Dead Silence df-16 Read online

  “Of course! We were stupid, not providing a place for you to crap. Relax and enjoy, my spirited new friend.”

  Truth was, Will did have to crap. And he was also so thirsty, he was shaking. But first…

  He looked around. Will knew barns. Didn’t matter how fancy, they all had at least two entrances aside from the sliding doors, and usually a loft door to pulley in hay. He ran to the opposite doors and confirmed they were locked, then sprinted to the manager’s office when he heard a noise coming from there. Got to that door just as Buffalo-head was turning the knob.

  “Hey, I’m taking a dump in here! How about some privacy!”

  The idiot hesitated just long enough for Will to flip the spring lock, then step back.

  Close!

  Buffalo-head tried the knob, getting frustrated. “You don’t trust me! You are not the only one who needs to use the toilet. Do you mind?”

  “Two minutes, it’s all yours.” Will’s eyes were adjusting to the dark. There was a phone on the manager’s desk. An old phone, with a dial. As he dialed 911, he said to the door, “How is your ear?,” wanting Buffalo-head to keep talking.

  “My ear? Perhaps you will find my ear in the toilet with your shit! But… of course, I am joking! I am not angry. I feel almost no pain, I swear. Barely noticeable, thanks to God, because of the pounding in my head. The rock you threw… it did me a great favor!”

  Will had dialed but too fast, because he got a recording.

  Damn old phone.

  He dialed again, listening to Buffalo-head say, “What is an ear? Or a bump on the head? We will laugh about this someday!”

  Then he heard the Cuban with metal eyes coming, calling, “You idiot! Don’t you see what the brat is doing?”

  The phone was ringing.

  “The junction box,” the man yelled, “it’s right there. There… in front of your eyes.”

  The phone rang a second time.

  There was a thud on the other side of the wall, then the sound of wire and staples ripping, as a woman’s voice said, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  Will cupped his hands around the phone. “I need help. Two men are trying to kill me. Two Cubans. But I don’t know where I am! My name is William Chaser. I’m from… Oklahoma.” He’d almost said Minnesota but remembered the police.

  The big Cuban began ramming his shoulder against the door as Will waited for the woman to respond.

  Silence.

  “Hello? You hear me? I need help!”

  The phone was dead.

  Now the older Cuban was telling Buffalo-head, “Find a brick. Knock the lock off. Hurry, before the man gets here. We’ll look like fools!”

  Gets here? What man? Someone was coming to help the Cubans.

  Will began ransacking drawers, looking for a weapon. Every office, in every barn, on every ranch he’d ever worked, the manager kept a handgun in the top-right drawer for quick access-a revolver if it was an older guy and a semiauto if he was younger. Plus a Winchester rifle in the corner or over the door. A shotgun at least.

  Not this ranch.

  Eastern shitheels… Who runs this place? The candy-asses should be raising sheep.

  Will was getting mad. Could feel the heat of it, like a chemical moving from his temples to his heart. One of the drawers spilled out. He slammed it against the door where the Cubans were now hammering at the lock. Pulled out another drawer and threw it.

  He yelled, “Come on in, you assholes! I’ll blow your damn heads off!” He was looking for something else to throw and found a lead paperweight.

  Will screamed, “What’s the matter, afraid?” He threw the paperweight at the door. It made a whap sound, like a hammer smacking wood. “I’ll open the damn door myself!” Said it knowing, even as he spoke, it was a mistake. He was mad, not crazy. No way in hell was he going out that door.

  Never make a threat that’ll get your ass kicked or prove you’re a pussy- Old Man Guttersen on the subject of how a man should conduct himself in life.

  On the far wall, Will saw the breaker box for the barn’s electric. Beneath it was the medicine cooler, padlock open. Even eastern ranchers had to know horse doctoring. Will had been working with vets since he was seven years old.

  The boy rushed to the cooler, hoping to find a weapon-a scalpel or razor, anything sharp-then paused, listening. The banging had stopped. No whisper of voices outside.

  He decided the Cubans were probably waiting quietly for him to exit. A stupid thing, telling them he had a gun and was coming out.

  A few seconds passed, still no sound. He continued listening, as he opened the medicine cooler and scanned the rows of familiar veterinarian supplies: liniments, vitamins, bottles of vaccine and tranquilizers, wrapping tape, syringes…

  As he scanned the rows of supplies, the period of extended quiet caused him to wonder, Maybe the Cubans ran for cover, afraid of being shot.

  Possible.

  Three or four minutes later, when the men still hadn’t resumed breaking into the barn, Will was sure of it. Maybe it wasn’t so dumb telling them I have a gun.

  Old Man Guttersen was wrong for once.

  So now he had to find a way to make the lie work for him. He needed a weapon. Give those candy-ass kidnappers a reason to be afraid of him.

  His attention returned to the medicine cooler. And there it was. Not a weapon, exactly, but something that might do the job.

  Will knew that the kidnappers would soon come back to the barn with a crowbar maybe… or use keys when the man they were waiting for arrived.

  Their partner-whoever that was-worried Will, as if things weren’t already worrisome enough. Which is why the boy had kept busy until now.

  After he’d flipped the main breaker, killing the lights, Will had watched the metal-eyed Cuban talking on a cell phone, standing by the farmhouse, its windows still bright. He couldn’t hear what the man was saying. But he could feel it, sort of. More like a taste or smell. Metal-eyes was talking to someone who was coming to help them. Self-assured, his posture upright.

  How was it the two Cubans had a friend out here in horse country, the middle of nowhere? Unless… unless-Will’s brain was now inspecting different scenarios-unless the Cubans had pulled off the road because this ranch was their destination. Had nothing to do with Will screwing with the taillights, then kicking like a crazy fool. The Cubans had turned because they were meeting someone here. Possible?

  Whatever…

  The Cubans were coming for him, that’s all that mattered. Will knew it as sure as he knew Buffalo-head was watching the back of the barn while Metal-eyes was in front, talking on the phone.

  No escape, not yet. Nothing he could do until it happened. So Will had focused on getting ready, which meant choosing the best damn horse he could find. To which he gave some thought, carrying a bag he’d taken from the medicine cooler, moving from stall to stall.

  There were a dozen stalls but only eight horses. One was a mare that would foal in a month or so, four geldings and a big gray stallion that had to be sixteen hands tall.

  There also were two good-looking geldings. One of them, a Morgan, was colored like Blue Jacket and had bright, intelligent eyes.

  But Will kept coming back to the stallion. CAZZIO, was the name over the door. There was a ton of trophies on the mantle and a ton more blue ribbons and medals pinned on a board outside the stall.

  Will cracked the stall door, then leaned his face in and waited, letting Cazzio decide. The horse had puffed up and snorted, no petting-zoo whore- Good! -then took his time before touching his muzzle to Will’s hair, then his face.

  The stallion sniffed, then snorted. Sniffed again, then banged Will’s face with his muzzle in a testing sort of way. Snorted again and shied, letting the clatter of his hooves communicate a warning.

  Will considered backing out and trying the Morgan gelding with the intelligent eyes. Stallions were risky. Two years back, he had watched a rank Arabian stud clamp his teeth on a man’s neck and fli
ng him like a rag doll before trying to stomp him to death. A decent hand with horses, too, an experienced wrangler.

  It’s the way stallions were. Slip a grain sack over their head, tip them and clove-hitch their legs-all that might dull the fire for an hour or two but it was only a temporary fix. On the other hand.. . certain stallions, you didn’t want the fire dulled. Some were worth the risk.

  Will put the medicine bag on the floor, aware of what the horse was smelling-horse tranquilizers and some other stuff-then stepped into the stall and closed the door.

  “Easy… Whoa, easy…”

  The gray horse shook his head and pawed at the floor. Didn’t even have to move to dominate the darkness, his energy so radiant it shrunk the airspace.

  “You look like the Real McCoy to me,” Will whispered.

  I ain’t no vet, I’m a hand, he thought.

  Then he waited, arms at his sides, for Cazzio to make up his mind.

  Now Will was on the stallion, lying forward, his arms loose around the horse’s neck, the stall door closed, not locked, which the horse knew but was tolerating.

  Go when it’s time to go.

  A stallion like this one-by God, he would go.

  Will had his boots up on Cazzio’s hindquarters, chest flat on his withers, so it was like lying on a wide, warm couch. He was under a blanket that he had pulled over them, but not until the air was right and the horse was ready-a feeling alive in the darkness, transmitted flesh through flesh. Not consent but tolerance, a gradual calming of muscle, subtle as first light.

  Who the hell braided your mane? A real ranch, we’d open the gate before allowing this bullshit…

  Right flank, left wither, the animal’s skin fluttered beneath Will’s belly. Muscles flexed independently, mechanics of a complicated instrument that, if played expertly, produced pure kick-ass flow. Part dance, all power.

  Will’s nose rested near Cazzio’s mane, close as he could get to home: horse sweat and leather, the ammoniac mix of manure and grain. Crying wasn’t an option, but it was right there if Will allowed himself.

  Waiting. They both were. Ten minutes, at most, he had been in the barn, but it felt like hours.

  You like that?

  He scratched Cazzio’s neck and Cazzio stretched his head forward, lips wide, teeth bared, as if laughing. He wasn’t laughing, of course, although people who treated horses as pets, as almost human, might believe it. Not Will. Horses were horses, a few better than most. The same with hands. It was just something some stallions did.

  Blue Jacket, another example.

  As Will lay on Cazzio, he told himself to relax, he needed to conserve his energy. Cazzio already had drunk his belly full from the water trough and found residue in the feed bin. Oats and sorghum plus a supplement powder, which smelled sweet but Will knew tasted awful. What farm kid hadn’t tried it? He’d squeezed the mash into a ball and swallowed it anyway. Will needed food. He didn’t want the crazy feeling to come back, which happened more often when he ran out of gas.

  Will knew he did stupid things when he got mad. Not something to admit to that government shrink, the one who’d told the parole officer, “A grand mal seizure or anger-management problems.” A lesson for him, telling the truth instead of lying about how it felt, the chemical sensation when he got seriously pissed off.

  This was after a couple of tests which he also should have lied about, although he had lied quite a bit, faking some of the answers, but not enough.

  “The boy’s not abnormal, but he lacks certain normal qualities,” the shrink had told the parole officer and a social worker, talking as if Will wasn’t in the room. “He demonstrates behavior associated with emotional scarring, typical of abandoned children. Rage mixed with antisocial behavior. But he has highly developed survival skills. He’s an expert manipulator. Again, all typical, considering his background.”

  William wasn’t abnormal, but that didn’t mean he was normal either, the woman shrink had added-which was lying flattery, something adults often tried. But then it got interesting:

  “It’s the way the boy’s brain translates outside stimuli,” the woman had said, before asking, “William? Isn’t it true that certain things come into your mind as colors or smells? Numbers have colors, you said. Days of the week, too. Friday is yellow, you told me. Thursday is purple, the number ten is silver. Fear is bluish gray. Fear has an odor, a mix of copper and pears, you said.” The shrink was reading from notes, finally including him in the conversation.

  Everyone wasn’t that way? That was a surprise to Will.

  “Will has a condition-a gift perhaps-that’s been well documented. It’s called synesthesia. Synesthesia is not a paranormal power. It’s a heightened awareness. Just like some people have exceptional eyesight or hearing. Very rare.

  “It’s been linked with unusual artistic abilities. Sexuality, too: It’s possible that synesthetes radiate pheromones that are abnormally potent-that’s anecdotal data but fascinating, isn’t it?” The shrink had smiled but avoided Will’s eyes, oddly uncomfortable. “Intense rage is also associated,” she’d said. “There’s a lot we don’t understand about synesthesia.

  “I’ve contacted the psychology department at the university. We want to pay Will to participate in a research program designed just for him. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Will? We could work together, the two of us! And no more living in stinky barns, doing manual labor.”

  Will had smiled but was thinking, No way, Jose.

  It wasn’t that easy getting out of it, though, because the shrink was determined. Didn’t matter that the cops had just nailed him for stealing Blue Jacket.

  A week later, though, when the principal surprised the school librarian seducing Will in the stacks, it was farewell Oklahoma and hello Land of a Thousand Lakes. The timing hadn’t been easy because the principal seldom left his office and the librarian was fickle.

  Minnesota was okay, mostly because of Old Man Guttersen. Guttersen got a kick out of Will’s stories, when he shut up long enough to listen. Will could tell the old man anything, including the truth. Selling weed, gambling, diddling teachers didn’t bother him a bit. Same with stealing: as long as it was in a different neighborhood and former U.S. military personnel weren’t targeted. Even if Will hadn’t been stealing for a good reason-saving to buy Blue Jacket-it would’ve been just fine with the old man.

  “We’re both sneaky, lying, shitheel frauds,” Guttersen had confided, “and we’re screwed if the world finds out.”

  Luckiest thing that had ever happened to Will, being assigned a foster granddad who understood.

  “The word unique,” his English teacher, Mrs. Thinglestadt, had told him, “is commonly misused. It is incorrect to say ‘very unique’ or ‘extremely unique’ because unique is unique. One of a kind.”

  She had corrected him as they were showering-Will had made the error while complimenting Mrs. Thinglestadt’s breasts-and after they’d celebrated the good news about winning the essay contest and his trip to New York.

  Only Old Man Guttersen knew how he’d won. First time in Will’s life he didn’t have to pretend. Will Chaser could be himself when the two of them were together, listening to Garage Logic or sharing a beer while watching cowboy westerns.

  Usually, Bull called him “Pony,” but sometimes “Rookie,” like the young guy on Garage Logic, depending on whatever fit the old man’s mood. Maybe Guttersen would call him “Crazy Horse Chaser” after this. .. if Will ever made it home to tell.

  Unique. The word for his relationship with the old man.

  Bull… Goddamn it, Bull, I wish you were here right now.

  Especially now. Because a familiar sound stirred the darkness: the Chrysler pulling up so close to the barn that for a moment Will worried the Cubans would use the car to crash on through. But the car stopped, its headlights filtering through windows, under the double doors, filling the barn with dusty, diffused light.

  Next to Will, on a hook meant for tack, he had hung the handle fr
om a broken rake. Taped to the handle was a syringe with a four-inch needle-taped to the plunger actually-so it looked sort of like a spear point.

  Pony Chaser, on his horse with a spear, ready to charge.

  Will liked the Indian feel of that-unusual ’cause anyone who grows up on the Rez knows the whole Indian act is bullshit. Rubber arrows, drunken Skins wearing feathers and blankets dancing for tourists, the only thing real being a mesquite fire and the sad, hungover weariness of shuffling feet.

  The feeling Will experienced, though, was real. A solitary sensation that was brave-hearted, aloof and alone. It was a soaring feeling, unafraid despite the inevitable.

  Warrior. For the first time in Will’s life, the word had substance, dense as granite yet weightless enough to whistle like a faraway wind in his ears.

  Warrior. Yeah…

  A ceremony, that’s what the moment deserved. So Will took a scalpel, grabbed a handful of his own hair and lopped it off. He tied a length of hair to the spear, sort of like a scalp, then knotted the rest to Cazzio’s candy-ass braids.

  Looks nice…

  Yeah, it did, the way their shadows combined on the stall’s gray wall. Shadow of the stallion’s body capped with Will’s. The spear angled vertically from his hip, its shadow silhouetted as black as a charcoal drawing. An image came into the boy’s brain: a painting sold at the souvenir shop on the Rez, End of the Trail.

  Watching his own shadow, Will touched his chin to his chest, imitating what he remembered, and there it was, the painting’s ghost- Ouch! -Will’s broken rib stabbed his lungs and he lay forward again.

  Then he heard another familiar sound: a crowbar prying wood… then barn doors sliding open on their tracks.

  The doors were open wide now, and the Chrysler’s headlights projected giant shadows. Buffalo-head came first, hunched over as if ready to flee, moving carefully into the uncertain space of the barn.

  A second shadow appeared: Metal-eyes, who stopped and leaned against the fender of the car.

  Will put his mouth close to the horse’s ear. “It’s time.”