Dead Silence df-16 Page 11

  “Cheesehead,” I said. “I get it, Heller’s from Wisconsin. Who’s the cop?”

  “You know him. He’s one of the few I trust.”

  I was impressed that Tomlinson wouldn’t compromise the guy by using his name. My friend’s contempt for the police borders on pathology. But there are a few he likes: the head sheriff ’s deputy on Captiva and a surfing pal from Naples. And there were rumors that the island’s marshal might have been his distant relative.

  I said, “He didn’t tell you the girl’s name?”

  “No. She’s in some sort of profession but young. Smart, too, from the way she handled herself. Smart enough to know her guardian angel dropped everything else that night to save her. She saw what she saw, though.”

  I started up the steps that led to my house and lab, saying, “The girl was in shock, that’s the way it sounds to me. People in shock imagine all sorts of things.”

  At the door, I added, “I’ve got to pack a few things, then button up the place and get going… with your permission, of course.”

  Now was not the time to press for the meaning of Ten Man, or Tenth Man. I couldn’t stay on Sanibel. The investigation into Heller’s death was just getting started. Most serious crimes are solved within the first seventy-two hours or not at all. I didn’t want to be around when the investigation peaked.

  Inside the house, I checked the message on my new phone. It was from Harrington, not Barbara.

  Return New York fastest possible means. Subject may have escaped, possibly hiding. More info when airborne.

  Subject: He was referring to Will Chaser.

  The boy had escaped? Well… possibly, he’d escaped. Even so, it was good news, and a relief to have something to smile about. Maybe the kid wasn’t a typical teen after all. I’d put off contacting his foster guardians but was now eager to talk to them and learn what sort of boy the kidnappers were dealing with.

  I found the SAT pilot’s card in my wallet and dialed his number. He’d told me a smaller aircraft was available out of nearby Naples if I wasn’t carrying “unconventional” personal items. He also said that his plane would be at Fort Myers Municipal, refueled and ready, by two. I chose Fort Myers, adding that I would call to confirm.

  I had a little more than an hour to collect my things and get to the airport.

  In the lab, I checked the aquaria, reconfirmed I was still in possession of a few small, important ancillary items, a passive-electronic fish tag among them, and left a note for Janet Nichols, who takes care of the place when I’m away.

  I also put out a new gadget: a bulk feeder loaded with food for Crunch amp; Des, a black cat who has granted me intermittent ownership obligations. I try to keep the cat happy because otherwise he’ll omit the lab from his rounds for weeks if I miss a single day’s feeding.

  Finally, I pushed my bed aside and opened the hidden compartment under it built flush into the floor. It contained items I couldn’t risk leaving for the cops to find.

  When I looked in the fireproof compartment, though, I was suddenly no longer smiling.

  Tomlinson was waiting at the bottom of the steps when I exited a few minutes later, my briefcase several pounds heavier than when I had arrived.

  Glaring down at the man, I said, “Where is it?” I reached for the key ring inside the breezeway, preparing to lock the doors.

  He didn’t reply.

  I said, “You know what I’m talking about. No one but you could’ve figured it out.”

  As I flipped through keys, Tomlinson said, “I swept the lab for evidence, I already told you, but not just my stash. I called your hotel last night and there was no answer. It was an emergency. Doc, I had to do something. My cop friend had just told me about the witness.”

  I said, “Rooting through my private property is going way too far, pal.” I hung the key ring in its regular place and turned, adding, “But thanks, I guess. I can see your point.”

  I could also see something else, too. Dangling from Tomlinson’s index finger was Bern Heller’s gold Rolex.

  He smiled, “Your prints aren’t on it, just mine. I made sure of that.”

  “Masterful,” I told him. “When you talk about astrology, I do my best not to listen, but aren’t you a Gemini? I’m trying to decide which twin to slap.”

  Tomlinson liked that. “Twins would’ve gone schizoid, man, dealing with the crap I’ve got going on. I’ve got a full-time staff. Are you mad?”

  “For trying to save my butt? No. But it won’t work even if I went along with it, which I won’t. You were out of the state, staying with your rich Long Island friends, the week of the sixteenth.”

  “Sort of, sort of not,” he countered. “I was in Sag Harbor, which is more like a foreign country, not just a different state. Out there, people like me are considered entertainment, not houseguests. My name won’t be on any lists. Plus, the superrich don’t talk to cops. The cops go straight to their attorneys, don’t even bother trying.”

  I said, “That doesn’t give you much of an alibi.”

  “So what, man? If it wasn’t for thin ice, I never would’ve learned to skate. If the cops question me, I’ll have a clear conscience for the first time. A new experience: It’s what I live for.”

  He was twirling the watch on his finger now. I sighed as I took a look around. In the distance, tourists milled on docks at the marina. JoAnn Smallwood and Kathleen Rhodes, both looking good in beach wraps, were swaying toward the Red Pelican carrying what looked like covered dishes for the weekend party.

  Reading my mind again, Tomlinson said, “I hate it, too, missing another Friday night at the marina.” He curled his bony fingers around the watch. “Doc? I called your hotel at least ten times last night. I don’t want you to think I make a habit of snooping through your private stuff. This is his, isn’t it?” He meant the watch.

  I said, “I wouldn’t want you to think I make a habit of doing what you’ve just implied. I don’t believe in revenge.”

  Tomlinson was listening, his eyes serious, but he was still keeping it light. “Cool, I can relate. Why even the score when the objective is to win?”

  I said, “You took it the wrong way. For me to do something so.. . so extreme, I would give it a whole lot of thought. Benefits would have to outweigh risks. I would need a credible motive-intellectually credible, not some emotional rationalization. Pyromania is to arson what homicide is to getting rid of a predator like Bern Heller.”

  Tomlinson said, “You’re not a part-timer looking for a hobby, in other words.”

  I held out my hand for the Rolex. “I’m not a murderer.”

  “Is a murderer different than a killer?”

  I wasn’t going to answer that. I shook my head.

  Tomlinson said, “Well, amigo, it doesn’t matter, because I’m no saint.” I watched him bounce the watch in the air and catch it. “If it had been me knocking at Heller’s door that night, a woman would have been raped and killed. Because it wasn’t me-because it was someone else, a man with a whole different set of moral convictions-she’s alive. Maybe that’s the thin line between murder and killing. Cowardice, in some form. Proactive or passive, it’s still the same as murder. It’s a crime.”

  I said, “I don’t understand what you’re getting at and I’m not sure I want to.”

  “For the first time in my life,” Tomlinson replied, “I’m struggling with the concept of nonviolence as a form of violence.”

  I said, “A facilitator anyway.”

  “No, violence, the real deal. The woman would have died if I’d been there that night. Just because I wasn’t at the cabin door doesn’t make it any less valid. I would’ve chosen passive resistance-maybe out of conviction, but also maybe from being a coward. Either way, Heller would have brutalized her and she would now be dead.”

  The man was serious.

  He was still bouncing the Rolex in his hand as I said, “Your fingerprints on Heller’s watch won’t ease your guilt or help my case. What worries me is, you’ll
have a few shots of rum at some bar after smoking a joint and want to talk philosophy with someone who-”

  “A doobie mixed with demon rum is God’s own truth serum,” he interrupted. “I get talkative. Hey, I admit it. Which is why”-he bounced the watch twice before lobbing it to me-“I’ve decided we should disappear for a few days. I’m thinking Pensacola. It’s Key West without the cruise ships or bondage crowd. An easy four-day sail.” He lifted his antique bag. “Boat’s ready, I’m packed. Want to come along as crew?”

  I said, “I love Pensacola, but it’s got to be New York. I’m looking for the boy they kidnapped.” Because of my special clearance, a friend could travel with me on the SAT flight, so I added, “Interested?”

  Tomlinson stood, folded his chair and stacked the pie pans. “New York-perfect,” he said, unaware I had a plane waiting. “Screw the Intracoastal, we’ll sail offshore. It’ll be spring before we raise the Statue of Liberty, but that’s okay. I don’t own any winter clothes.”

  12

  Lying on the horse waiting for Buffalo-head to pull the stall door wider, Will heard the man clearly as he turned to Metal-eyes and said, “But the Devil Child is insane. A monster!”

  Will was thinking, Not a monster, candy-ass, a warrior, his voice loud inside his own head, as he threw back the blanket and used his boots to signal the stallion, but Cazzio was already moving toward the stall door, the horse’s collective musculature vibrating through the boy’s body like shock waves from an explosion.

  Even Blue Jacket couldn’t jump a six-foot fence, but this horse could, judging by his trophies, so Will was prepared for the rocket acceleration, leaning forward, staying low, as he heard Buffalo-head scream, “Mother of God!,” as he dove for safety when Cazzio lunged.

  The next moment, though, Will was on the floor. His shoulder had clipped something-the doorframe?-but he wasn’t hurt. Or was he?

  Yeah… his shoulder was throbbing, that’s all. But his legs were still solid. Will was getting up… getting up faster than Buffalo-head, who was also on the floor, as the stallion whined and reared, his eyes wild in the blinding headlights of the automobile parked outside, almost blocking the open barn doors.

  “Here he is! I have captured the Devil Child!,” Buffalo-head was yelling to Metal-eyes, still nervous but excited, keeping his eyes fixed on Will. “Bring the gun, quick!”

  Then the big Cuban’s expression changed. There was something he noticed about Will, that he was gimped over, that it hurt when he moved. As the older Cuban came into the barn, Buffalo-head said to him, “Wait, I don’t need a gun,” sounding relieved. “The Devil Child has been injured. He will be easy to catch now.”

  Will was backing away, watching the big man but also stealing looks at his shoulder. Blood? No, there was no blood, but it hurt. What the hell had happened to his shoulder? Or maybe Buffalo-head had noticed Will favoring one side because of the broken rib. His ribs hurt.

  Then Will became more confused because the older Cuban stepped into the light close enough that Will could see the man’s metallic eyes and also the revolver he was holding, dust particles illuminated by its red laser beam. The man said calmly to Buffalo-head, “Step away. I won’t miss again.”

  Again? Will took another look at his shoulder. If he’d been shot, why wasn’t there blood? More likely, he’d banged the doorframe, but he didn’t dwell on the pain because Metal-eyes was now walking toward the stallion, who had calmed a little. The man was pointing the gun at the horse’s head.

  “Watch the boy. I want a clear shot.”

  Will was thinking, He doesn’t mean it, he’s bluffing. No man in his right mind would shoot a good horse.

  But the Cuban wasn’t like most men. He had his finger on the trigger, ready to fire.

  Will yelled, “No! Don’t do it!,” as he stepped toward Metal-eyes, then screamed, “You sonuvabitch, you’re after me, not the horse. The horse didn’t do nothing!,” but could barely hear his own words because of a fresh roaring in his ears.

  Metal-eyes ignored him, waiting for the horse to stop moving, the gun only a few yards from Cazzio’s head.

  “You old bastard-I’m talking to you!” As Will said it, he knelt to grab the pole with the hypodermic needle taped to the tip.

  That got the old Cuban’s attention. He called to Buffalo-head, “Take that damn thing away from him!,” then extended the gun, squinting at the horse.

  Will sensed Buffalo-head’s bulk coming at him from the side. He turned in time to jab at him with the spear but the needle missed. The Cuban was still quick.

  The boy took a step back-an intentional decoy-then lunged forward as Buffalo-head moved toward him. This time, the needle glanced off a rib or something, then sunk deep into the man’s belly flesh, before he jumped back, yelling, “ Pendejo! Damn you, that hurt!”

  Metal-eyes called, “What did the brat do now?,” as he watched his partner touch his stomach, then study his fingers. “You oaf, you’re bleeding again. Had I known you were helpless against a child, I would have left you to shovel shit in Havana!”

  Eager to prove him wrong, Buffalo-head held his hand out, relieved. “It’s nothing. He pricked me with a pin. Only a speck of blood.” He grinned. “The little Indian thinks his toy spear can hurt a Habanaro! A spanking, that is what this little Indian puta deserves.”

  Metal-eyes’s eyes warned Be careful but Buffalo-head waved him away, his swagger saying Stop worrying! as he marched toward Will, who was now taunting him, “My pecker’s bigger than your horn! I won’t look so small when you’re on the floor!”

  It happened.

  Buffalo-head completed three steps before he slowed to a halt, breathing heavily as he turned toward Metal-eyes, who was saying, “What is wrong? You look sick!”

  Now Buffalo-head had an odd, confused expression on his face, and he was sweating. He attempted another step but almost fell. He looked from Metal-eyes to Will, as he took a big, dizzy breath and gasped, “This child is not normal. He is bad luck. We must… must-”

  The man couldn’t finish. His eyes rolled back and his knees buckled. With a flesh-and-bones whump, his body hit the floor.

  Suddenly, Metal-eyes didn’t care about the horse. He swung the gun’s red laser beam to Will’s chest, saying, “You’re insane.”

  Will turned toward the old man, still holding the spear, and began walking toward him. “Why? ’Cause I’m gonna scalp you?”

  Metal-eyes backed up a few steps. He said, “You are crazy,” sounding surprised but also suddenly interested.

  “Not enough to kill a good horse, you sonuvabitch.” Will shifted the spear so that he was holding it over his shoulder, ready to throw.

  Talking to himself, Metal-eyes said, “Insensitive to fear… rage compensation. I wonder if the child has abnormal pain tolerance.” The Cuban squinted through his glasses as if studying a bug. He said, “I’ll find out,” aiming the pistol at Will’s stomach, then at his pelvis, where nerve endings terminated in mass.

  Will yelled, “You’re not the first man to point a gun at me!,” because that’s what came into his mind, the image of Old Man Guttersen holding a pearl-handled revolver the first time they’d laid eyes on each other.

  Fast talking had saved Will back in Minnesota.

  Not this time. The Cuban wasn’t chatty like Bull Guttersen. Will could see a deadness behind those silver eyes-an aloof, clinical interest-which Will didn’t understand, but he knew what was about to happen unless he could get the needle in the guy.

  When the gun muzzle flashed, Will was focused on the man’s chest and already jumping to the side as he threw the spear, thinking, Just like in the westerns except real bullets.

  The gun was so loud, the boy thought he’d been hit, but he’d jumped at just the right time and that saved him. But his spear missed, too… or had it?

  Metal-eyes appeared to have swatted the shaft away before the needle got to him, yet now the old bastard was hunched over, crabbing fast toward one of the stalls, as Cazzio r
eared. The horse reared again and tried to stomp the man.

  Will was hustling to retrieve his spear, yelling, “Get ’em, get ’em!,” as the stallion’s steel shoes made a coconut-popping sound on the floor, just missing the man as he pulled his legs into a stall, then reached to slam the door closed.

  Spear in his right hand, Will touched his left fingers to Cazzio’s rump, not wanting to surprise the stallion, then traced his hand along Cazzio’s body until he was close enough grab the halter. The boy was hurrying, but also cooing, “Calm down… it’s okay… we’ll stomp the candy-ass later… easy…,” as he watched Metal-eyes peek through the stall bars. When Will drew his arm back to throw the spear, Metal-eyes ducked from sight.

  “My spear’s tipped with deadly poison!” Will yelled in Tex-Mex Spanish, then had to switch to English to add, “One touch, that’s all she wrote!”

  Buffalo-head wasn’t dead, but he was facedown in straw, making weird, drunken noises. Near him was a fifty-gallon drum of feed. Will used the drum to boost himself aboard the huge horse.

  He got his fingers knotted in the braided mane, ready for the lunging acceleration, then signaled Cazzio with his boots, yelling, “Go!,” as he heard a gunshot so close that his ears rang. Metal-eyes fired three more times- whapwhap-whap -as Cazzio charged toward the blinding headlights.

  Beneath the boy, the horse stumbled for an instant, then surprised Will by hurtling airborne, in a brief, arching silence, over the car’s fender, then jumped again two strides later, clearing a four-board fence, into the pasture.

  Will was shaking, not only because he was scared as hell but also because he had never been aboard an animal so sure, so powerful.

  “Go… Go! Yah!”

  Cazzio galloped into the frozen darkness, the drumming of his hooves in synch with plumes of steam spouting from his nostrils. Will’s ears were attuned as his body matched the rhythm, hearing the countersynch snorting of the horse’s breathing, an occasional grunt and the slosh of belly water.

  He risked a glance over his shoulder. The Chrysler was fishtailing down the driveway toward the road. Metal-eyes was trying to beat the horse to the overpass, where the pasture ended.