuffs the silver napkin dispensers—giving them a quick wiping polish, too.

Picks up a remote to dim the battery-operated lanterns in the booth-side windows, and is done.

Then, Kyle gives a visual check of the softly lit diner and is satisfied.

He runs a tight ship. Everything’s spotless, tidied.

The tables are shining. The floors, swept.

Ketchup and mustard bottles are filled. Behind the counter, menus are neatly stacked.

Each flickering lantern is centered in the diner windows.

All that’s left is to set a few recessed ceiling lights to a low glow.

Their faint illumination shines on vintage buoys hanging like pendant lights throughout the diner.

After that, he gives a stool at the counter a slow spin and is good to go.

Good to get home to Lauren and the kids.

So he lifts off his white chef apron, grabs his green fleece jacket from the counter and puts it on. Reaches for his keys on the counter now, then folds his apron over an arm and heads to the door.

“Can’t forget this,” he whispers, flipping the Open sign to Closed . Keys in hand to lock up, he opens the door and steps out to the fall evening.

***

A block before the Dockside Diner, Jason’s SUV idles at a red traffic light. The street here’s busy. Several cars are stopped ahead of him; a few pedestrians hurry across the road.

While waiting for the green light, he leans forward to see the diner off in the distance.

In the fading twilight, he can make out the hurricane lanterns glowing in the windows.

Red-padded window booths are caught in the lantern illumination.

The ceiling lights are dimmed, too. Kyle must’ve closed up already.

But Jason notices a motion then. Yes, it’s Kyle. He’s outside the diner door and locking up.

“ Ach , damn it. Missed him,” Jason quietly says in his idling vehicle.

But—wait. He leans to the side and squints into the evening shadows.

Yes, a customer is walking through the parking lot.

Jason sees him beneath the illumination of the tall lampposts coming on there.

The man’s headed toward the diner entrance.

Some dude no doubt looking for a hearty meal at the end of the day.

“Perfect,” Jason whispers. He figures maybe Kyle will hold off closing for the guy.

Just then, the traffic light ahead changes to green.

Jason slowly accelerates, drives a block and nears the diner parking lot.

The sky outside holds on to only shades of purple now.

A sea breeze off the distant harbor blows skittering leaves across the street.

The Dockside Diner’s illuminated sign glows in the evening.

And Jason thinks maybe he still has a chance at a hot supper.

The car in front of him stops for a turn then. Its left blinker flashes as the driver waits for a clear opening in oncoming traffic.

“Hold on, Kyle,” Jason whispers, then looks at the paused car ahead and blows out a frustrated breath.

** *

Kyle stops in the low light outside the diner entrance. With that apron over one arm, he joggles his keys until his fingers find the right one to lock up. As he grabs the key, footsteps sound behind him. He glances back and spots a man approaching the diner.

“How you doing,” the man quietly says.

“Sorry, guy,” Kyle tells him as he turns the key in the door lock. “Stoves are off. We’re closed for the night.” Just then, Kyle also feels this man roughly grab at his fleece jacket from behind.

“You’ll close when I tell you to close.” The low voice comes right near Kyle’s ear. “And not one more word out of you.”

“Whoa,” Kyle says, twisting around and glancing back at the man.

But Kyle can’t fully turn, not with the way the dude’s got his fleece jacket held tight in an iron grip.

All Kyle realizes in the low evening light is that the guy’s got a dark sweatshirt hood pulled up over his head now.

“ Relax , man,” Kyle tells him. “It’s just that everything’s put away. You’re too late—”

As Kyle’s talking, though, the guy very discreetly shifts in the shadowy light and gets him in a loose headlock. Loose because, shit , he’s also holding a gun barrel to Kyle’s chin.

“Hush, you motherfucker,” the man fiercely whispers now. “Not another God damn word.”

***

Finally, the car in front of Jason makes its turn.

Traffic’s moving again and he slowly accelerates his SUV toward the diner.

The sun’s gone down now. But those tall lampposts in the diner parking lot have just come on—so their illumination is low.

When Jason squints through it, he sees that Kyle’s still outside the door with that customer.

So Jason’s almost sure now that he’ll get a good meal for him and Maris.

For a passing second, he thinks he has a chance.

But only for a passing second.

Only until he slows his SUV while nearing the diner. Slows his vehicle and cranes his head to better understand what he’s actually seeing in the vague shadows. Which is that some guy’s got Kyle in a headlock. Some hooded guy dressed in dark clothes. Right outside the diner door.

“What the hell?” Jason says—realizing something with a sudden panic.

Realizing that this late-arriving customer is serious bad news.

Fuck .

***

Kyle feels that arm roughly around his neck. And the gun. It’s near his chin—more against his jawbone now. But that gloved hand holding the pistol—it’s shaking some. The gun vibrates against Kyle’s face.

Okay, so he’s dealing with a loose cannon. Ready to blow. Standing in the lengthening shadows, out of direct light of the streetlamps, of passersby, Kyle knows he’s in trouble.

He’s in trouble—and no one sees it. No one knows.

“Hey, whatever you want,” Kyle quickly says as he throws up his hands in surrender—the best he can, anyway. The diner key is still turned in the lock. “ Anything , man. It’s yours,” Kyle insists, trying to twist back with his hands up. “I got family, guy. Kids. Just tell me—”

“I said hush ,” the guy interrupts. His voice drops lower as he shoves hard against Kyle from behind. “Not another fuckin’ word. Get that door unlocked and get me inside. Now .”

***

Fast, fast.

Jason thinks fast.

He skips turning in at the diner’s front entrance. Instead he passes it, then careens in near the side entrance—where trucks arrive to make deliveries at the rear loading dock.

Jason flies , actually.

Passes the shadowed, empty outdoor patio and stops behind the diner.

Parks in the dark, jumps out of his SUV and trots the short distance to the loading dock. Gets himself on its concrete floor and crosses it to the diner’s locked-up rear door—all without making a sound.

Damn it, he thinks. What’s my plan? What’s my plan?

Thinks it as he fumbles in the shadows, thumbs past several keys on his key ring and finds the spare emergency key Kyle gave him.

But he stops then.

Glances to the side to try and get a glimpse of Kyle and the man who’s cornered him.

He can’t see them.

So Jason quickly goes for his cell phone to call nine-one- one first. He reaches to a cargo pocket on his pants. It’s empty. Reaches around to the cargo pocket on the other pant leg.

Nothing.

“Shit, shit,” he whispers, slapping at his back pocket and the pockets of his denim jacket—and knowing damn well where that phone is. Knowing that after texting Maris? He slipped his cell phone back inside his leather messenger bag.