Dead Silence Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  EPILOGUE

  ALSO BY RANDY WAYNE WHITE

  Sanibel Flats

  The Heat Islands

  The Man Who Invented Florida

  Captiva

  North of Havana

  The Mangrove Coast

  Ten Thousand Islands

  Shark River

  Twelve Mile Limit

  Everglades

  Tampa Burn

  Dead of Night

  Dark Light

  Hunter’s Moon

  Black Widow

  NONFICTION

  Batfishing in the Rainforest

  The Sharks of Lake Nicaragua

  Last Flight Out

  An American Traveler

  Tarpon Fishing in Mexico and Florida (An Introduction)

  Randy Wayne White’s Gulf Coast Cookbook

  (With Carlene Fredricka Brennen)

  FICTION AS RANDY STRIKER

  Key West Connection

  The Deep Six

  Grand Cayman Slam

  Cuban Death-Lift

  The Deadlier Sex

  Assassin’s Shadow

  Everglades Assault

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of

  Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi-110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2009 by Randy Wayne White

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  White, Randy Wayne.

  Dead silence / Randy Wayne White. p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-02229-0

  1. Ford, Doc (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Marine biologists—Fiction. 3. Political kidnapping—Fiction.

  4. Florida Keys (Fla.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3573.H47473D

  813’.54—dc22

  Sanibel and Captiva Islands, and Long Island, New York, are real places, faithfully described but used fictitiously in this novel. The same is true of certain businesses, marinas, bars and other places frequented by Doc Ford, Tomlinson and pals.

  In all other respects, however, this novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is unintentional and coincidental.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To friends and teachers at two superb schools,

  North Central High, Pioneer, Ohio,

  and Davenport Central, Davenport, Iowa.

  An object in motion tends to stay in motion—thanks for the boost.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This manuscript traveled with me inside and outside the country during the last twelve months and benefited from kindnesses extended to the author.

  Special thanks go to Marvin and Helene Gralnick for sharing Casa de Chico’s with Ford and Tomlinson. The bead board and pine floors still radiate the couple’s gifted energy, and, when the moon’s just right, the rattle of a VW van sometimes echoes from the garage.

  In Cuba, Roberto, Ela and Temis Lopez were hugely helpful, as were Raul and Maura Corrales, and special thanks to my friend Gilberto Torrente Santiesteba, Secretario de la Logia Masonica, Havana.

  Jim and Donna Lane, owners of the Ellerbe Springs Inn (about eighty miles east of Charlotte, North Carolina), were extraordinary hosts as usual. The inn is an aging but elegant outpost, removed from noise and the tourist herd. I spend a week or two there every year because it’s a great place to write. It also serves, without question, the best southern breakfast of any restaurant in my experience.

  Thanks to Rue Matthiessen, I had a great place to work while in Sag Harbor, Long Island, which is not far from the home of Tomlinson’s pal the Mad Monk of Sagaponack.

  Special thanks to John and Mitzu MacNeil for providing a productive work space (an office at Moody Street Pictures) when our “deluxe rental” in Concord, Massachusetts, turned out to be a dud. Swimming daily in Walden Pond was also a big plus.

  A lot of this novel was written at a corner table, before and after hours, at Doc Ford’s Sanibel Rum Bar and Grille on Sanibel Island, Florida, where staff were tolerant beyond the call of duty.

  Thanks to my friends and partners Marty and Brenda Harrity, Mark and Heidi Marinello, Greg Nelson, Dan Howes, Brian Cunningham, Liz Harris, Capt. Bryce Randall Harris, Milita Kennedy, Kevin Filliowich, Kevin Boyce, Eric Breland, Sam Hussan Ismatullaev, Rachel Songalewiski of Michigan, Jean and Abigail Crenshaw, Lindsay Kuleza, Greg Barker, Roberto Cruz, Amanda Rodriquez, Juan Gomex, Olga Guryanova, Mary McBeath, Kim McGonnell, Allyson Parzero, Cindy Porter, Big Matt Powell, Laurie and Jake Yukobov, Bette Roberts, Jose Rosas, Jorge Sanchez, Travis Zeigler, Arturo, Sammy, Feliciano, Enrique and Ms. Dawn Oliveri.

  At Timber’s Sanibel Grille, my pals Matt Asen, Mary Jo, Audrey, Becky, Debbie, Brian, Bart and Bobby were, once again, stalwarts.

  Finally, I would like to thank my two sons, Rogan and Lee White, for helping me finish, yet again, another book.

  —RANDY WAYNE WHITE

  CASA DE CHICO’S

 
SANIBEL ISLAND, FLORIDA

  The universities of Cuba are available only to those who share my revolutionary beliefs.—FIDEL CASTRO

  As a child I was taught the Supernatural Powers (Taku Wakan)

  were powerful and could do strange things.—RED CLOUD (1903),

  PETER MATTHIESSEN, In the Spirit of Crazy Horse

  It is not the mission of Freemasonry to engage in plots and conspiracies against the civil government. It is not the fanatical propagandist of any creed or theory. It is the apostle of liberty and equality.

  —ALBERT PIKE, Morals and Dogma (1871)

  PROLOGUE

  SANIBEL ISLAND, FLORIDA

  On a moonless winter night, after working late in the lab, Marion Ford anchored his boat and swam to a yacht owned by a killer.

  Ford wore swim fins, a black wool cap and cargo pants. His glasses were around his neck on fishing line, as usual. He had a tactical light in one pocket, a broken wristwatch in another.

  Aboard the forty-three-foot Viking was a man named Bern Heller. Heller had played two years in the NFL, then sold Cadillacs while living a secret life as a serial rapist. He’d murdered a Cuban fishing guide, one of Ford’s friends.

  Heller was free after eleven months in Raiford spent lifting weights, talking sports with the brothers, waiting for his idiot attorneys to get him a retrial.

  Sometimes, alone in his cell, Bern would fantasize about women, the noise they made when they’d given up. A mewing sound. The way their thighs went limp—total submission. After years on steroids, remembering that sound was the only way it worked, unless Bern had his fingers on a real live girl. Something he planned to do soon.

  Ford had spotted Bern that afternoon. Huge man, beer in hand, Bermuda shorts and an orange ankle monitor that looked heavy. Ford had approached, smiling, thinking Bern might take a swing, but hoping he wouldn’t because Ford knew then, looking into the crazy man’s eyes, what he would do.

  “The beating I gave you wasn’t enough, I guess. You want more?”

  Ford had straightened his glasses, eyes shifting from a marina-foreclosure notice to Heller’s gold Rolex. “I could use the work. It’s been a while.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “Not to you. I was thinking of Javier Castillo.”

  “Your dink fisherman pal. If I was guilty, you think they would’ve let me out of Raiford?”

  Ford was thinking, He’s stoned, as he said, “Okay. I’ll give you a second chance.”

  “I don’t want shit from you. Damn weirdo with your microscopes and dead fish. You gonna stand there talking or take your shot?”

  “Maybe later. I’ve got an early flight.” Now Ford was looking at the yacht where Heller lived. “I’ll knock first.”

  “Sure you will. I won’t hold my breath.”

  When Ford said, “You’ll try,” Bern blinked.

  Ford knocked now, standing outside the yacht’s salon, ready when Heller pushed the door open, wearing shorts, no shirt, a stubnose revolver in his hand.

  Ten minutes later, Heller was in the water, trying to say, “Let’s talk about this. Seriously,” but there was a rag stuffed in his mouth.

  He tried to say, “My goddamn elbow’s busted!,” knowing what it felt like because of that game in Green Bay when he got blindsided by one of the Frozen Chosen. But not as cold then as now, with water sloshing in his ears, his wrists tie-wrapped, floating on his back as the weirdo biologist towed him, kicking with fins.

  Bern tried to wrestle free but inhaled water up his nose. Tried again, panicking, and felt the ammonia sting of salt water.

  He screamed, “Please,” but made only a mewing noise because of the gag. The sound—a helpless-kitten sound—scared him. It was familiar. Thinking about it, Bern stopped struggling. When he remembered, his muscles went slack.

  Ford continued swimming from the lights of the marina, kicking harder, using his right arm to pull.

  He had a plane to catch.

  At 6:45 a.m., Ford was aboard Delta’s direct to Newark, sitting starboard side, first class, reading the Miami Herald. A story about Cuba. Secret documents were surfacing, now that Castro was gone.

  Disturbing.

  Ford had worked in Cuba. He had also worked in Central America, South America, Asia and Africa.

  Ford had told Bern the truth. His skills were rusty.

  As the plane banked over the Gulf of Mexico, he folded the Herald and cleaned his glasses. Below, wind glittered on water a mile from shore, where Ford had untied Bern Heller, then pushed him overboard, yelling, “Swim!”

  At 3:30 a.m., the lights of Sanibel Island were bright.

  By five, Ford had returned to his home and lab on Dinkin’s Bay, secured his boat, was showered and packed. He’d also stowed cash from Heller’s safe and the Rolex in a hidden floor compartment.

  Thinking about it now, Heller’s voice—“Don’t leave. I’m begging you!”— Ford felt an unfocused anxiety that startled him. A sinking sadness—a dense, unlighted space beneath his heart.

  It passed.

  An emotional response? No . . . a paralimbic reaction. The distinction was interesting—but unimportant.

  Ford was working again.

  Below, green water became granite as the jetliner ascended.

  They’ll think Heller fell overboard, escaping to Mexico . . . if the cops find him.

  They might not.

  That orange ankle monitor looked heavy.

  HOTEL NACIONAL, HAVANA, CUBA

  Farfel told the Venezuelan, “More than a month ago, I warned you. Now it’s too late. The U.S. government has Castro’s files.” He exhaled through his nose, touching a finger to his glasses: Amateurs.

  The young Venezuelan, his face lathered, sat reading the Miami Herald, Spanish edition. Farfel, the hotel barber, could see over his shoulder.

  SENATE SUBPOENAS CUBAN DOCUMENTS

  There was a photo. A good-looking woman, weight of breasts beneath her charcoal blouse. A powerful man with teeth. Cochairs of an intelligence subcommittee, they’d been bickering about the files for months, mostly with the world political community, but also with the CIA.

  “Five weeks ago. What did I tell you?”

  The Venezuelan had a partner, an aloof New Yorker. What Farfel had told them was, “You want the files? Bury one of the politicians alive. Bury them with oxygen, a little water. Enough for a couple of days. It’ll work, I read about it in a book. The Americans will give you anything you want.”

  They’d thought he was joking.

  Now, because Farfel had a razor in his hand, the Venezuelan closed the newspaper. He sat straighter, thinking, He has cut men’s throats. I wouldn’t be the first.

  True.

  Farfel began stropping the razor fast—a rare display of emotion for the precise little man with silver hair, mustache and glittering silver eyes. They were alone in the shop with Koken chairs, mirrors, combs in blue disinfectant, the smell of powder and cigars, a calendar on the wall showing Havana’s skyline.

  “The article means nothing,” the young Venezuelan said. He was worried the barber would be insulted if he stood and wiped lather from his face but was thinking it over as he added, “I have good news.”

  “Save your breath. No more excuses.”

  “At least listen.”

  “Why bother? I should be looking for a way to disappear. They will hunt me the way Jews hunt Nazis. A boat, maybe.”

  The Venezuelan stood and found a towel. To hell with etiquette. He gave it a moment for effect, but also to move closer to the door. “Yesterday it was decided,” he said, “the grave will be dug.”

  Farfel folded the razor slowly.

  “We were going to tell you.”

  “The coffin, too?” The barber’s dentures made a clacking snap sound.

  “Yes, as you ordered. A wooden box with an oxygen bottle. A container for water—a canteen, I think it is called.”

  “Where?”

  The Venezuelan said, “
Only two people know.” Said it in a way that implied the New Yorker knew but the Venezuelan didn’t. He lobbed the newspaper in the trash, his confidence returning. “There’s something else. We also have the senator’s schedule.”

  He was talking about the good-looking woman in the charcoal blouse. Farfel had told them, “Abduct the female. Snap photos with the coffin open, the woman staring up. The FBI will soil their pants, do whatever we want. Old files in exchange for the life of a senator? Force the Americans to react, not act.”

  Farfel’s former assistant, Hump, the son of a dead friend, had made a cinematic gesture, framing the scene. “I like photos,” he said in his simple way. “I own a camera.”

  The Venezuelan ignored the man. His deformity was unsettling.

  This was back in December, Hump and Farfel, former members of the Cuban Socialist Party, talking with the young Venezuelan and the New Yorker on a seawall where the Gulf Stream swept close to Havana, a river of green on a purple sea.

  “Maximum leverage without killing. You told me no one can be killed.”

  “But burying a woman—”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re asking me to imagine—”

  “To imagine the worst way to die. People will say fire. They will say falling from the sky in a plane. Cancer . . . a few will speak of disease.”

  Hump and Farfel had exchanged looks, as if old pros on the subject of torture and death. They were.

  “To understand fear, listen to your spine, not your brain.”

  The idea had floated in silence. Buried alive.

  Even the New Yorker, a cold one, had grimaced.

  “When FBI agents get the assignment, they’ll feel like they’re suffocating. If we tell them to shit, they’ll ask what color.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  Hump had said to the Venezuelan, “We do,” as he removed his cap, looking at the man’s face for a reaction.

  He got it.

  The Venezuelan swallowed and turned away. “I’m not criticizing. But as a practical approach—”